Pulling The Dragon's Tail (54 page)

Scornfully, Herschel said, “Your lies are
smooth, Professor, but straight from the pit of Hell. Your
so-called son Beckett approached me about—”

“That’s a lie!” growled the Doctor. “You turned
him against me with your propaganda of hate.”

“He hated you long before I came along,” replied
Herschel.

“Where is my son?”

Herschel smiled. “Davy Jones locker. I killed
him on the ship before I got into the sub.”

“No! Is this true?” asked an anguished
Hilliard.

“Grandpa,” said Campbell, “unfortunately it is.
I saw Beckett’s body just before we got into the sea glider. I just
didn’t have the heart to tell you yet.”

With a sense of resignation, Hilliard sighed, “I
sensed something was wrong when we got in the glider. You’ve taken
everything away from me, Browning, isn’t that enough? Why this? Why
Beckett?”

“He’d served his purpose.”

Campbell said flatly. “A truer statement has not
been uttered from the mouth of a psychopath.”

Herschel sneered. “Oh, back to the kangaroo
court.”

She turned back toward Herschel. “What possessed
you to go on a killing spree?”

He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Man
shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from
the mouth of God.”

“And what does the word of God say?”
Maybe
his manipulations will lead to somewhere
, she thought.

“That which seems righteous to a man is
foolishness to God.”

Blankly, she said, “Go on.”

“If a hand offends thee, cut it off.” Herschel
kept going on, citing scripture after scripture.

An obsessively literal interpretation of
scripture. What does that mean?
She pondered.
What does it
say about how he sees God, how he sees his place in this world?
And…about his status in the Alpha Group? Ah!

With an increased intensity, she asked him,
“Does scripture say anything about how long humans should
live?”

He returned her question with a steely glare—and
silence.

That shut him up. I’m onto something.
“Thatcher, do a quick Net search. What does the Bible say about
longevity?”

Herschel’s jaw began a back and forth movement,
teeth grinding, agitation growing. His glower at her turned
deeper.

Hilliard responded, “I know my scripture pretty
well. I believe the Bible refers to ‘threescore and ten.’”

“Correct,” said Thatcher, pulling up the answer
on his dataport monitor. “’The days of our years are threescore
years and ten.’ Psalms 90:10.”

Campbell stared in astonishment at the ‘90’
tattooed on his arm. She leaned over to look at the right one,
seeing the number ‘10’. Shaking her head, she asked, “How old are
you, Herschel?”

He remained silent. He closed his eyes. His lips
appeared to mouth a quiet prayer.

Hilliard answered, “I think he’s
ninety-two.”

I’m onto you, buster.
“Do you believe it
to be against God’s will to live like you have been living, with
the capacity to live for hundreds of years?”

“All of mankind has sinned and fallen short of
the glory of God,” said Herschel, eyes still shut tightly.

“I feel sorry for you,” responded Campbell. “All
you can do is pedantically recite religious writings and not give
me one original thought.”

Herschel opened his eyes. “God’s thoughts
are
my thoughts. All my thoughts are God’s thoughts.”

Campbell sensed the grandiosity in his eyes.
What was the spark? Would my hypothesis be confirmed?
“So
what made you leap from the belief that
you
shouldn’t live
like this to the notion that
no one
in the Alpha Group
should live? Psalm 90:10 alone isn’t enough to turn you into a
killer. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

He looked away. Then he bowed his head again,
and tightly closed his eyes.

“I think you know, Herschel. It’s a secret part
of you. Your homicidal actions are also suicidal ones, aren’t
they?”

Herschel opened his eyes, and this time they
showed a flicker of fear. But then in a demanding voice he said,
“Stop!”

She crouched closer, ready to tell what she knew
about the Jerusalem murder of Wakely Karris—the last piece of the
puzzle. “You were on your way to the Garden of Gethsemane, the
place where Jesus prayed before his crucifixtion. You’d already met
with Wakely. But I don’t think you had any intentions to kill
her—yet.”

“Say what?” asked a dumbfounded Thatcher.

“You’d been with her earlier that evening,
convinced that more than ever you needed to kill yourself. That’s
why you came to Jerusalem, convinced that being a homosexual was
evil.”

