A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  The forensic report appeared. Lawrence nodded to Nick, who read over Jason’s shoulder.

  “Rubbish!” Jason said. “I saw the original with my own eyes. I was there with Mother, Lawrence. Her heart was giving out.”

  Lawrence stood up and gave Jason the full force of his glare. “Jason De Vere! Stubborn when you were ten. Stubborn at forty-eight. Yes, she had a slight stroke. But she would have recovered.”

  Nick pointed at the screen. “There—it says minute traces of potassium chloride?”

  “Potassium chloride’s virtually untracecable,” Alex said. “It reverts back to potassium and chlorine in the body, so it’s normally undetectable.”

  “Unless an extremely experienced forensic pathologist was looking for it,” whispered Lawrence. “Your mother was injected with one ampoule of potassium chloride. A hundred mEq. Quite enough to induce cardiac arrest.”

  He looked long and hard at Jason and Nick.

  “Your mother was murdered.”

  * * *

  Library Balcony, Mont St. Michel, Normandy

  It was nine minutes past midnight. A Jesuit priest, dressed in the flowing garb of his order of the Black Robes, walked out of the shadows and into the stream of moonlight, his antique silver-knobbed cane tapping evenly on the polished mahogany floors.

  He stopped a few paces behind Adrian, who turned slightly, the outline of his chiseled features suddenly visible in the moonlight. Tonight his profile was arresting . . . strangely beautiful.

  Adrian stared out at the breathtaking view across the bay. He appeared trim, tanned, immaculately groomed. His raven hair was fashionably long, falling just below his collar, gleaming blue-black in the moonlight. The outlines of his flawless features were faintly visible in the low light.

  Lorcan De Molay was silent. His face, although strangely scarred, was imperial, his features striking. The wide brow and straight patrician nose framed imperious sapphire eyes that held a haunting, mesmerizing beauty. He walked to the very edge of the library balcony. His thick raven hair, normally pulled fastidiously back from his high cheekbones into a single braid, fell loose past his shoulders, blowing in the icy winter Atlantic wind.

  Adrian refolded an ancient roll of parchment and handed it to De Molay.

  “You will reject Yehovah’s ultimatum?” he asked.

  “We have waited over two thousand years for our revenge,” De Molay murmured. “Now we avenge our dishonor at Golgotha.”

  He lit a black taper. “Our humiliation at the hands of the Nazarene.”

  He held the taper to the parchment and watched it burn. His palm closed over the blazing missive, and instantly the blue flame transformed to glowing coals. He opened his palm and softly blew the ashes into the winds, then smoothed his Jesuit robes. Slowly he caressed the carved silver serpent on the top of his cane.

  “The transport from Antarctica,” he murmured. He continued looking out at the raging Atlantic.

  Adrian nodded. “The cargo from Antarctica is now in biocontainment three. Our scientists have isolated the Nephilim gene. The genetic rewriting program is being initiated as we speak.”

  “All scientists involved will be discreetly taken care of when their assignment is completed.”

  “Your word is my command, Father.”

  Lorcan De Molay smiled slightly.

  “And I looked, and behold a pale horse,” he whispered. “And his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.”

  He stared up past the earth’s atmosphere and moved his hand across the sky. Sixty-seven miles above the earth was the figure of a hooded rider astride a pale horse.

  He turned to face Adrian, his eyes glittering with passion.

  “Billions of the Race of Men will take our Mark.”

  “The pale horse rides . . . ”

  72 YEARS EARLIER

  Chapter Thirteen

  Muroc Airfield (Edwards Air Force Base), California Desert

  February 20, 1954

  The sleek black Cadillac Eldorado carrying President Dwight Eisenhower roared up the desert highway, followed by the seven-car Secret Service motorcade close behind.

  The Cadillac’s 210-horsepower V-8 engine slowed to a purr as the driver braked in front of Muroc’s heavily guarded gates. From the opposite direction, four military vehicles screeched to a halt inside the airfield gates. Twelve heavily armed soldiers surrounded the motorcade, their automatic weapons raised.

