“You should have waited,” Slater said. “There are safety protocols that need to be observed.”
The colonel looked taken aback. “We have an AFIP officer on-site, handpicked by Dr. Levinson in Washington.”
“Who?”
“Captain Stanley Jenkins, M.D.”
“He’s a good choice,” Slater said, relieved. He’d never worked with him personally, but he’d read the man’s reports from the field and knew he was an up-and-comer. “Do whatever Captain Jenkins tells you to do and you won’t go wrong.”
Waggoner looked even more put off. “Dr. Jenkins is here in an advisory capacity only, and he takes his orders from me. Maybe you’ve forgotten how the military branches of our government work since your court-martial, Dr. Slater.”
It was a cheap shot, but Slater let it pass.
“As for your associates, Professor Kozak and Sergeant Groves, I have asked them to restrict their movements to the base. Kozak’s been completing some ground studies inside the colony walls. I can’t say what the hell they’ll be good for, but they keep him away from the cemetery and out of my way. As for you, the debriefing will take place at 0900 hours tomorrow morning, so collect any notes or data you might have left lying around here and bring them. Also, make sure you gather up your remaining gear because as soon as we’re done, you and your pals will be flown off the island. There will be no further access.”
After ordering Slater, in addition, to restrict himself to the common areas within the perimeter of the stockade, he dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. Slater had the impression that the colonel had waited his whole life to sink his teeth into an operation of this importance — though how long the Coast Guard would maintain its sole jurisdiction here was an open question — and he could tell he would brook no interference.
Once outside, Slater blew out a deep breath and rubbed his aching ribs. The seat harness on the chopper had given them a workout. Looking around, he noticed that high-power spotlights had been mounted atop the stockade walls, and given that the sunlight was already fading, they had been switched on. The grounds were bathed in a harsh white light that threw stark shadows in every direction and lent the colony, with its old log cabins and storehouses, an oddly artificial appearance. The crooked church, with its decrepit onion dome, looked like the haunted house from an amusement park. Yellow tape had been stretched across its doors in a big X, along with loops of heavy chain.
But no one, he also noted, was watching him. Ensign Rudy was nowhere to be seen, and a couple of other Coast Guardsmen were busy wheeling a cart of cables from one tent to another. If he was going to make a run at the one place he was most eager to see — the old graveyard — he wasn’t likely to get a better shot than this.
With the colonel’s order not to leave the colony grounds still ringing in his ears, Slater sauntered toward the main gate, jauntily saluting the Coast Guardsman stationed there, before heading down the ramp that led to the cemetery. He didn’t dare look back, but he had no sooner approached the woods than he saw that a wide swath of the trees had been felled and the ramp had been replaced by a gravel driveway fifteen feet wide. He could see the muddy tire treads, and the rumble of machinery got louder all the time.
By the time he got to the spot where the old gateposts had once stood — they, too, were gone — he had noticed the unmistakable smells of powerful disinfectant chemicals and hot tar. Hanging back, he saw the funnel of a cement truck pouring a thick, even coat of concrete over the remaining ground. All the tombstones and crosses had been removed, and half a dozen workers in full hazmat suits, hard hats, and hip waders — a novel combination — were smoothing the surface as it was laid down. The decontamination shack had been left standing, but huge, empty cylinders of malathion, an organophosphate widely used in places like Central America where DDT had lost its sting, were strewn around outside it. Slater didn’t have to ask. Rather than running the risk of exposing any more of the bodies, the AFIP must have decided simply to poison the ground, to saturate it with concentrated, industrial-strength chemicals, then seal the graveyard for good measure under a foot of fresh concrete.
It wouldn’t last, he thought. The warming climate would eventually shift the earth again, and crack the cement. But that was government for you. Do the temporary fix for now, then form some committees to debate the problem for several years to come.
A curious worker spotted him, and instead of ducking out of sight, Slater waved and shouted, “Good job! Keep it up!” The worker returned to spreading the concrete.
Then Slater turned around and followed the well-lighted drive back to the colony gates. Behind him he felt like an old and terrible giant had been put to bed beneath a new blanket. He prayed it would sleep there soundly forever.
Inside his tent, he found that his cot and personal effects had been left untouched. A vial of his Chloriquine pills was lying beside an empty coffee cup and a report he’d been annotating. Professor Kozak popped in, and perching awkwardly on a campstool, said, “You saw the cemetery?”
Slater nodded while stacking some loose papers. “Did they disinter any of the other bodies first?”
Kozak shook his head. “They took one look and sent in the bulldozers to level the place.”
Slater nodded and started gathering up his notebooks.
“How did it go with Waggoner?” Kozak asked.
“Pretty much as expected,” Slater replied, stuffing the notebooks into a backpack. “We’ve got till maybe noon tomorrow before we’re exiled for good.”
Kozak stroked his short silver beard thoughtfully. “Then there is no choice. It will have to be tonight. At midnight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’ve got to get back in the church.”
“Why go back?” Slater asked, mystified. “There’s nothing inside the place but old broken pews and tables. What’s the point?”
Kozak took his iPhone out of his pocket, swiped his finger across it a couple of times, then held it out. Slater saw a photo of an old headstone, with what looked like a pair of doors etched on either side of a Russian name.
“Okay,” Slater said. “Nice carving. But what about it?”
“That is the tombstone of the man we dug up,” Kozak said. “Stefan Novyk. The deacon.”
Slater still didn’t understand.
“The two doors are called the deacon’s doors. They are the way through the iconostasis.”
“You mean that wooden screen, right, the one with all the junk thrown together in front of it?”
“Yes. The altar is behind it.”
“I’ll take your word for it. But even if you think there’s actually something of value back there, do I have to remind you that we’re not the raiders of the lost ark?”
“No, we are not,” Kozak agreed. “But we are scientists, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And historians?”
That one was questionable, but Slater nodded in agreement anyway, just to get him to finish.
“For instance, wouldn’t you like to know how the flu got to this place in the middle of nowhere?”
It was a question that had indeed puzzled Slater, but the Spanish flu had been ingenious that way. All it might have taken was a single lost kayaker from the mainland.
Kozak put the phone down, dug deep into the other pocket of his coat, and produced the sexton’s ledger. He must have been keeping it under wraps, Slater thought, or the colonel would surely have confiscated it by now. Turning to the last pages, and with his stubby finger underscoring a final section, written in a florid, feminine hand, Kozak translated the words.
“Here it reads, ‘Forgive me. I have become the curse of all who know me.’ ” Kozak looked up. “Do you remember the words carved into the gates of the graveyard, over and over?”