Mark of the Beast (30 page)

Disagreement, however, still festered over the connotation that HLA B66 was somehow related to the number 666 in the Book of Revelation.

While America, Canada, and Britain, though not totally dismissing the idea, jointly stated that further studies and observations were needed to establish that relationship, Italy, Singapore, and Brazil embraced the connection between HLA B66 and the number 666, based on the principles elucidated by Dickerson.

When the preliminary result of the HLA B66 study in Italy was leaked, the Italian parliament went into an emergency session to pass a bill calling for the construction of a massive prison in Milan to house the influx of the HLA B66-positive, a.k.a. 666, inmates.

In Singapore, an abandoned army barrack built in 1941 that could house up to 100,000 troops was immediately slated to be converted into a holding cell to house potential HLA B66-positive Singaporeans, so the government decreed.

A Brazilian government spokesperson had no comment when asked about the government reactions to the HLA B66 findings in Brazil.

A front-page newspaper article in the Rio de Janeiro
El Conquistador,
stated that the minister of the interior would have a private conversation with the president and hopefully a resolution would soon be passed.

Meanwhile, back in Rome, church leaders were just concluding their seven-day, closed-door, lip-sealed conference. Leaked information, however, was posted on the Internet, and that stated that the sessions were oftentimes contentious, and on one or two occasions, harsh words were exchanged.

At the conclusion of the meeting, however, an official joint communiqué made public through the wire services, televisions, and the World Wide Web, stated:

“Recent events concerning HLA B66 have achieved one objective, and that is the start of serious dialogue between governments and religions. It also facilitated the coming together of different religious groups, and the reaffirmation of the existence of a Supreme Being, whom we all worship.

“To that end, therefore, we have concluded that further HLA B66 testing proceed with due diligence, and with an unbiased scrutiny. Beliefs, faith, and sometimes miracles, not magic, are the cornerstone connecting all religions.

“Scientific testing to prove or disprove one's allegiance to the Supreme Being, if it will ever come to that, is currently not prima facie enough to qualify for sole association with God.”

The communiqué concluded that science cannot and should not replace faith. It then warned all nations to remain vigilant.

 

4

“T
HAT THING SURE LOOKS
just like my coat button,” Dickerson said, looking at the device that Pinkett had just shown her.

“It is made out of a button,” Pinkett said. “The good thing about it is that it can be made out of any size, shape, or color button.”

“Why a button?” Dickerson asked. “Why doesn't it look like a pen, an umbrella, or a purse, like you see in the movies?”

“We are not in the movies, and this is more serious than that. Besides, buttons are unique,” Pinkett said. “They have this spherical appearance, so they can emit huge spheres around you that are about five to six feet in diameter. It then bounces invisible beams off the boundaries of the spheres. The beams, when they shine on you and whoever is around you, are what we are picking up via satellite to make out exactly where you are, what you're wearing, whom you are talking to, and what both of you are saying.”

“You sound like a physics professor,” Dickerson said. “Where did you learn to be so smart?”

“Where? At the Central Intelligence Agency Academy in Langley, Virginia, that's where,” Pinkett said without hesitation.

“Do I have to wear the same button every day?” Dickerson asked, realizing that Pinkett was not in a jovial mood.

“No, I had them make twenty different versions to match twenty of your favorite dresses and suits.”

“How do you know my favorite clothes?”

“That's my job as a lead detective, to know these things,” Pinkett said.

“It will take several days to sew them all in,” Dickerson said.

“Not to worry,” Pinkett replied. “We have two guys with us here in San Diego, and it will only take them about two days to fit all your clothes.”

“How many of us are here?”

“What do you mean … us?”

“You keep using the word we … and us.”

“We have quite a few field agents here, because we think something is about to happen.”

“And if my suspicion is right, I just might be in the middle of it all.”

“Just might, not positively sure, but we are not taking any chances.”

“Pinky,” Dickerson asked, looking her directly in eye, “do you think this will work?”

