The Prophet (37 page)

While sitting outside and contemplating how best to secure his target, Francis Ackerman Jr. had heard the familiar sound of gunshots coming from inside the blue house. He had quickly made his way through the yard and peered in through one of the windows in time to see Maggie rushing toward the back door with the bandaged man in pursuit. He wasn’t sure who this fellow thought he was, but nobody messed with Ackerman’s friends.

“I would suggest that neither of you move,” he said, staring down the sights of his Taurus Judge. “It’s good to see you again, Maggie, but I don’t believe that I’ve had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your friend.”

She stared up at him with fire in her eyes and said nothing.

“What’s your name?” he said to the bandaged man. “Your real name.”

The man got to his feet. His eyes were intense and bright behind the bandages. Ackerman recognized the look. It was one of utter insanity. The bandaged man’s cracked and burned lips curled up in a snarl of contempt.

“Listen, friend,” Ackerman said. “I don’t really care who you are. To me, you’re just another cockroach.”

“You shut your damn mouth. You have no idea the power that I hold.” The man’s voice was harsh and strained but hypnotic and soothing nonetheless. It was a deep Southern baritone that rolled from his mouth like honey.

Ackerman noticed Maggie’s head whip round toward the bandaged man in shock. “You’re not Irish,” she said absently, almost to herself. “Oh my God, you’re the Prophet. You were faking. That’s why Schofield was trying to kill you. He was just protecting his family.”

“Schofield has lost his way. But that’s none of your concern, slave. You’ll burn tonight with all the rest in
The Great Fire
.”

Ackerman said, “Excuse me. This is all very fascinating. But I’m still here, and I still don’t care who you are or what you want.” Ackerman tossed a syringe of clear liquid in the ban-daged man’s direction. It rolled to a stop near his feet on the yellow linoleum. “You have a choice. You can either inject that into Maggie, or I can shoot you and do it myself. Though I would prefer that you do it. She’d fight me and cost me extra time.”

“Who are you?” the bandaged man said.

“Does it matter? I’m not sure how it works around here, but normally when someone fires a gun in a populated area, the neighbors call the police. I’m sure they’re on the way as we speak. So although I would genuinely like to hear about this
Great Fire
that you referred to, I simply don’t have the time. So inject that into Maggie, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

“What about me?”

“If you inject her with that, then I’m perfectly happy to let you go about your business.”

The bandaged man picked up the syringe and gave Ackerman a cracked and bloody smile.

The distance between the fountain and the line of benches was the longest hundred feet of Marcus’s life. After throwing the grenade, he took off in a sprint toward cover. But with every shot that Stupak fired, Marcus wondered whether the next one would come from the sniper and would tear through his body and shred his internal organs.

Four seconds passed, and the grenade exploded just after Marcus reached the benches and shrubbery. He didn’t look, but he felt the jolting wave of pressure shoot through his body. His ears rang from the gunfire as the wind and snow pelted his face.

He wasted no time in heading across the walkway to the relative protection of the trees. Then he weaved in and out among the bare elms until he reached the back of the Fountain Cafe. He hugged the wall of the green and gold structure and edged around to the other side. Stupak was still laying down covering fire at the cafe’s south end and, with any luck, the sniper might not even have seen Marcus’s dash from the fountain.

The north side of the cafe, where Marcus now stood, had one window near the building’s front edge. He peered inside. There was a deli counter and chairs, but there was also a man directly opposite him at another window.

Schofield was nowhere in sight, and that worried him. Last he had seen, the killer had been limping off in this direction. Schofield could have been inside the building, guarding the entrance. Or he could have kept on going right past the cafe while Marcus was sprinting to the trees. There was no way to know for sure. But, in either case, he didn’t have time to stand around.

The sniper’s back was to him as the older man leaned over the cafe’s sink with the rifle at his shoulder. Marcus took aim and opened fire through the glass.

Several .45 caliber bullets tore into Raymond’s legs, and the man dropped to the ground, screaming in pain. His rifle clattered to the floor, and he made no attempt to reach for it.

Marcus wasted no time. He raced inside the building and secured the older man. “Don’t move,” he said. Raymond didn’t seem to hear him. The floor was slick with blood, and Marcus could see that his shots had struck Raymond’s femurs. He would pose little threat. Still, Marcus pulled out a pair of plastic cuffs, secured the older man’s hands, emptied the rifle, and tossed it into the corner.

Then he yelled out the open window. “Stupak! You’re clear. Get up here.”

