Just after midnight we got word of the twenty-first victim. The latest victim had been a fourteen-year-old boy at a military academy. He had collapsed and died during a Christmas party.
God Almighty.
Twenty-one.
By two in the morning we had exhausted all of the numbers Bug could find, but there had not been a new case reported. We made hundreds of follow-up calls.
Three A.M. came and went.
“I think it’s over,” said Rudy. He was bleary-eyed and gray with pain and fatigue. For the last hour he’d been covertly popping Advil like they were M&M’S.
“Still only twenty-one,” said Bug.
Circe gave him a bleak and haunted stare. “‘Only’?”
Church sat back and rubbed his eyes. Even he looked exhausted.
“Now what?” asked Dietrich.
“Now we have to monitor this,” said Aunt Sallie. “We need to keep ahead of it in case there’s another wave.”
“Do we even know the cause of death?” I asked. “Is this a plague? Poisoning? I mean … no one else at each of the murder scenes was reported with symptoms … .”
“We know the cause of death,” said Circe, her dark eyes filled with strange light. “It’ll be mycotoxicoses.”
Church leaned forward. “And how exactly would you know that?”
Interlude Forty-two
The State Correctional Institute at Graterford
Graterford, Pennsylvania
December 19, 8:42 P.M. EST
Nicodemus lay on his cot, fingers laced behind his head, ankles crossed, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The warden had ordered everything removed from his cell. He had no books, no writing paper or pencils, no TV. All that had been left for him was a single sheet, a thin blanket of rough wool, a pillow, and a roll of toilet paper.
It was enough for him.
Nicodemus did not need to be entertained. He did not need to read, not even the Bible. There was no one that he wanted to talk to, no diversion that he required. He had everything that he needed.
It was all there inside his head. In his thoughts. As clear as if he heard it outside his cell. As clear as if they were there beside his cot. It did not matter that no one else could hear them. The video recorders trained on his cell would not tape any of the sounds that he heard. That was as it should be. The sounds were for him to hear.
He lay for hour after delicious hour, smiling a small and secret smile to himself. Listening to the screams of the dying.
Chapter Sixty-five
The Hangar
Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn
December 19, 8:52 P.M. EST
“The tomb,” explained Circe.
Every eye was on her. She looked scared, but she held her ground.
“Spill it, girl,” said Aunt Sallie.
“Experts have been trying to scientifically explain the Ten Plagues for years,” Circe said. “If there were a series of catastrophes during the time of Moses in Egypt, then there would likely be panic and unrest. During such times raids on food stores would be possible, even likely. After a time of pestilence it’s very likely that some of the food stores were contaminated by any number of bacteria or fungi. Any bread made from moldy wheat would carry diseases. The sudden deaths of so many Egyptians could very well have the result of a raid on contaminated foodstuffs. The persons most likely to conduct a successful raid would be the older and more capable members of that society. If not precisely firstborn, then at least symbolically the ‘first among them.’ It’s not all that much of a stretch to see how that could have evolved into a more dramatic story of the firstborn dying as a result of a plague sent by God. After all, it was the last straw that led to the liberation of the Israelites.”
“You’re talking about mycotoxins,” murmured Rudy, nodding agreement.
Hu looked jazzed by all this. “Right! Mycotoxins can present in a food chain as a result of fungal infection of crops. Human infection can come through direct ingestion of infected products—bread, livestock, whatever—and even cooking and freezing won’t destroy them. Nice call, Circe.”
“What are—?” Dietrich began, but Hu cut him off.
“It’s a toxic chemical produced by fungi. The toxins enter the bloodstream and lymphatic system, damage macrophage systems, and some other evil shit. Back in 2004, over a hundred people died after eating maize contaminated with aflatoxin, a species of mycotoxin. There have been other cases, too. Mostly in third-world countries.”
“The biblical connection is mostly guesswork,” Circe admitted. “The Jewish story about Passover begins at the end of the Ten Plagues. Passover celebrates the first meal to mark the escape of the Israelites from bondage and from the plagues. The Passover meal consists of symbolic newborn lamb, fresh herbs, and horseradish—and all of these are safe from mycotoxin exposure. The same goes for unleavened bread, which is, by definition, free of any yeasty mycotoxin contamination.”
“Makes sense even to me,” said Dietrich. “But how’s all that relate to a ransacked tomb?”
“Remember the Curse of King Tut?” she asked. “Lord Carnovan, the Englishman who financed Howard Carter’s expedition to find the tomb of King Tutankhamen, died of a mysterious illness after entering the tomb. It’s very likely that he became ill after exposure to a fungus that had been dormant in the tomb for thousands of years and reactivated by fresh air. Recent studies of newly opened ancient Egyptian tombs that had not been exposed to modern contaminants found pathogenic bacteria of the staphylococcus and pseudomonas genera, and the molds Aspergillus niger and Aspergillus flavus.”
“Yeah,” said Hu, “but the concentrations were weak. They’d only be dangerous to persons with weakened immune systems.”
“Oh, hell, Doc,” I said, “don’t forget who we’re dealing with. You trying to tell me that Sebastian Gault couldn’t amp up and weaponize one of these toxins?”
Hu sat back and gave me a rueful smile. “Shit … I could do that.”
Rudy said, “So, if Amenhotep II was the pharaoh from the time of Exodus, then his son could have been a victim of the mycotoxin infection. If that’s the case, and if we go on the premise that it was Gault and the Kings who raided the tomb, then are we concluding that they found a more potent strain of mycotoxin?”
We thought about that. Circe chewed her lip and Hu drummed his fingers on the table.
I said, “I may not be a scientist … but I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“Why not?” asked Church.
“Because it’s way too convenient. The tomb was opened what—a month or so ago? That’s awfully tight timing for science, isn’t it? No … Gault’s smart, but we know that the Goddess is big into misdirection. We also know that the Kings dig symbolism. The tires used to create the Plague of Darkness weren’t exactly biblical. Nor are the ‘Locust’ bombers. Wouldn’t it work just as well for them to break into the tomb to establish the mythology and then hit the firstborn of the Inner Circle with something Gault already cooked up?”
They looked at me for a while, then at each other, and one by one they began nodding. Even Hu.
Aunt Sallie grunted her approval, though she clearly found it difficult to believe that Captain Shortbus had thought it up.
The main screen over the conference table showed a collage of twenty-one faces. Young men and women, a few kids. All of them dead now, victims of a modern version of an ancient plague.