by Joanne Pence
“That’s crazier than Quade!” Jake said.
“Maybe we tie a rope around Michael’s waist,” Charlotte suggested. “If something goes wrong, or he finds himself in danger, we can pull him back out.”
“I don’t believe that will work,” Quade said. “Any link to this world will stop one from entering another.”
“We can try,” Charlotte said.
“Ropes aren’t needed.” Quade held Charlotte’s outstretched hand as he alone stepped between the pillars. Nothing happened and he came back to her side. “As I suspected.”
“I can’t believe any of you are serious about this!” Jake yelled.
“Are you ready?” Michael asked Quade and Charlotte. They nodded.
“Hell no! Not if we can’t come back!” Jake thundered.
“We’ll have to find that out on the other side,” Michael answered. “It’s what all scientists must do at some point.”
“But don’t you—” Jake began his question but didn’t have a chance to end it as he watched Quade, Michael, and finally Charlotte step between the pillars and disappear.
“Oh, shit!” Jake muttered. Against his better judgment, he followed.
Chapter 20
New York City
JENNIFER VANDENBURG STOOD at the window of her corner office on the PLP building’s forty-third floor, and looked out over Central Park. The lights of the city burned bright. She found Manhattan more beautiful at night than during the day.
She should have been home now, but she couldn’t face being there. She couldn’t face her own daughter.
Vandenburg had achieved much in her life, more than she ever thought possible. Now, if she could succeed once more, she would finally be happy.
She glanced at the clock. Her visitor was late.
The phone rang, startling her. On her personal line was the investigator employed by PLP’s lobbying firm in Washington D.C.
“We found a student in Lionel Rempart's condo gathering information,” the private eye announced without introduction.
“Did you check him out?” she asked, irritated at the bizarre intrusion.
“So far, all we know is his I.D. was a fake. We’re working on finding out more.”
She didn’t like the response, but she could do little about it. “Keep me posted.” She hung up.
When Rempart and his students dropped off the face of the earth in Idaho, she immediately suspected him of something underhanded. He might have found the book and decided to keep it, or had gotten sick of the hardships of life trekking around the woods. She had his home watched in case he went back there for something, such as his passport. Her plan depended on him being a reputable anthropologist, and he had taken her money. But she still didn’t trust him.
If he couldn’t be found in Idaho, and he hadn’t snuck back home, where was he? Had something truly happened to him and the students?
A tentative knock on the door, the one she had been waiting for, interrupted her thoughts. “Come in.”
Milt Zonovich, Phaylor-Laine's first vice president, entered. He was a small man, with short gray hair, horned-rimmed glasses, and a nervous habit of excessive blinking.
Zonovich had hoped to get the CEO position ten years ago, but it went instead to the young Jennifer Vandenburg after she'd resurrected a chain of home improvement stores from the doldrums into one of the country's top retail businesses. She'd campaigned hard for the position and eventually the executive board offered her a fortune to make sure that Phaylor-Laine maintained its hold as the world's premier pharmaceutical company, despite numerous lawsuits stemming from side effects from the latest “super-drugs” that do everything short of curing the common cold, but have an unfortunate tendency to be fatal to a small number of the population.
Cure or kill...that was the question in twenty-first century medicine.
So far, Vandenburg had managed to keep the Phaylor-Laine name surprisingly positive in the mainstream press.
That didn't mean, however, that Zonovich either liked or respected her.
“Milt, thank you for joining me. Would you like a drink?”
He looked at the well-stocked bar against the wall, and his lips thirstily rubbed together before he forced himself to say, “No, thanks.”
They sat on the sofa, one at each end. “Fifteen years ago,” she launched directly into her reason for calling him, “the company began an inquiry into an ancient text on alchemy. Do you know about that?”
Surprise flickered across Zonovich’s face.
