The Prophet (25 page)

Sitting in the basement of his antiques shop, the Prophet prepared to confer with his master about the complications arising from Schofield’s defiance. He placed three pieces of blotter paper treated with lysergic acid diethylamide—or LSD—into his mouth. Most hits of acid obtained on the street contained a mere one hundred micrograms or less per hit, but in order to break down the walls of this reality and contact the other side, the Prophet employed a dose containing four milligrams. He had no fear of overdose, since no documented human deaths had ever been caused directly from the use of LSD. The only downside of the drug for him was that regular use caused a rapid tolerance build-up due to the down-regulation of 5-HT2A receptors in the brain. Luckily, his tolerance would diminish after several days without use, so there was little fear of his lines of communication with the Father ever being severed.

The drug could be absorbed either sublingually by holding it in the mouth or in the stomach if it was swallowed. But sublingual absorption led to a faster onset of the drug’s effects. The Prophet needed answers now, so he held the pieces of blotter paper in his mouth for several moments, chewing them and rubbing them on his tongue, before swallowing.

He stood up from the old wooden table and walked across the cold concrete floor to the sturdy cage that held the girl. He was naked and each step sent lovely tendrils of sensation up through his body. Schofield had said the girl’s name was Melissa Lighthaus, but the Prophet didn’t care about her name. She was just another dumb animal, a piece of livestock, to be used and thrown away. She was merely another one of the slaves that would soon die in
The Great Fire
.

He had soundproofed the block walls of the old basement in order to contain the screams of the women it held. This was especially necessary since the old basement actually extended farther out than the building’s upper floors. The sidewalk was directly above the cage. The thought of the other slaves passing over her without any knowledge excited the Prophet. He had shared this information with her to add to her despair. So many people, so close. Yet no one could help her.

The effects of his medicine were taking hold, and
the sight
would be upon him soon. Reality was already changing around him, breaking down. What none of the slaves realized was that hell wasn’t in another place. It was all around them at all times. But on the darkest night, when the ritual was complete, the barriers placed around this world that kept the Father out would be no more. It would be such a glorious day when the walls crumbled. When hell and Earth would finally become one. Mankind was approaching the next momentous and inevitable step in its evolution. Soon,
The Work
would be complete, and he would step out from among the slaves and sit at the right hand of the true god.

But until that day came, he enjoyed being underground. It made him feel more connected to the Father by being separate from the world of the slaves.

The girl cowered in the corner of the cage. Her skin seemed to glow. Her eyes were bright purple orbs shining out from inside her skull. Her stink permeated the air from the bucket he had placed in one corner of the cage for her to use as a bathroom. But soon the smell would no longer be a bother. He could taste the metallic tinge of the medicine on his tongue as the other side began to bleed through. The padded walls were breathing around him. Eyes watched him from the dark corners of the basement. The shadows were alive, pregnant with the dark ones. The concrete had melted and now it rippled beneath him. His feet were sticking to it and sinking into it, and it took great power to pull them free and move across the room.

The basement was a large open space supported by concrete pillars. In its center, there was a large black pentagram painted onto the floor. Tall mirrors lined up with each of the symbol’s five points. A black metal stool rested within the pentagram’s center. The Prophet entered the sacred circle, sat on the stool, and waited.

The shadows along the outer perimeter of the circle changed forms. Oily black figures swirled all around him now, the dark ones. His thoughts curved in on themselves as he broke through to the other side of reality. Strange shapes crawled across the concrete. His reflection in the mirrors disappeared, and a smoky darkness swam on the other side of the glass.

“Father, Schofield has betrayed us. He has rejected
The Work
and rebelled against us both. I need guidance. The darkest night is so close.”

He closed his eyes and waited for the Father to show him the way. Strange colored patterns swirled behind his eyelids like a vivid kaleidoscope that transcended time and space.

Then a face emerged from the ocean of colors.