  President Eisenhower eased his frame out of the Cadillac’s low-cut door as a thickset four-star general stood to attention and saluted.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President, sir, but as you are aware, we have orders to search your guests.” The general shuffled uncomfortably. “ . . . And yourself.”

  “Is it really necessary to search the leader of the free world, Sykes?” the president objected. “What you’re about to show me had better be remarkable.”

  General Sykes nodded. “It’s unparalleled in the history of our world, Mr. President.”

  “Well, get on with it, Sykes,” the president growled.

  The general nodded to the soldiers. The president sighed in frustration and raised his arms as the captain patted him down. Four other soldiers checked Eisenhower’s guests while two inspected the Cadillac and the driver thoroughly. Meanwhile, a second team ordered the Secret Service agents and the president’s aides out of the motorcade and pushed them unceremoniously against the cars, firearms raised.

  “Thank you, Mr. President, sir.” The captain stood to attention and saluted, and Eisenhower took his seat in the Cadillac.

  The captain waved the president through.

  The president shook his head. “My men.”

  Five minutes later, the Cadillac Eldorado, followed by the Secret Service motorcade, was escorted by a fifth military vehicle, past the base and out toward the airfield. Finally, the military truck swerved to an abrupt halt directly outside a vast open hangar. A series of blinding flashes erupted overhead.

  The president shielded his eyes from the blinding light. Four generals got out of the military truck.

  Slowly Eisenhower’s eyes adjusted to the intensity of the light. He raised his head.

  “What the devil . . . !”

  He stared, mesmerized, as a huge, glowing disk-shaped object zoomed across the horizon.

  An elderly man with a shock of white hair got out of the car, his hooded eyes following the arc of the disks as they traveled from north to south. He walked in the direction of the runway.

  Two soldiers stood in his path, weapons raised.

  “General Sykes, I strongly object to your methods.” Eisenhower turned around to the general at his right, his eyes flashing with irritation. “This is my guest, Franklin Winthrop Allen of the Hearst Newspaper Group. He has top secret clearance.”

  “My apologies, Mr. President, sir,” the general answered calmly. “Our methods may seem excessive, but I can assure you, they are necessary.” He pointed in the direction of four more of the lenticular craft, which were drawing nearer the airfield.

  A ferocious pulsing blue light illuminated the runway while the craft descended, until eventually all five squatted on the concrete strip of runway, emitting a faint hum.

  “By God, Dwight, it’s a UFO!” Allen exclaimed. “These things don’t even exist!”

  Eisenhower’s eyes remained fixed on the ghostly glow surrounding the largest craft’s hull. A tall man dressed in the robes of a cardinal of the Catholic Church got out of the Cadillac and slowly walked toward the president and Allen, his face as white as a sheet.

  The three men watched, astounded, as a small door on the craft opened and two slender eight-foot-tall figures emerged.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Eisenhower muttered in disbelief.

  The extraterrestrials’ humanoid features were framed by long hair that was blond, almo
st white. They both had pale blue eyes and colorless lips.

  “God, Mr. President, they look like they’re from Norway,” Allen spluttered.

  Eisenhower stood in silence while the cleric made the sign of the cross. He turned to General Sykes.

  “Sykes, you’re used to this?”

  The general nodded. “Since the Roswell crash, Mr. President, sir. It’s . . . it’s a pretty regular occurrence.” He hesitated. “You never quite get used to it, sir.”

  “They communicate?” Stunned, Eisenhower turned back to look at the extraterrestrials.

  “Telepathically, Mr. President, sir. They emit both light and tone signals, transmitting in a mathematical language. Our scientists communicate by means of computer binary code.”

  The two extraterrestrial figures parted and bowed as a taller figure walked out of the spacecraft, his face hidden beneath the hood of a gray cloak. Moments passed; then the figure removed his hood.

  The cardinal gasped. The extraterrestrial’s pale, beautiful features exuded a strange luminosity. His waist-length platinum hair fell smooth as glass over his billowing gray velvet cloak, which was fastened with delicate silver clasps.