“Doc, this is top of the line,” Pinkett said in desperation. “I am staking my reputation on this. I also know you are a praying Catholic. So, pray a little.”

“This is serious, isn't it?”

“Darn serious.”

“Does the governor know?”

“Oh yes, he personally approved this project, and he made it possible that I would be assigned to you.”

 

5

T
WO WEEKS WENT BY
and nothing happened. Dickerson started expressing doubts whether anything might come out of this whole preparation thing. Early Monday morning, the governor called to alert Dickerson that the United States government had filed an appeal with the Federal Court of Appeals in Sacramento, California.

“The trial is set for the following Thursday at nine a.m., and if need be, may be continued on Friday, but should last no later than three p.m.”

“I will make myself available,” Dickerson said.

“We would like to be very well prepared,” the governor said. “This time, there will be testimony from various church groups that have called and want to lend their support.”

“That's great.”

“Also Pellagrini and Pinkett have been subpoenaed to appear and be cross-examined.”

“Is that why she's in town?”

“One of the reasons; the other reason, I understood, you have been briefed on.”

“Yes, I have,” Dickerson said.

Next day, there was a news report, out of Fresno, California, that between a hundred and two hundred demonstrators had gathered in front of the Veteran's Administration Hospital on First Street to oppose mandatory testing. The demonstration so far had been orderly; but the mayor of Fresno marshaled the city's law enforcement agencies to be on high alert in case of any violent outbursts.

“What do you think of what's happening in Fresno?” Dr. Peter Millons asked as he entered Dickerson's office for their routine early-morning “cross-checking” meeting.

It was 9:45
A.M.
, and Dr. Millons was forty-five minutes late, and as usual, Dickerson waited for his recurrent lame excuse.

“I don't know; I haven't given it a second thought,” Dickerson said. “So, Pete, tell me, what's the excuse this time? You were supposed to be here at nine.”

“It's my wife,” Millons said, face downcast.

“What? Is she sick?” asked Dickerson, a little concerned.

After some hesitation, Millons, still looking downcast, in an almost apologetic voice said, “You know, and everyone on this campus knows, that she sleeps around.”

Dickerson had no immediate answer and was about to wing it.

“You don't have to answer, because I already know,” Millons said. “The worst thing is that she sleeps around a lot, not only with the residents but with any man she can charm.”

“What are you saying? She's some kind of a nymphomaniac?” Dickerson asked.

We all knew she was promiscuous, but this is ridiculous, thought Dickerson.

“In a sense, yes, but that's not the bad news.”

“What's the bad news?” Dickerson turned and, while bracing herself, look directly at Millons..

“I seriously believe that she had a hand in the string of killings off the San Diego River,” Millons, looking intensely serious, confided to Dickerson.

“How do you know that?” Dickerson asked.

“She admitted it when I confronted her. When I suggested going to the authorities, she said she'd deny everything and that there is no evidence.”

“Why didn't you report her to the police?”

“Because I believe she needs help, and I don't want the kind of help that will result in her being incarcerated.”

“What kind of help is that?”

Forehead wrinkled, Millons said, “I … I don't know.”

“Are you telling me this because you want her to be tested?” Dickerson asked.

“Yes!” Millons said without hesitation, and with a strange aura of excitement. “That way, we can ascertain for sure what type of help she needs.”

“Okay, if that's what you want, go ahead and bring her in,” Dickerson said with resignation.

“She won't come in,” Millons said.

“What do you mean, she won't come in?”

“She is in my van, right now, at the parking garage, refusing to come in.”

Dickerson thought for a second, and then offered, “Do you want me to go talk to her?”

“Would you?” Millons asked.

“Sure, Pete, I'll do that for you.”

 

6

“N
O, DON'T GO ALONE,”
muttered Sergeant Ortiz, while watching the satellite monitor in an unmarked police van parked on a stakeout at the corner of La Jolla Village Drive overlooking Highway 805.