Blink. Blink. “Yes. It was Calvin Phaylor’s idea,” he explained, then nervously bit his bottom lip before continuing. “He had interest in many strange things he thought might provide possible pharmacological breakthroughs. It was a lark, nothing more. I think he hoped to spend some time in Idaho at company expense. He loved sports fishing, salmon, steelhead—”
“I’m curious about a team sent into the area,” she interrupted. “The reports don’t say what happened to them. That troubles me.”
His blinking sped up and he rubbed his chin. “Kohler. Thad Kohler. He led the group. They were supposed to be experts. All ex-military. Supposed to know how to take care of themselves in the wilds.” He stopped speaking suddenly.
“I'm surprised you remember his name after all these years,” she said. She not only knew about Kohler, but knew the others’ names as well: Ben Olgerbee, Will Durham, Gus Webber, Sam Black, Arnie Tieg.
“I remember only because the whole thing turned so very bizarre,” Zonovich exclaimed, his voice too high now. “We never heard back from them. We made inquiries, did some searches. We couldn't do too much in the way of publicizing our activity—we didn't exactly want our stockholders to know that PLP paid to investigate alchemy.” He laughed nervously.
Vandenburg didn't join in.
“The money we paid Kohler”—blink, blink, blink—“had been distributed by him to his team before they left. Some of the families made a fuss when the men didn't come home, but we pointed out that they were paid by PLP for work that wasn't, as best as we knew, accomplished. We compensated them out of the goodness of our hearts, I might add, and simply asked that they remained silent. There's not much more I can tell you.”
“Was there any follow-up? Were all six men truly lost out there?”
“I'm sorry to say Mr. Phaylor wasted quite a few resources trying to find those men. As far as we could tell there was never any trace of them. Not anywhere.” Beads of perspiration appeared on Zonovich’s forehead. “How did you find out about all this?”
Did the idiot really think she would tell him? “Thank you, Milt,” she said. “You've been most helpful.”
“You aren't thinking of reopening that inquiry now, are you?” He glanced longingly at the scotch on the wet bar. “It's all nonsense, but with us pushing to get the FDA to approve our new 'healthy bones for all women drug,' rather than targeting only the post-menopausal group, we don't want to do anything to make them look askance at us. That pill will make us tens of billions of dollars. With no competition.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. She had pushed the concept, trying to get the numbskulls in R&D to come up with something that would undo the damage Felicia's bones had suffered. All they developed was a way to maintain strength and suppleness in already healthy bones, not repair damage to weak ones. PLP would make it so that taking one little pill every day would enable thirty-year old women to bounce up from falls like eight-year olds. Unfortunately, it also had a tendency to destroy their livers.
She walked to her door and opened it. “Good-day, Milt.”
He quickly exited.
Chapter 21
Washington D.C.
JIANJUN COULDN’T SHAKE the feeling he was being followed as he hurried from the Smithsonian back to his hotel room. He double locked the door, stretched out on the bed, took out Francis Masterson’s Journal, and once more began to read. Soon, he was caught up in the early nineteenth cent
ury world.
I have never known such Despair. Noah Handy has often tried to cheer me by making my Horoscope and claiming my life will be a long one, but the good Soul does little good.
I have no faith in Astrology. No faith in anything anymore.
If there be a God, He has abandoned us in this Alien land.
The air crackles with Dryness that leaves my throat perpetually parched and sucks the life from my Skin. My lips flake and peel, and my fingers bleed.
After the Fire, we waited until fairly certain there were no more Hot embers to burn the horses' hooves, but they were too frightened to enter the Charred land, and in fact, we shared the beasts' trepidation. We endeavored to return to Captain Clark's trail, but the Signs used to guide us had vanished. The slate had been wiped clean, and all that remained were Compass, Sextant, and Stars.
Our mission had failed, for neither the symbol, nor Alchemical text, nor Gold were to be found in this wasteland.
How could we find our way? The forests had burned, and I say the word in plural for the burned Vastness went on as far as the eye could see.