  “We come in peace. I am Darsoc the Gray.” Darsoc spoke in mellifluous tones. “Welcome.” He bowed and motioned to the president to enter the craft.

  “My aide accompanies me,” Eisenhower declared.

  Darsoc turned to the blond, blue-eyed young man holding the president’s briefcase. He nodded.

  Eisenhower stood to attention, took a deep breath, and walked up the steps, followed by his aide. They disappeared into the flying craft.

  “This is either the most momentous event in the history of the world . . . ” Cardinal James McIntyre clutched his cross in his left hand, trembling visibly. “ . . . or our worst nightmare.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hollyhock Cottage, West Coast of Ireland

  December 2025

  Jason and Nick looked at each other in silence.

  “When will I see you, pal?” Jason asked.

  Nick shook his head. “Not sure, Jas. I leave for Alexandria tonight, prep with the Jordanian special forces, who were loyal to Jotapa’s father, the Jordanian king, then out to Saudi Arabia, to bring back Jotapa and her younger brother, Jibril, the crown prince.”

  Nick’s eyes moistened.

  “I wish I could be there,” he said softly. “At Mother’s funeral, I mean.”

  Jason put a hand on his shoulder. “Mother would understand.”

  “You’ll get Adrian’s DNA?” Nick asked.

  Jason nodded. “I’ll do my damnedest.” He clasped Nick in a tight embrace, then released him abruptly, fighting for control of his emotions, and walked with Lawrence toward the red Ford Escort.

  Nick stood in silence, watching from the crooked cottage doorway.

  “You’ll let me know where Nick is, Lawrence?”

  Lawrence nodded. “Of course.”

  “I wasted so much valuable time.”

  Jason unlocked the ford escort. “Hadn’t talked to him since Lily’s accident. Eight years ago.” He flung his jacket onto the backseat with his briefcase. “How much does Julia really know?”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. We felt it best that she remain in a position of deniability.”

  Jason nodded. “Good . . . ” He hesitated. “I know you didn’t approve of the divorce, Lawrence,” he mumbled. “What with Julia being your niece, that is.”

  “You’ve been like a son to me Jason,” Lawrence replied. “Always have been.” Lawrence clasped his shoulder. “Julia’s a fighter, Jason,” he said softly. “She’s a survivor.

  Jason nodded, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

  “It wasn’t her fault, Lawrence. She really tried. After Lily’s accident . . . the drinking . . . I drowned myself in my work. She was left to deal with Lily’s tragedy alone.” He struggled for the words. “I guess I abandoned her.”

  Lawrence’s expression softened in wonder. “You still love her.”

  Jason looked out toward the Atlantic. “There’ll never be anyone but Julia for me. I’ve been a damn fool,” he murmured. “She gets married in August. It’s all water under the bridge.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “In London for Mother’s funeral Tuesday. Then back to the States. Ten days later in Babylon—VOX board meeting.”

  “You know how to get hold of me, Jason. Come visit us in Egypt. A retreat. At the monastery.” Lawrence’s eyes twinkled. “Feed your soul.”

  Jason shook his head. “You know it’s not my thing.”

  He opened the car door and eased himself into the front seat.

  “Religion. I belong in a boardroom, not a church.” He switched on the ignition.

  “Jason,” Lawrence said softly.

  Jason looked up into his steady gaze.

  “Who is more afraid: the child who is afraid of the dark . . . ” Lawrence hesitated, his eyes boring into Jason’s soul. “ . . . or the man who is afraid of the light?”

  Jason looked back at Lawrence, then turned to look at Nick, still watching from the front door. Then he put the Ford into reverse, swung it around, and revved off at high speed down the winding, muddy drive back toward the N4 to Dublin.

  * * *

  Nick walked up slowly behind Lawrence. “He’s always been a hard nut.” He smiled “Stubborn as hell.”

  Lawrence looked up at him, his pale blue eyes distant. “Stubborn, skeptical, yes.” He shook his head. “But courageous, intrepid—a truth teller, like St. Patrick.”

  Nick grinned. “I can’t quite equate Jason with St. Patrick.”

