The Devil Colony

by James Rollins

  Painter leaned back. Hank could see that doubt still remained in his eyes, but it was less scoffing and more thoughtful.

  “Then there’s Iceland,” Hank said.

  Painter nodded, already putting that piece of the puzzle into place. “If these ancient practitioners of nanotechnology—scholars, magi, whatever—were indeed from a lost tribe of Israelites, if they were fleeing across the Atlantic with something they wanted to preserve but were unsure if they’d make the journey—”

  Hank finished the thought. “Once they hit Iceland, a land of fire in an icy sea, they would have found the perfect warm place to secure at least a portion of their volatile treasure before moving on to America.”

  “Hank, I think you may—”

  The crunch of tires on loose rock cut him off, sounding distant, yet coming fast. Painter swung around, a pistol appearing in his hand seemingly out of nowhere. He hurried to the door.

  Kowalski sat up, belched, and looked around blearily. “What? . . . What did I miss?”

  Painter checked the window, stared for a full minute as the road noise grew steadily louder—then visibly relaxed. “It’s your friends Alvin and Iris. Looks like they found our last guest.”

  8:44 A.M.

  The old dented Toyota SUV kicked up a swirl of sand and dust as it came to stop in the center of the stone cabins. Painter stepped out of the shade of the porch and into the blaze of the sun. Though it was barely morning, the light hammered the surrounding badlands into shades of crimson and gold. Squinting against the glare, he crossed to help Iris out of the driver’s seat. Alvin hopped out on the other side.

  The elderly pair, wizened by the sun and well into their seventies, looked like old hippies with tie-dyed shirts and faded jeans fraying at the hems. But their clothing was accented with traditional Hopi elements. Iris had her long gray hair done in a Hopi-style braid, decorated with feathers and bits of turquoise. Alvin kept his long snow-white hair loose, his bare arms fitted with thick wristbands of beaten silver holding shells and chunks of turquoise. Both had embroidered belts of typical Hopi design, but rather than ox-hide or buckskin moccasins, they wore hiking boots straight out of some urban outfitter’s catalog.

  “So at least you haven’t burned the place down,” Iris said, her hands on her hips, inspecting the homestead.

  “Only the coffee,” Painter said with a wink.

  He stepped past her to the rear door of the SUV to help the final member of the party. Last night, Painter had sent word that he wanted to speak to one of the Ute elders, someone from the same tribe as the grandfather who had murdered his own grandson to keep the cavern secret. Clearly that old man had known something. Maybe other elders of his tribe did, too. He needed someone who could shed some light on the meaning of the cave, on its history. Alvin and Iris had fetched the old man from the bus station so that Painter and the others could keep their exposure to a minimum.

  Painter reached for the door handle, ready to assist the elder—only to have it open in front of him. A young man barely in his twenties climbed out. Painter searched the backseat, but no one else was there.

  The slim figure stuck out his hand. He was dressed in a navy suit, carrying his jacket and a loose tie over one arm. His white shirt was open at the collar. “I’m Jordan Appawora, elder of the Northern Ute tribe.”

  The absurdity of that statement did not escape the youth, who offered a shy, embarrassed grin. Painter suspected that shyness was not a habitual trait in the kid. His handshake was hard and firm. There was some muscle hidden under that suit. When he withdrew his hand, he swept his lanky black hair out of his eyes and looked around at the circle of pueblos.

  “Perhaps I should clarify,” the young man said. “I’m a de facto member of the council of elders. I represent my grandfather, who is blind, mostly deaf, but remains sharp as an ax. I warm his seat at council meetings, take notes, discuss matters with him, and cast his vote.”

  Painter sighed. That was all well and good, but this young Ute was not the elder that he’d been hoping to question, someone steeped in ancient stories and lost tribal knowledge.