Lost, with none but our Wits as guides, we continued Westward.
The mountains grew more steep and dangerous than I had before experienced, with Soil so loose that when a mule packed with necessary provisions lost his footing and rolled downhill into a stream and was killed, we were unable to go after it to extricate our Supplies or even to harvest the mule for food. Hail stones the size of robins’ eggs pelted us, and rattlesnakes slithered everywhere. Voracious wood ticks converged to feast on both men and horses. At times we sweltered in heat, yet above us on the mountaintops lay ten feet of snow.
Sadness filled me, for I had never imagined such a contrary, hateful land, such a place of sudden senseless Death.
And, as happens when God turns his back on Man, the Devil enters with his minions.
After days of wandering, one morning we awoke with glittering Knives thrust in our faces. The hands that gripped them were those of fierce and loathsome Heathens. These were not the gentle Nez Perce whose women oft times marry hairy barbarians, as they called the French trappers. These were from some other tribe, one our guides knew not.
Six men, seven women, and ten children, all poorly clothed in Deer and sheepskins, yet well armed with knives, bows and arrows pointed with honed Obsidian, appropriated our horses, mules, and supplies, and forced us to follow them.
Our guides labored to convince them our intentions were pacific, but that if any Harm befell us, more White men with powerful guns would descend on them and kill them all. Most were unconvinced by such Bellicose braggadocio.
Their regard for us changed, however, when we demonstrated to them use of our Rifles to fell big horn sheep. With that, we became instant friends and benefactors.
We spent the cold Winter with them, hunkered down in their wretched Wikiups and caves to guard against a stabbing, miserable cold. Food was scarce, and every night my Belly ached from emptiness. Worse was the ache in my heart when I thought of my own sweet Susannah.
To this day I envision her in her home, seated by a fire-warmed hearth, and I long to be with her. I wonder if she is still awaiting my return, or if she has already forgotten me and our Promise to each other. I should not doubt her, for she is as Faithful a woman as has ever walked the Earth, yet I do. Loneliness and fear have become my Companion and my Enemy.
In Spring we attempted to bid Farewell and be on our way. That was when we learned we could not depart.
The Tukudeka spoke of a Bad place, of Earth’s thunder that swallowed men. We had no understanding of what new sinister dread they spoke of until they drew a figure on the ground for us.
We stared with shock and wonderment for it was the exact symbol that had inspired our President to commission this Journey. Had we now reached our Goal only to be thwarted by our inability to leave this place?
The Tukudeka said a white man, a Holy man, had come and used that symbol to create a place so frightening as one could not Bear to look at it without fearing he had succumbed to Madness.
Despite this warning, under the leadership of Captain Crouch, a stern man who had become ever more Harsh and Unforgiving, we vowed to reach the Goal we had been sent to achieve. We would escape, or die in our attempt. We were Free men, and would rather die than to live as prisoners against our will.
One night, a battering rainstorm raged. Knowing the gushing rain and shrieking wind would assure us from being heard, we gathered up all belongings we could carry and crept away while the Tukudeka slept. Although we were not guarded, the horses were, so we were forced to flee on foot.
After a day’s labored Journey, we discovered what the Red Men had feared.
As a mere Mortal, my paltry words can little express the Unnatural sight before us. Two massive pillars, perfectly round with strange symbols at the top, soared high into the sky, far taller than any building back home. Glowering mists surrounded their peaks. They stood atop a Pyramid the size of a three-masted schooner.
My knees quaked at the sight, for I immediately realized it was not anything of this World, but something surely created by the Darkest minions of the Netherworld. Tears of fright sprang to my eyes.
Lightning bolts lit the Sky and Thunder sounded. I was sure those tall rocks had vision and watched us approach.
I tried to speak of my fear, of a sense of Evil enveloping me, but my voice shook so, I could not.