He watched Stupak climb over the fountain’s lip and move toward the cafe. Schofield’s grandfather rolled around on the tile floor and banged his head against the ground from the pain. The bullet impacts had probably broken both his legs and the projectiles’ collision with the bones would have fragmented the rounds, causing more tissue damage. They needed to get him to a hospital, or he could easily die from blood loss.

“Where’s your grandson?” Marcus said.

“Go to hell,” Raymond said in a harsh whisper.

Marcus clenched his jaw and swore. He hadn’t gone through all this just to let the Anarchist escape. Maybe Andrew had been right? Maybe they should have taken Schofield at the hotel?

Then Marcus thought of the way Schofield had been limping, and he bolted toward the door. Stupak was just approaching as Marcus burst outside and started to scan the ground. He could hear police sirens growing closer. The noise echoed through the park in a Doppler effect and made it impossible to determine from which direction the cops were approaching or how far away they were. The grenade blasts must have finally drawn some attention.

“What’s going on?” Stupak said.

“The grandfather’s in there. He’s down. He needs an ambulance.”

“What about Schofield?”

“He couldn’t have gone far.”

“He got away?”

“Just cover the grandfather and get him some help. I’ll find Schofield.”

And then Marcus found what he was searching for. The ground was a bright white, and the trail of crimson showed up like a neon sign. He followed the small drops of blood down a set of steps to a path that cut through the park. It led off to the east, toward Lake Michigan.

Marcus stared ahead as he ran down the path, trying to see through the snow flurries. Bare elms and cast-iron lamp-posts bordered the walkway. The sirens were growing closer.

He heard a frenzy of angry honking coming from the road ahead—and then he saw him. Schofield was two hundred feet ahead, hobbling through nine lanes of traffic on Lake Shore Drive. Cars were skidding to halts and sounding their horns.

Marcus weaved his way across the busy road, trying to avoid getting run down. A white Chevy S10 screeched to a stop just a few feet from him, and the wind from a passing semi took his breath away. But then he was across and scanning for his prey.

Schofield was only thirty feet away now, hobbling toward the waters of Lake Michigan. Marcus wondered where the man thought he was going. Did the killer still have another trick up his sleeve?

Pounding through the snow with his Sig Sauer aimed at the killer’s back, Marcus closed the distance between them and said, “That’s far enough!”

Schofield stopped, and his shoulders took on a defeated hunch. But he didn’t turn around. Marcus could see his body shaking as his lungs dragged in short ragged breaths.

“It’s over, Schofield. Put your hands up and turn around, slowly.”

Schofield complied, and when he turned, Marcus could see a large gash in his right thigh and holes in his coat where small pieces of shrapnel or chunks of concrete had struck him. All in all, it didn’t look like anything life-threatening.

“I won’t let you take me alive,” Schofield said. His voice was eerily calm, like a man who had accepted that he was about to die and the world couldn’t touch him. “I know what it’s like to have a parent locked away somewhere, and I won’t put my family through that. Right now, the best way I can protect them is by dying.”

“Where are the missing women?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me!”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s the Prophet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does he have the women?”

“Yes. He has a small antiques shop on the north side of town, but I doubt that he’s there. You need to understand. I’m not his partner or his accomplice. I’m his pet. He expects me to do as I’m told. He doesn’t share his plans with me. I wish I’d had the courage to kill him a long time ago.”

“It’s not too late. Help me find him, and I’ll make sure that he never harms another soul.”

Schofield laughed, but there was no humor in it, just regret. “I tried to kill him once already, but that woman stopped me. Hell, they would have killed him back at the compound when I was a child. The others were turning on him, but he was too smart for them. You have no idea what he’s capable of. He—”

“What woman are you talking about? The one who stopped you.”

“Yesterday I tried to burn him alive, just like he ordered me to do to all those women. Just like he did to my friends when I was a boy. But this blonde stopped me.”

The gun trembled in Marcus’s hands. He hadn’t understood why Schofield had attacked the old man, but now it all made sense. And Maggie’s kindness and sympathy for someone she had thought to be a victim had placed them all in danger. She had delivered the Prophet to his next sacrifices. A vision of Maggie burning alive filled his mind and made him feel suddenly nauseous.

Schofield must have sensed his unease. “What’s wrong?”

“Conlan is your neighbor?”

“Yes, he’s always stayed close to me. Like my own personal devil watching me from the shadows.”

Marcus kept his gun trained on Schofield but managed to pull out his cell phone. “I think Conlan might have your family.”

Schofield took a step forward. “What are you talking about?”

Marcus’s heart thundered with every ring of Maggie’s phone. She didn’t answer. It went straight to her voicemail, and he hung up after leaving a clipped message.