  “From your expression,” Jordan said, his grin growing wider and warmer, “I can tell you’re disappointed, but there was no way my grandfather could make this long trip.” He rubbed the seat of his pants with one hand. “As rough as those roads were, he’d be heading to his next hip replacement by now. And considering that last mile, I might need my first.”

  “Then let’s stretch our legs,” Alvin said, proving the wisdom of his own years. He waved them toward the pueblo’s porch, but he hooked an arm around his wife and nodded to a neighboring cabin. “Iris and I’ll see about rustling up a real breakfast at our place while you settle matters.”

  Painter recognized that the two were making themselves scarce so that his group could talk in private, but considering how matters had changed, this wasn’t necessary; still, he wouldn’t turn down breakfast. He led Jordan up to the shaded porch. Kowalski was already there, kicked back on a chair, boots up on the rail. He rolled his eyes at Painter, plainly as unimpressed with the so-called elder as Painter was.

  Kanosh joined them on the porch with Kai. His stocky cattle dog came, too, sniffing at the newcomer’s pant leg.

  Jordan made his introductions again—though a bit of that shyness returned as he shook Kai’s hand. She also stammered, her voice going soft, and retreated to the opposite side of the porch, feigning a lack of interest, but the corner of her eye often found Jordan through a fall of her hair.

  Painter cleared his throat and leaned back on the rail, facing the others. “I assume you know why I asked you to come all the way out here,” he said to Jordan.

  “I do. My grandfather was good friends with Jimmy Reed. What occurred—the shooting at the cavern—was a tragedy. I knew his grandson, Charlie, very well. I was sent to offer whatever help I can in this matter and to answer any questions.”

  It was a politician’s answer. From the kid’s clipped and restrained response, Painter suspected Jordan had spent at least a year in some law school. The young Ute was here to help, but he wasn’t going to open his tribe to any further involvement, potentially damaging involvement, in the tragic events that had occurred in the mountains.

  Painter nodded. “I appreciate you coming, but what we truly needed was someone—like Jimmy Reed—who adhered to the old ways, who had intimate and detailed knowledge of the cave’s history.”

  Jordan looked unperturbed. “That was clear. Word reached my grandfather, who pulled me aside privately and sent me here without anyone else knowing. As far as the Ute tribe is aware, we refused your request.”

  Painter shifted, fixing the youth with a sharper gaze. Maybe this wasn’t such a waste after all.

  Jordan didn’t shrink from Painter’s attention. “Only two elders even knew that cave existed—preserved on a scrap of tribal map that marked the cave’s location on Ute lands. It was my grandfather who told Jimmy Reed about the cave. And last night, my grandfather told me.”

  A flicker of fear showed in the young man’s eyes. He glanced away to the sunbaked cliffs, as if trying to shake it off. “Crazy stories . . .” he mumbled.

  “About the mummified bodies,” Painter coaxed, “about what was hidden there?”

  A slow nod. “According to my grandfather, the bodies preserved in that cave were a clan of great shamans, a mysterious race of pale-skinned people who came to this land, bearing great gifts and powers. They were called the people of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev.”

  Kanosh translated. “People of the Morning Star.” He turned to Painter. “Which rises each morning in the east.”

  Jordan nodded. “Those old stories say the strangers did come from east of the Rockies.”

  Painter shared a look with Kanosh. The professor was clearly thinking these people came from much farther east than this.

  His lost tribe of Israelites . . . the Mormon’s Nephites.

  “Once settled in these territories,” Jor
dan continued, “the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev taught our people much, gathering shamans from tribes throughout the West. Word of their teachings spread far and wide, drawing more and more people to them, becoming one great clan themselves.”

  The Lamanites, Painter thought.

  “The Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev were greatly revered, but also feared for the power they possessed. As centuries passed, they kept mostly to themselves. Our own shamans began to fight with each other, seeking more knowledge, beginning to defy the warnings spoken by the strangers. Until one day, a Pueblo tribe to the south stole a powerful treasure from the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev. But the thieves did not know the power of what they had stolen and brought great doom upon themselves, destroying most of their own clan. In anger, the other tribes set upon the surviving members of the Pueblo clan and slaughtered every man, woman, and child, until they were no more.”