At that moment, our scout Miles Weiser, who had been at the rear of our party, ran to us shouting that the Tukudeka were riding toward us. All of us knew the Horrific fate of anyone who disobeyed them.
Captain Crouch ordered us to run for the pillars, for the Indians feared them and might not approach. Mr. Weiser refused, saying he must try to save Mr. Borah, the other scout, who was lagging behind.
We approached the pillars. The storm had strengthened, and the pillars themselves seemed to be the source of Lightning and rolling Thunder, just as the Tukudeka had warned. Perhaps my words have an aura of Madness, and so they may, for ensuing events showed that it was not any known Reason that here ruled.
The Tukudeka appeared in the distance with savage cries and Murderous intent.
Captain Crouch shouted that we were to Ascend and stand between the stones, that there, the Tukudeka would not attack us, they would not risk the Magic they so dreaded. Orril and Asa Munroe, Noah Handy, and Reuben Hale did as ordered. I did not wish to leave my Captain’s side, however. I believed he might fight to free the scouts, whom we feared would be tortured and killed. If so, I planned to assist him. He accepted my presence with a cold, almost angry, nod.
Our four Companions stepped between the stone pillars as Crouch had ordered.
As soon as they did, Stillness descended. Thunder ceased. I glanced at the sky, and then toward my companions, and, as God is my witness, the four were no more.
I fell to my knees, agog at the Madness that had occurred.
The Tukudeka also saw, and turned and fled.
And now, as I remain here, I know my own Death fast approaches.
Captain Crouch and I have waited through the day and into the night at the foot of the looming mound that bears the pillars. He snarls dire Imprecations and strange Musings. Miles Weiser and Eli Borah have not found us, nor have our four companions returned. The first two are surely dead or will soon be. We know not if we will ever see the Others again this side of Heaven.
As we sit and await our fate, growing hungrier and thirstier with each passing hour, I have spent these daylight and moonlit hours completing here the woeful story of our Secret Expedition.
We will attempt once more to sneak past our Watchful pursuers this night and find safety. But hear this, if we do not Succeed, as Dawn breaks, we shall walk between the pillars of our own desperate Volition.
Here lies certain Death for us. There, we can only hope we shall not enter the mouth of Hell.
I shamefully admit I have lived my life without God. I did not want to
believe in Him or His laws as I went about my days and nights enraptured with the Occult and the Other. And yet, now, in my time of greatest need, it is to the God of my fathers that I turn. I pray to Him, not for life, but for forgiveness for the foolish way I lived before I let Him fill my Heart.
The crescent moon is high, and Captain Crouch says we must leave soon. My eyes fill with tears as I end this Record of our piteous, forsaken Expedition. I shall enfold it in Sheepskin, and secrete it under a boulder.
Someday, I pray it will be discovered. If Ezra Crouch, Orril and Asa Munroe, Reuben Hale, Noah Handy, and I, Francis Masterson, are never seen again, know that we were once Good and True men, working to serve our Country and our uncertain God. I bid thee farewell.
May a Generous and Almighty God have mercy on our souls.
Li Jianjun shut the small volume. It was four o’clock in the morning but he was wide awake. The story was so bizarre he couldn’t help but suspect someone had a very grand imagination. A Mormon Jules Verne.
But what if it was true? He remembered Susannah Revere’s letters. They had looked legitimate. Was this the reason no one ever heard from her fiancé, Francis Masterson, again?
He had to tell Michael about it. Michael would know whether to believe it or not. Jianjun had seen too many strange things since meeting Michael to dismiss anything out of hand.
He called Michael’s cell phone, but as expected, the call wouldn’t go through. He tried the motels and hotels in and surrounding Salmon City asking for Michael, and still no luck. He called the Salmon City police who connected him with the county sheriff’s search headquarters where he talked to a deputy who said he last saw Michael with some blonde woman.
That figures, Jianjun thought. And to think, I was worried about him.
He shut off the light and went to sleep.