God Told Me To

A busy street. A young sniper wantonly slaughters fourteen people and then quietly walks to his own death . . .

In a neighborhood supermarket a mild-mannered mechanic picks up a knife and begins randomly slaying defenseless customers . . .

In a quiet, comfortable apartment, a happily married man calmly murders his wife and two children . . .

The crimes have no motives. The killers have no connection. But in each case their explanation is the same:

Only Lt. Detective Peter Nicholas has reason to think differently—and it’s the most terrifying reason of all . . .

THE ROAD TO HELL IS
PAVED WITH . . . MURDER

Lt. Detective Peter Nicholas is deeply religious and a damn good cop. But he’s different from the others on the force and he knows it, just as
he
knows he’s finding out things about the wave of bizarre slaughters too easily . . . as if pieces of information are being left specifically to lead him on . . . as if whoever or whatever is turning ordinary people into heinous killers is waiting for him . . .

But Lt. Detective Peter Nicholas doesn’t know that he’s headed for a confrontation preordained from beyond . . . a confrontation dedicated to the darkest evil ever conceived by man—or ever challenged by God . . .

GOD TOLD ME TO

Starring
TONY LoBIANCO • SANDY DENNIS

SYLVIA SIDNEY • SAM LEVENE

ROBERT DRIVAS • MIKE KELLIN

RICHARD LYNCH

Guest Star
DEBORAH RAFFIN

Music by
FRANK CORDELL

Written, Produced and Directed by
LARRY COHEN

A L
ARCO
P
RODUCTION

A L
ARRY
C
OHEN
F
ILM

A N
EW
W
ORLD
P
ICTURES
R
ELEASE

Copyright © 1976 by Random House, Inc.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Ballantine Books of Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Canada.

ISBN 0-345-25213-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: December 1976

And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live
.

Ezekiel 6:16

ONE

A fine spring day. The sort of day that makes New Yorkers forget the ills of their city and fall in love with it once again. Clear, not so warm as to be uncomfortable, with a light breeze that swept the air clean.

No one noticed the young man who emerged that afternoon from the Fifty-seventh Street crosstown bus at the Madison Avenue stop. There was no reason to notice him. He had the perfectly normal appearance of a youth in his late teens. His hair was the fashionable length for his age, his casual clothing was not out of the ordinary. He carried an oblong package of medium size, but in this neighborhood of exclusive shops, a youth carrying a package is hardly an unfamiliar sight.

He stood at the corner and waited patiently until the traffic cop gave him and his fellow pedestrians the signal to cross. Fifty-seventh is one of the wider streets in Manhattan. He crossed it at the same slightly rapid pace as those around him.

He walked two blocks up Madison Avenue, going north with the cars that clog this one-way avenue during the business hours on weekdays. He passed a number of banks, specialty shops, an art gallery. The sidewalk was crowded. When he accidentally bumped an elderly woman with his package, he took a moment to apologize. He paused a moment in front of the Georg Jensen window. He considered going inside and buying something to send to his mother. He realized there wasn’t time and walked a bit farther.

He entered a building and he took the elevator to the top floor. He walked along the corridor until he found the stairwell which led to the roof.

He looked about the roof. He spotted the water tower and thought it would make a fine vantage.

Before climbing the tower, he broke open his package. It contained a rifle disassembled into two pieces. Attached to the barrel was a telescopic sight. He quickly put together the two pieces. He took bullets from his pocket and loaded. He hooked a strap to the barrel and the stock, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and climbed the tower
.

The sloping roof of the tower was not suitable. He crawled along the edge of the circular roof until he was opposite the ladder, and was able to reach out and touch the adjoining building. Though he was more than forty stories above the ground, the adjoining building rose higher. He looked down and saw that if he lowered himself onto one of the supporting abutments of the tower he would be in a good place. It would offer a clear view of the avenue, while both the adjoining building and the tower itself would offer protection.

After making himself comfortable as possible in his position, he took the rifle from his shoulder. He sighted through the scope, twisted a focus knob, sighted again. Even through the scope the people below looked very small. He’d had the rifle only a short while and did not consider himself a good shot. He aimed at one of the tiny, distant figures and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Within minutes he had killed seventeen people.

Detective Lieutenant Peter Nicholas didn’t like watching himself on television. He was a highly decorated officer. His achievements occasionally forced him to face the cameras, and the few times he had watched himself on videotape he was embarrassed. When he came home from work this evening and Casey had told him that all the early news broadcasts had run features on him, Nicholas responded with, “Thank God I missed seeing them.”

Casey kissed him then, and said, “Thank God you’re alive.”

She had questions written all over her face, concerned and worried questions which Nicholas knew no broadcast could have answered, but he had not wanted to discuss the matter. He smiled at her, held her at arm’s distance, and tried for a lightness of tone as he said, “And to whom is my little atheist giving thanks for my life?”

They had lived together long enough for each to recognize the other’s moods. She, too, attempted a light tone.

“If you don’t feel like talking, Peter, we won’t talk. I’ll simply trot to the refrigerator and gather a beer for my lord and master.”

She turned from him and as she started away, Nicholas gave her round, firm fanny an affectionate slap. He watched while she opened the refrigerator and bent over to reach for his beer. Her blond hair fell over her face, which when not lined with questions was smooth and delicate and youthful. Her slender body was in her favorite outfit, snug, faded blue jeans and T-shirt. Her breasts were not large but when she bent over she caused them to move with a sensuous rhythm against the fabric of her shirt. Nicholas felt the stirrings of sex. She was barefoot and Nicholas did not think how the soles of her feet must be black from walking their uncarpeted floor. Instead, he chose to think—probably wrongly, but it was nice to think—that the draft from the refrigerator was causing her nipples to rise and harden as they did when she and he made love.

Nicholas went to the closet of their small apartment and hung up his jacket. He removed the holstered .38-caliber police special the department said he must carry twenty-four-hours a day and placed it on top of a bureau. Also on the bureau was a bronze incense burner shaped like a many-armed oriental goddess. Casey had brought this icon home the day after Nicholas tacked a small crucifix to the wall.

He kicked off the heavy black thick-soled shoes worn by men in his profession, and he snapped of the single lamp that illuminated the room. The fading gray of twilight seeped through the windows and gave the room the color of fog and shadow. Nicholas made the room darker by adjusting the curtains.

When Casey came to him with the beer, he took the can and set it on the bureau. He pulled her into his arms and led her to their bed. She made a feeble protest, something about having to start a roast for dinner, but he pushed up her T-shirt and put his mouth to her breast.

She was surprised by the force with which he took her. He wasn’t usually this passionate. Peter’s love-making was normally more tender and gentle and often there was a certain hesitancy in his touch. At times she had wanted more intensity from him, times when he caressed her as if she were a fragile, breakable doll instead of a woman. Now she felt his weight, his body moving against her with assurance, then he was moving inside her, a strong and quickening rhythm, and he kept his hands and mouth busy and she heard a sharp pleasureful sound escape her throat.

The room was quite dark when they finished.

After a moment Casey half sighed, half whispered, “That was nice.”

She reached over to the nightstand near their bed and found a cigarette and matches. In the orange and yellow flicker of her match Nicholas saw her expression of peace and satisfaction.