The Prophet opened his eyes and spoke into the darkness. “The boy is of the bloodline, and we’ve been preparing for this day. Still, I don’t know if he’s ready. But it’s not my place to question your will, Father. The boy
will
be the new Chosen. The true Antichrist.”

Vasques walked through Liz Hamilton’s home as if in a daze. The whole place smelled of bleach and showed obvious signs of a struggle. Crime-scene techs were pouring in and unpacking their equipment. The scene was still fresh.

Less than an hour before her arrival, a neighbor had reported some strange noises coming from Ms. Hamilton’s home. Two officers had been dispatched and had found the body. After that, there had been little point in watching the other woman’s house, but they still left a few officers and the four members of SWAT, just in case. Belacourt stood near the body, conferring with Stupak and another of the detectives from the Major Crimes Task Force. Belacourt’s clothes were wrinkled and worn, while Stupak looked like an investment banker with his expensive suit, perfectly shaved black head, and sculpted goatee.

As she took in the scene, Vasques couldn’t comprehend that this could have been the same man. The carnage and violence were completely out of character for the Anarchist.

Belacourt walked over and said, “What do you think?”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I agree,” Belacourt said, stroking his mustache. “This has to be the work of a copycat.”

“Have you checked the attic for cameras?”

“Not yet, but we will.”

“You should get a handwriting guy to analyze the writing on the wall and the victim’s forehead. If we find the same cameras and the handwriting matches, then we’ll know for sure that this was him.”

“I just don’t understand this one,” Belacourt said. “For God’s sake, he cut her fingers off with a pair of hedge clippers. If this was the Anarchist, then he’s getting sloppy. Losing his damn mind. But that will make him easier to catch.”

Vasques bent over the body and looked into Liz Hamilton’s eyes. “It may, but it could also make things infinitely worse. If this was him, then he’s definitely escalating, becoming even more dangerous. I’ve got a bad feeling that there’s going to be a lot more blood shed before this is over.”

Marcus leaned back against the headrest of the Crown Vic and growled to himself. He looked toward the front of Liz Hamilton’s house. It was old and small, but well kept. Apartments that looked government-subsidized lined the opposite side of the street. Officers had set up a perimeter, but the apartments had emptied as the neighbors fought for a good view. It was like some kind of macabre block party. They could probably see as much as he could, which wasn’t much. There was a fresh crime scene and a dead woman in that house, and his own stupidity had made it so that he couldn’t visit it. He wasn’t sure how Belacourt would react at seeing that he was still in town, and he didn’t need the extra complications. He couldn’t afford another wasted night in jail. As much as he hated to, he would have to trust Vasques’s assessment of the scene.

He was tired and felt useless, but there was more than just the case weighing on his mind. Ackerman’s words from earlier that morning kept repeating in his head. Could the killer have been telling the truth? Was there a reason why Ackerman had been chosen for his recruitment? It wouldn’t be the first time that the Director had lied to him or deliberately withheld things from him.

Grabbing for his phone, Marcus dialed Emily Morgan. It took six rings for her to answer, and when she did, she sounded groggy. “Hello?” The word was punctuated with a yawn.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t be, it’s what I’m here for. What’s going on?”

“Do you know anything that you haven’t told me?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Have you ever seen my file?”

She was silent for a moment but then said, “I don’t have access. Only the Director is allowed to view personnel files. I’ve requested to see them, but he won’t allow it.”

Ackerman’s words came back to him again.
I’ve never lied to you, Marcus. Unlike everyone else in your life.

“How are you supposed to treat us from a psychiatric standpoint if you’re kept in the dark about our pasts?”

“I’ve asked the same thing, but the Director feels that I should only know what you want me to know.”

“What about the things that we don’t even know ourselves?” he said.

“Like what?”

“Ackerman told me that he and I were connected and that there’s a reason why he was chosen for my recruitment. Something that the Director’s keeping from me.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“In the sessions where you were helping me remember the night my parents died, I kept hearing that voice in the darkness that comforted me while they were screaming downstairs.”