Herschel began to breathe more heavily. His
chest heaved up and down.

Thatcher didn’t see that hypothesis coming
either. But on a hunch, he began searching the Net for information
about Herschel’s other identity. A moment later, he found it.
“Isn’t it true that Browning Watts was excommunicated from his
church, accused of being gay? Isn’t it true you once were arrested
for creating a disturbance at a gay bar in Chicago?”

Herschel was stunned, but quickly regrouped.
“I’m
not
a homosexual! Homosexuals are an abomination to
God, an evil perversion of His perfect creation.”

Campbell felt triumphant. Her theory as to
Herschel’s sexual identity was finally confirmed. Still one piece
remained—what turned Herschel into a mass murderer—and Campbell
held that trump card.

In a calm voice that steadily rose with
determination, she said, “Herschel, there’s one more thing, isn’t
there? Something changed your mind about suicide. That something
led you to go back to Wakely’s and to kill her!”

Herschel suddenly raised his head, a defiant,
wild look in his eyes. “Stop or I’ll kill you now!”

* * * * *

“Brown, I’m so sorry!” Wakely reached across her
bed to stroke Herschel’s/ Browning’s shoulder.

He pulled angrily away.

She groped for an explanation to soothe him.
He’d been unable to climax, fumbled with her breasts, then lost his
erection. “Maybe it’s stress. You know it’s been a lot of
years.”

He closed his eyes, a pained expression etched
his face. “I have to go,” he finally said in a hoarse whisper. He
dressed quickly.

“Please stay.”

He was already at the front door, hand on the
handle. “No.”

She reached out and grasped his hand.

“Why?”

“You can’t possibly understand.”

“Brown, tell me—tell me please. We can work it
out.”

He pulled away from her hand. “It’s impossible.
It’s my…burden.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go…pray…in the Garden.”

She was desperate, sensing something was deeply
wrong with Brown, frustrated with his reluctance to talk. “Can I
call you?”

He took a deep breath. “It’s too late. This is
good-bye.”

And before she could respond, he slipped out the
door into the warm, humid evening.

For the next hour, Wakely was frantic.
Brown/Herschel didn’t respond to her calls. Then she recalled where
he said he was heading—the Garden of Gethsemane. “The place where
Jesus prayed to have God spare his life. Father Abraham, please
don’t let him do anything rash.”

Thirty minutes later she got off the city bus.
The entrance to the Garden was ten blocks away. She ran. The
streets were nearly empty. With two blocks to go, she had to stop,
gasping for air.

A rustle in a nearby alley caught her attention.
Grunts filled the air. Her curiosity grew.

In the shadows next to a closed, silent corner
market, she saw movement. Her heart raced.

She held her breath, unsure whether she was in
danger. She held her breath, peered into the darkness. Was it a
robbery? Was someone in trouble.

Then the clouds parted. The moon shone directly
on the scene. It was two men..wrestling? she thought. No, they were
having sex. They stopped, aware they were being watched. The one
with his back to her turned around.

Browning Watts/ Herschel Hatton looked directly
into the horrified face of Wakely Karris.

* * * * *

“Listen to me, Browning!” Campbell insisted.
“You’re not evil or defective because you’re attracted sexually to
men. That’s just part of your nature. Please believe me.”

In answer to Campbell’s plea, Herschel, with a
mighty heave, slid his body up against the pole until he was
standing. Then, with his hands still tied behind him, Herschel
grabbed the pole, lifted it out of the sand, and heaved it away
from the house. Without this underpinning, the leading edge of the
house toppled over. Thatcher dove out of the way of the falling
structure. The PPD flew out of his hand. Campbell scrambled to get
away, but she was enveloped underneath the fallen structure along
with her grandfather.

Herschel toppled upside down into the sand. The
corner of the house crashed downward just inches from his head. His
arms had completely slipped off the bottom end of the metal beam,
which lie exposed on top of the sand. Spitting sand out of his
mouth, he nimbly turned his body over. With supreme dexterity and
strength, he scooted his still-bound hands underneath his body
until they were in front of him. Savagely, he tore at the rope with
his mouth.

Thatcher got up and searched frantically for the
PPD in the sand.