  “Genocide,” Kanosh whispered.

  Jordan bowed his head in acknowledgment. “This horrified the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev. They knew their body of knowledge was too powerful, too tempting to the tribes who were still warring. So they gathered their members throughout the West, hid their treasures in sacred places. Many were murdered as they sought to flee, leaving other clusters of survivors with little choice but to take their own lives to preserve their secrets.”

  Painter studied Kanosh out of the corner of his eyes. Was this the war described in the Book of Mormon between the Nephites and Lamanites?

  “Only a handful of our more trusted elders were given knowledge of these burial caches, where it was said a great accounting of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev was written in gold.”

  Kanosh took a deep breath, turning away, his eyes glassy, maybe from tears. Here was further confirmation of all he believed, about his people, about their place in history and in God’s plan.

  Still, Painter—long estranged from his own heritage—remained a skeptic. “Is there any proof of this story?”

  Jordan took a moment to respond, studying his toes before looking up. “I don’t know, but my grandfather says that if you want to know more about the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev, you should go to the place where their end began.”

  “What does that mean?” Kowalski asked sourly.

  Jordan turned to him. “My grandfather knows where the thieves who stole the treasure met their doom. He also knows their name.” He faced the others. “They were the Anasazi.”

  Painter could not help but let the shock show in his face. The Anasazi were a clan of the ancient pueblo people who lived mostly in the Four Corners area of the United States, known as much for their extensive cliff-dwelling homes as they were for their mysterious and sudden disappearance.

  Kanosh stared significantly at Painter. “In the Navajo language, the name Anasazi means ‘ancient enemy.’ ” Kanosh filled in more details. “The Anasazi vanished some time between 1000 and 1100 AD. But it’s been hotly debated what triggered their disappearance. Various theories have been expounded: a great drought, bloody battles among tribes. But one of the newest theories from archaeologists at the University of Colorado has the tribe embroiled in a religious war, as violent as any battle between Christians and Muslims. It was said that some new religion drew them en masse to the south. Then shortly after that, the entire clan died out.”

  That theory certainly meshed with the ancient story told by Jordan’s grandfather. Painter turned to the young man. “You said your grandfather knew where these Anasazi thieves met their doom. Where was it?”

  “If you have a map of the Southwest, specifically Arizona, I can show you.”

  As a group, they all moved indoors. The inside of the pueblo was as dark as a cave after the morning’s brightness. Kai moved around and flicked on several lamps. Painter drew out a map of the Four Corners region and spread it on the tabletop.

  “Show me,” Painter said.

  Jordan studied the chart for a breath, cocking his head to the side. “It’s about three hundred miles south of us,” he said, and leaned closer. “Just outside Flagstaff. Ah, here it is.”

  He poked the map.

  Painter read the name at his fingertip. “Sunset Crater National Park.”

  Well, that certainly makes sense . . .

  Kowalski groused under his breath. “Looks like we’re going from one volcano to another.”

  Painter began making arrangements in his head.

  “I’m going with you,” Kanosh said.

  Painter prepared to argue. He wanted to leave the professor here with Kai, to keep them out of harm’s way.

  “My friends gave their blood, their lives,” Kanosh pressed. “I’m going to see this through. And who knows what you’ll find in Arizona? You may need my expertise.”

  Painter frowned, but he had no good cause to dismiss such help.

  Kowalski came to the same conclusion. “Sounds good to me.”

  Kai stepped forward, ready to speak. Painter knew what she was going to say and held up his hand. “You’ll stay with Iris and Alvin.” He pointed to Jordan. “You, too.”

  They’d both be safer here, and he didn’t want word to get out about where they were headed. Kai looked ready to fight about it, but a glance toward Jordan made her reconsider. Instead, she simply crossed her arms.