  Lawrence smiled, his eyes distant. “Warrrior, dear boy. Your eldest brother is a warrior.”

  “You haven’t revealed yourself.” Nick studied Lawrence intently. “To Jason, I mean. As the angelic?”

  Lawrence’s eyes twinkled. “A bridge too far for the rational, skeptical mind that is Jason De Vere, dear boy. All in good time.”

  “Lawrence . . . ” Nick hesitated. “it’s close, isn’t it?”

  Nick looked into the older man’s compassionate blue gaze, his own eyes lit with a strange exhilaration. “He’s close, isn’t he?”

  Lawrence followed Nick’s gaze into the moody Irish sky.

  “The three riders of the apocalypse traversed the west winds, venting their fury.” He moved his hand over the horizon.

  “The fourth rider is released. Niscroc rides the pale horse, wielding his scythe.”

  Nick followed Lawrence’s gaze upward to a hooded dark figure astride a pale-colored horse.

  “Nisroc enters the Karmen Line, sixty-two miles above the planet Earth, as we speak.” Lawrence inhaled sharply.

  “The plagues will be fearsome. The Rapture is near . . . very near, Nicholas.”

  “You’ll . . . you’ll look out for Jason when I’m gone?” Nick asked. Lawrence moved his hand, and the image of the pale horse disappeared from view.

  “One day, Nicholas,” Lawrence murmured, “in the not too distant future, as implausible as it may seem . . . ” His gaze fell onto a knee-high copper statuette of St. Patrick, to the left of the cottage gate. “ . . . Jason De Vere will be the only vanguard we have left.”

  “Lawrence . . . ”

  Lawrence raised his hand, as though hearing something. Nick watched him intently.

  Lawrence’s face paled. He bowed his head, his lips moving, then adjusted his cravat and raised troubled eyes to Nick.

  “Nicholas . . . ” His voice was barely audible. “I have just received disturbing news. I have urgent matters to attend.”

  Nick took a step back. He knew what would happen next, and yet, no matter how many times he had watched the transformation, it never failed to take his breath away.

  Imposing though the professor’s human appearance was, now he became majestic. Noble. No longer a spry five feet nine but now well over eight feet tall. His sparse silver hair grew white and thick, past
his shoulders and down to the grass, as did his beard. The professor’s cravat and elegantly cut Savile Row blazer transformed into the stately embroidered velvet ceremonial robes of an ancient king of the First Heaven.

  Nick, still transfixed, stared into the ancient imperial face.

  “The High Council awaits me. I shall meet you in Alexandria.”

  And the professor vanished from the snowy Irish field.

  Right before Nick’s eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Plains of the Great Poplars, Eden

  The First Heaven

  Jether materialized under an enormous ancient poplar tree on the lush white plains of the Great Poplars, in Eden. Thousands of the ancient luminescent trees radiated a soft white light that hung in the blazing white mists. Jether breathed in the exquisite fragrance of spikenard that filled the plains.

  His silver hair fell far below his shoulders, as did his beard. On his head rested a jeweled crown. He smoothed his nasturtium-colored robes with his pale ringed fingers and turned. Eden. Even Earth’s most stunning wonders paled into insignificance beside the First Heaven.

  Out of the rising mists, Jether watched as, one by one, the ancient kings of the First Heaven became visible, walking swiftly through the soaring Pearl Gates of Eden, toward twenty-four garnet thrones that stood under a great canopy of the finest spun gossamer.

  Beyond the canopy lay the fountains of life, bright as crystal, cascading from the rubied throne room, watering Eden and the Great White Plains. Stately white swans drifted down the flowing stream toward the Crystal Sea.

  Angelic heralds blew their shofars.

  “We herald the holy council of the ancient ones, stewards of Yehovah’s sacred mysteries,” they proclaimed.

  The blinding white mists cleared, revealing twenty-one ancient kings of heaven. Jether seated himself on the central throne. Again the herald blew the shofar.

  The ancient kings bowed before Jether the Just, the most powerful ancient angelic King. Then, following his lead, all took their seats on garnet thrones around the golden council table.