Loose of his hand restraints, Herschel untied
his legs. He pulled himself up from the cold, wet sand and looked
up.

Thatcher stood three meters away, holding the
PPD. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an airplane flying low
overhead just past the edge of the water, and thought he saw
something or someone from the plane fall into the water. He aimed
it at Herschel’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

Herschel winced.

“Damn it,” cursed Thatcher.

Herschel opened his eyes.

“Why won’t this thing work!” Thatcher screamed.
He squeezed the trigger again and again at Herschel.

“God be praised,” said Herschel. In one leap, he
pounced on Thatcher. With his powerful hands he swatted the weapon
to the ground.

Herschel easily forced the reporter to the
ground. He glanced at the fallen house, hearing nothing. “They can
wait. It’s you I want.” Already, Herschel felt his erection grow.
He jerked Thatcher up and pulled his hair back. “Yes, it’s you, you
irritating boy, who I really want first.”

Pulling out a switchblade knife, he placed it
against Thatcher’s throat. “We’re going on a short, but permanent
trip, after I have a little fun.”

He forced Thatcher into the small rubber raft
that had brought Herschel to shore. He ordered Thatcher to row it
toward the sub.

“Where are we going?” he asked, knowing all too
well where.

“It’s been too long since I had a piece of ass,”
snarled Herschel.

Thatcher gulped.

Five minutes of rowing brought the raft adjacent
to the sub.

“Get in!” The sub’s entrance was on top of the
rectangular craft. “And don’t be thinking about jumping in the
water, or I’ll slice you up for the sharks!” he yelled, brandishing
the knife.

“Aren’t I a dead man anyway?” He hesitated,
until Herschel pushed the knife threateningly close to him.

* * * * * *

“Dugan, how’d you get hold of Sheridan?” asked a
shocked Nate.

“There is no time to explain. The satellite
audio connection may not last long. You told Es nineteen minutes
ago you would like to talk to Sheridan.”

“But I was just wishing in a manner of speaking
to-“

“Do you want to speak with Sheridan North or
not?”

Nate looked westward, visualizing the wake of
destruction from the tsunami that surely lay ahead. “Put the
bastard on!”

“How’d you get this link-up,” demanded a
surprised Sheridan a moment later. In the background Nate heard
Sheridan yell, “Someone get over here! I can’t shut this connection
off! Who is it? It’s Skip, Nate Kristopher. I don’t know how, but
it’s him!’

Nate smiled and grew bolder. “You got a few
minutes for your old buddy, Sheridan? Or are you gonna cut and
run?” said Nate sarcastically.

Es whispered, “Keep him on for as long as you
can.” She went back to working with Dugan to pinpoint Sheridan’s
exact location.

Sheridan took a big breath in and exhaled
forcefully. “So Skip, how’d I do? Our little wave roaring across
the big Pond might just bring us to the brink of the End-Date,
don’t ya think?”

Nate fought for control of his emotions. “Damn
you! We were already far closer by my latest calculations. How’d
you like history to remember you as the initiator of the tsunami
wave that ushered in the End-Date?”

“I would be honored,” gloated Sheridan, lowering
his voice in mock recognition. “I’m defending Mother Nature against
the stupid race of humans who don’t give a rat’s ass about the
environment. Speaking of perishing, check out the live video stream
from Channel Four out of Portugal.”

Dugan quickly found the channel and downloaded
it for Nate to watch.

A helicopter hovering overhead captured the
wild, angry water of the tsunami as it carried dozens of people
inland. A Portuguese reporter on board the craft frantically
described the scene unfolding below. The beach that moments before
had demarcated the line of sea and land was now engulfed in the
swirling tempest. The water teemed with debris, large and small.
Automobiles jostled in the chaotic maelstrom alongside splintered
wood and timbers which moments before had been intact dwellings.
Desperate cattle and goats struggled to stay afloat, intermingled
with the bodies of people and animals already drowned. Above the
roar of the water, anguished screams were heard.

It’s unbelievable,” moaned Nate, a horrified
look on his face. He knew a similar scene would soon occur across a
thousand other beaches that bordered the Atlantic Ocean. Even now,
millions were frantically seeking refuge inland in the North
American Union.