  Painter thought the matter was settled, but Jordan stepped up. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He looked ready to pass it on, but held it half crumpled between his fingers.

  “Before you go, my grandfather wanted me to give you this. But first, I must share one last thing. This is from me, not my grandfather.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The legends I just told you were sacred stories, going back centuries, passed from one elder to another. My grandfather only told me because he truly believes it’s already too late.”

  Kowalski stirred. “What do you mean too late?”

  “My grandfather believes that the spirit set free from that cave in the mountains will never be stopped—it will destroy the world.”

  Painter remembered Chin’s description of the boil growing outward from the blast site, what he called a nano-nest, picturing microscopic nanomachines disassembling all matter it touched. The potential of it spreading indefinitely was terrifying.

  “But it was stopped,” Painter finally said. “The volcanic eruption bottled that genie back up.”

  Jordan stared him in the eye. “That was only the beginning. My grandfather says the spirit will sweep around the world from here, setting off more destruction until the world is a sandy ruin.”

  Painter went cold. The description was frighteningly similar to the physicists’ theory that the neutrino blast in Utah had shot through the globe and lit the fuse on another cache of nano-material. He recalled Kat’s warning about the impending explosion in Iceland.

  Jordan stretched out his hand with the folded slip of paper. “My grandfather holds out little hope, but he wanted to share this. It is the mark of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev. He says to let it guide you to where you need to go.”

  Painter took the piece of paper and opened it. What was written there made no sense, but it still caused him to go weak in his knees. He shook his head in disbelief. He recognized the pair of symbols smudged in charcoal on the paper, the sign of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev.

  A crescent moon and a small star.

  The same symbols were found at the center of the Guild’s mark.

  How could that be?

  Chapter 20

  May 31, 2:45 P.M.

  Ellirey Island

  Iceland

  Thirty-two minutes . . .

  Standing guard at the window, Gray tightened his fingers on his pistol. He had spoken to Kat a few minutes ago—not only couldn’t she get his team any help, but she also shared disturbing news out of Japan. If those physicists were right, the island would blow shortly after 3:00 P.M. They had to be off this rock before then. There was only one problem—no, make that eight problems.

  The s
killed team of commandos had taken up secure positions across the front of the small lodge, keeping the place covered. A few minutes ago, the soldiers had begun to storm the place, but for some reason they suddenly retreated to the shelter of a group of basalt outcroppings.

  “Why aren’t they attacking?” Ollie asked. The old caretaker stood by the hearth with his shotgun in his hands. Harshly beaten, he’d rallied after Monk freed him, but it was clear that the waiting was wearing him down.

  Seichan answered, but she didn’t take her eyes off the window she guarded. “Like us, they must have heard the island is going to explode. They’re just pinning us down here until they can make their escape.”

  Her words proved to be prophetic as the whump-whump of an approaching helicopter shook the panes of glass. A midsize transport helicopter swept over the lodge and out into the open meadow. The bird’s tandem, four-blade rotors flattened the grasses as it hovered, its pilot searching for a safe place to land amid the broken rock.

  We need to be on that chopper, Gray thought.

  “Look!” Seichan called, and pointed. “Across the meadow, by the boulders. We’ve got more company.”

  Gray tore his eyes from the helicopter and spotted what had alarmed her. More soldiers fled out of the broken landscape, coming from the direction of the smoky signature that marked the recent TNT blast. In the lead ran a figure wearing civilian clothing: hiking boots, all-weather pants, and a heavy jacket, unzipped. The middle-aged man hugged a backpack to his ample belly. Behind him, two soldiers carried a stretcher between them, piled high with small stone boxes.

  They must have successfully blasted their way into the treasure hold on the island. If Gray had any doubt, it was dashed when he spotted the glint of gold atop the pile of boxes. One of the soldiers waved frantically for the helicopter to land.