Emily yawned again over the phone, and Marcus remembered that it was actually an hour later in DC. “We had talked about that. Many researchers refer to it as the Angel Effect and believe that when people have a traumatic or near-death ex-perience, their subconscious minds manifest a comforting voice or figure to help their brains deal with the situation.” She hesitated for a moment. “Then again, I do believe in God and angels. So it wouldn’t surprise me if you did have a guardian angel watching over you that night.”

“Yeah, maybe I did.”

Emily started to say something more, but Marcus’s phone showed another call coming through. It was Maggie. “Emily, I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He clicked over to Maggie and said, “What’s happening?”

A hint of fear permeated Maggie’s voice, evident in the tremor of her speech and the shallowness of her breathing. “I just got a call from Ackerman.”

Marcus jerked up in his seat. The killer had never involved another member of the team in such a way. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. He wanted me to give you a message immediately. He said that he has important information for you about the case and that I should tell you to answer your damn phone.”

As if on cue, the unknown number appeared on the screen.
Speak of the devil.
“He’s calling now.”

“Call me back.”

This time, Marcus accepted the call and said, “I don’t need your help.”

Ackerman laughed. “That’s highly debatable. Does this mean that you don’t want to hear what I learned from your friend Crowley?”

Marcus’s fingers clenched around the phone, and his teeth ground against each other. He didn’t want Ackerman’s help, but innocent people’s lives were on the line. He wondered if, by accepting the information, he was condoning the methods used to obtain it.

“Are you still there, Marcus?”

“What did you do with Crowley?”

“I wouldn’t worry about him. Did you know he was a pedophile?”

Marcus noted Ackerman’s use of the past tense. “Is he dead?”

“If I were you, I would worry more about the Anarchist and saving those poor, innocent women. Leave Crowley to rot.”

Marcus closed his eyes and thought of the monster he could feel himself becoming. There had been a time when he would have taken the moral high road, a time when there were values that he held above all else. The world had once seemed so black and white, good and evil. But now everything was cold and gray. The lines between right and wrong had blurred to the point that he no longer understood on which side he stood.

“Tell me what you’ve learned.”

Schofield pulled over along the road on an overpass crossing above I-80. His tires bumped over the rumble strips until the vehicle came to rest. The coppery taste of blood was still fresh in his mouth. It collided in his mind with the scent of the Fraser Fir in Liz Hamilton’s living room and combined into some strange metallic amalgam that made him feel queasy. He looked over at the plastic bag sitting on the passenger seat, and the nauseous swirl in the pit of his stomach could no longer be contained. He threw open the door and vomited alongside the roadway.

He looked over the edge at the cars zooming past on the interstate and considered jumping. Even if the fall didn’t kill him, surely an unsuspecting motorist would. In that moment, he knew that the life he had wanted could never be his. The analysis and calculation of variables had always come easy to him. He supposed that he should have predicted this inevitable outcome, but he had never wanted to believe that it would all crumble down. He just wanted to be a whole person for his family, but now his actions had placed them in grave danger. He needed to be strong for them.

Making his decision, one that would change everything forever, he dialed his wife’s number. She answered after several rings. “Hello?”

“Eleanor, listen to me very carefully.”

“Harrison?”

“Yes, honey. I need you to trust me right now and not question me. Just do exactly as I say.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared. Get the kids and get out of the house right now. Just throw on some clothes and go. Go to a motel.”

“What? Where?”

“There’s a place called the Belmont Motel in Brookfield. Check in under the name Patricia Raymond, and pay cash. Leave your cell phones at the house. I’ll call you tomorrow at the motel.”

“Tell me what’s going on.” The fear and doubt in her voice broke his heart.

“There’s no time. Just do exactly as I said. I’m going to get enough money for us to get away from the city.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“You have to trust me. We’re all in very serious danger.”

“Okay.”

“I love you all so much . . . and I’m sorry.” He hung up without waiting for her reply, for fear that she would not reciprocate his feelings.

His gaze traveled back to the plastic bag on the passenger seat. He needed to find a place to dispose of the fingers.