To Schofield, he said, “Your family is in terrible danger, and if you really love them, you’re going to help me put that bastard in the ground. Now, what was your escape plan?”

Marcus needed to avoid the police. He had just been engaged in a shoot-out at one of Chicago’s most famous landmarks. His credentials would clear him, but they’d want to file reports and take statements, and he didn’t have time for that. He considered explaining the situation to the officer in charge, but there were no guarantees there. If he got a good cop who grasped the severity of the situation, they might let him continue with his pursuit of the Prophet. But if he got a bureaucrat or a boy scout, they’d insist on following protocol to the letter. Plus, he needed Schofield, and the Chicago PD would never let him waltz off with one of the worst murderers in Chicagoland history.

So he had found himself moving along the banks of Lake Michigan in the middle of a blizzard. Schofield had parked his car in a secluded lot beneath Route 41. That was where he had been headed when Marcus had caught up to him, and for the first time, Marcus was glad that Schofield liked to plan ahead.

The wind off the water was even colder and harsher than what he had experienced in the park, and it drove the snow into Marcus’s face and blew hard into his ears, making them ache. His clothes and shoes were soaked, and his feet were numb and stinging with tiny needles of pain. The exhaust fumes from the cars on Lake Shore Drive mixed with the clean scent of cold air carried on the wind and formed a clashing natural and industrial combination of odors.

Even though Marcus wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hear over the wind, he tried to call Andrew but received no response.

After several minutes of slogging through the snow, they finally reached the parking lot beneath Route 41. It was a dark and menacing place that Marcus thought would be somewhere more suitable for a shanty town of cardboard boxes populated by homeless men and women. But instead, someone had decided to fill the space with parking spots for workers in the nearby skyscrapers. He didn’t see any security and imagined that it would be fertile ground for the area’s muggers.

He still didn’t trust Schofield, even though the lives of the man’s family were on the line, and so he had kept the killer in front of him and one hand on the gun in his jacket pocket. Schofield led the way to a beat-up older-model Volkswagen Jetta.

“You’re driving. I’ll ride in back,” Marcus said.

They climbed inside and Schofield said, “I’m not going any farther until you tell me what the hell is going on. Where is my family?”

“I don’t know. But let’s get something straight right now. You don’t have the right to ask questions or make demands. If you don’t do exactly as I say, I’ll snap your neck and leave your corpse out in the snow.”

Schofield’s eyes shot to the rear-view mirror. Marcus placed the freezing cold barrel of his Sig Sauer against the back of the killer’s neck and continued, “Make no mistake, you’re only alive right now because I’ve allowed it. Because I need your help to find the Prophet and those missing women. That doesn’t make us partners, friends, or accomplices. You lost your basic rights as a human being the second you chose to take the lives of innocent people. I know that you’ve been through hell and that not all of this is your fault. I don’t hate you for what you’ve done, but I am going to make sure that you pay for it. If you help me, you may get a chance to save your family and kill the Prophet. Cross me, and I won’t hesitate. Are we clear?”

Schofield said nothing.

In a swift and violent movement, Marcus slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of Schofield’s head. The killer’s left temple smacked against the driver-side window, and he gasped in pain.

“Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good. Now exit the lot and take 55 south.”

Schofield pulled the Jetta out from beneath the overpass and headed toward the exit to I-55. They would be passing right past Buckingham Fountain, but Marcus didn’t expect them to have set up any kind of roadblocks, at least not yet.

As they passed the fountain, Marcus looked out his window and saw that it was buzzing with activity. The Chicago PD cruisers and an ambulance were parked along the opposite side of the park, coming from the city. As if on cue, his phone rang. It was Stupak, but he didn’t accept the call. He wasn’t in the mood for explanations.

They pulled onto the interstate, and Marcus tried Maggie again. There was still no answer, so he dialed Andrew. This time, he received a response. “Hello?” The voice on the other end sounded as though it was straining for air, like someone suffering from emphysema.

“Andrew?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“What happened to you? Is Maggie with you?”

“I took three in the vest. Came away with two broken ribs and some nasty bruises. It also knocked me back, and I hit my head. When I woke up, the cops were here, but everyone else was gone. It was Schofield’s neighbor, the Irish guy. He must have taken them. I don’t know what happened. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“The neighbor is really Anthony Conlan. The accent and innocent-bystander routine was all for show. That’s why Schofield tried to take him out.”

“And we led him right to the family. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. I should have figured it out. Where are you now?”

“They took me to the hospital.”

“Okay, just stay there. I’m going to try and figure out where they’re headed. I’ll call you when I know more.”

Marcus clicked off and said to Schofield, “Take me to Conlan’s antiques shop.”