“Don't worry,” said Detective Pinkett, the senior officer in the van, as she peered over the monitor. “He used to be her nemesis, but now they are the best of friends.”

With that, Sergeant Ortiz continued to monitor Millons and Dickerson as they journeyed through the building all the way to the garage. At the third floor of the garage building, about two car lengths removed from the parked van, Dr. Millons reached into his pocket, pulled out some nuts, and began chewing on them.

“What in the name of…,” Sergeant Ortiz shouted.

“Tell me something, Sergeant,” Pinkett said, dropping the
People
magazine she was reading.

“We have a kidnapping in progress,” shouted Ortiz over the police radio wave. “Dr. Dickerson has been forced into a black Mercedes SUV while performing a Heimlich maneuver on Dr. Millons.”

“Did you get the license plate?”

“No, I couldn't see one—” Ortiz started explaining.

“Okay, switch on the audio. Let's hear what's going on.”

*   *   *

There were two men in the front seat of the car—one driving, and the other on the passenger side. Dr. Dickerson was seated between a woman on her left and Dr. Millons on her right.

“Millons, what's the meaning of all this?” Dr. Dickerson asked, appearing calm, thoughtful, yet happy that she had agreed to wear the satellite button.

“You shouldn't have,” Millons said.

“Shouldn't have what?” Dickerson shrugged. “I didn't do anything to you.”

“No? You just don't know how much damage you've done.”

Sensing a deeper meaning than what Dr. Millons was expounding, Dickerson turned to the woman on her left side, and extended her right hand.

“Hi. I'm Dr. Dickerson, you must be Mrs.…”

“Keep your hands in front of you at all times where I can see them, please,” the man on the front passenger side said, as Dickerson attempted to extend a handshake to the woman whom she assumed was Mrs. Millons.

*   *   *

“I see a weapon,” Sergeant Ortiz said, squinting at the screen.

“What type?” Pinkett asked.

“It's a 44 Magnum Desert Eagle semiautomatic.”

“Is the safety on?”

“Still on,” Ortiz said.

*   *   *

Driving south on Highway 805, the black Mercedes van drove almost the entire length of the highway down to Highway 905. The van then exited left toward Brown Field Municipal Airport.

Just about a mile before the airport, the car turned south again toward the Mexican border on a dirt road that looked like it had been hardly traveled.

Finally, making another right off the dirt road about two blocks east, a garage door on a two-story house opened; the Mercedes drove in, and the garage door closed behind it.

With the Desert Eagle pointed at her back, Dickerson and the crew entered a dark room on the first floor. It was so dark that Dickerson could hardly see even her escorts. Suddenly a match was struck, and candlelight illuminated the room.

Sitting behind a dark oak table was a man in his early sixties, dressed in military attire, wearing dark-rimmed sunglasses.

That's odd. Why is this man wearing shades in a very dark room? Dickerson wondered.

There was an opened bottle of Courvoisier at the corner of the table and a half-filled glass of the alcohol in front of him. Sitting on a Lancashire chair, directly across the desk, Dickerson thought about Pinkett and the criminal element the nation had been after.

Is this him? Dickerson asked herself.

“My name is Mr. Abba Calabar, and these are my associates.”

Dickerson looked at Millons.

Pete … is an associate of these criminals? Dickerson pondered.

“I know what you're thinking,” Mr. Calabar said. “Yes, Dr. Millons and his lovely wife have been with us for over ten years now, and yes, they are the disciples of the San Diego River.”

“What disciples?” Dr. Dickerson asked. “Is that what you guys call yourselves? I call them murderers.”

“What are you trying to prove with this HLA B66 nonsense?” asked Mr. Calabar.

Straightening her sitting position on the chair while looking around the dimmed room, Dickerson said, “Well, since you want to know, folks like you and Dr. Millons over there have the stamped image 666 in their body and are, therefore, as you call it, disciples of the devil.”