Myth Man (24 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY

T
HE ALARM CLOCK, WHICH played church hymns, woke Reverend Noel Perkins. “Lights,” he commanded. Then there was light. “Dimmer,” he requested. The room softened. “Dimmer,” he said again, and the light was perfect for morning eyes.

Easter morning. The resurrection. He quietly sang:

That Easter day with joy was bright;
The sun shone out with fairer light,
When to their longing eyes restored,
The apostles saw their risen Lord!
Alleluia!

O Jesus, king of gentleness,
With constant love our hearts possess;
To you our lips will ever raise
The tribute of our grateful praise.
Alleluia!

O Christ, you are the Lord of all
In this our Easter festival,
For you will be our strength and shield
From every weapon death can wield.
Alleluia!

All praise, O risen Lord, we give
To you, once dead but now alive!
To God the Father equal praise,
And God the Holy Ghost, we raise!
Alleluia!

He had a special sermon scheduled for the day. Attendance would be high, an opportunity to embrace the lost ones. Let them recall that today was not about Easter bunnies and candy goodies.

He sometimes cynically feared that his physical condition detracted from his message.
Yeah
,
leave it to the bitter quadriplegic to moan and groan about the excesses of today’s society
.

It had been ten years since God challenged his faith and took everything from him. He never knew what hit them. He’d left a White House dinner in the back of a limo with his wife and two sons. They were on their way back to their Georgetown hotel. Instead, he woke up in a hospital.

Strangely, when he gained consciousness, his body felt no pain. He figured it was the drugs. First the doctors told him the grave news about his family. They’d perished in the crash. Reverend Perkins wished whatever numbed his body could anesthetize his brain. He tried to lash out in anger, but he found he could not move.

The doctor told him that his spinal cord had been damaged above the thoracic vertebrae. All four limbs would forever be incapable of motion. Even his chest muscles were affected. Breathing was no longer an unconscious luxury.

Perkins battled grief and guilt.
Why had God done this to him
?
Had he erred in some fashion? Was this an obstacle? Should he expect any better fate than the Son of God?

During his stay at a rehab clinic, he found his voice again. That had always been his gift. It was his oratory skills that made him rector of Grace Church at the age of forty-one. God had not silenced him. He made it his mission to continue to speak out in his glorious name.

His church was now his family, his nurse the caretaker. The man, Viktor Markov, was a living saint. For the better part of ten years, his nurse dedicated his life to him. None of life’s needs were possible without him. He took the barbs, the setbacks, the frustrations, and the minimal progress like buttered Teflon; nothing stuck. The man had the patience of Job and the commitment of a disciple.

After nine years, at Reverend Perkins’s insistence, Victor Markov moved out from the rectory. The man deserved his own space. Maybe he’d find a woman, Perkins hoped. He felt responsible that the poor guy never had time to find himself a wife.

Perkins looked at the time. Any minute, and his lifeline would be here.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

M
YTH MAN DISPOSED OF Markov like yesterday’s trash, literally.

After gaining entry to his apartment, he subdued the man with a needle through the back of his scrawny neck. He then utilized a silencer to permanently hush the nervous nurse. He left him upside down in a garbage can with his feet propped against the wall.

There was a time when he would have considered hiding the body. Markov would be a suspect until found. Disposing of the body, however, could be an unnecessary complication. He also knew that Presto would not waste a second of his time on Markov. Plus, Myth Man wanted the instant fame, the name recognition. He’d go down in history with the best serial killers—not because of the total body count (his would be low next to the elite), but because he would never get caught.

His victims were not prostitutes or next-door-neighbor types but something far grander. Sure, a few regular folks, like Markov, the sushi chef, the bum at St. Patrick’s, and the bitch from the eyeglass store had to die. Only the homeless man brought an inkling of remorse, but Myth Man easily dismissed it. The vagabond had no real life. Wrong place, wrong time, he rationalized.

There was no need to take one of Markov’s suits; he’d already purchased a replica. He did take Markov’s workbag, eyeglasses, and wallet. In addition, he left a few things behind, including blood and hair samples from his captive at the safe house.

Myth Man got a cab to drop him off a few blocks from the safe house. When the cab turned the corner and was out of sight, he broke into a fast jog.

Forty minutes later, the garage door opened, and the van emerged. It was 4:20 am. He had a half hour to get there, which should be enough time. He regulated his breath. It was hard to temper the excitement.

Myth Man had always detested Reverend Perkins. The blowhard had already been too influential, but after his, dare say, tragedy, the man became an icon. The guy was a fool. How could he reconcile the loss of his family and the use of his limbs? Perkins was so inebriated with Jesus Juice that the man’s faith was now incredulously stronger.
Hello
?

The Reverend thought he was spared to deliver God’s message. Divine fate.

Hogwash. By pure luck, he survived the limo wreck. This Easter morning there would be no divine intervention. No resurrection. No different than the pigeons that shit all over the church. You’re born, and you die, just like all earth’s creatures. There was no God that favored our lot.

Myth Man was fortunate to find a parking space a few blocks from the cathedral. He felt no urge to look at the mirror one last time. He knew it was perfect. He was Markov.

Two uniformed cops stood outside the rectory door. They were in heated discussion over a three-game slide by the Yankees. The season was two weeks old, but one adamantly called for the dismissal of the manager.

Myth Man approached. “Good morning,” he said in a manner that suggested the unfortunate hour they were all up. “If you ask me, I say fire his ass.”

This got cheers from one officer and a frown from the other, who then said, “You guys have no patience.”

Myth Man waited for them to open the door, but they hesitated.

“I don’t want to be late. He’ll get snippy with me.” He gave them a knowing look.

“Sorry to trouble you, but you know the situation, with this being Easter especially,” the formerly crestfallen cop informed. “We know who you are, but we have to see ID and the bag.”

Myth Man pulled out a wallet and handed it over to one cop. He opened the bag for the other.

“What’s that?” asked the cop who inspected the bag.

Myth Man looked innocently down. “What, the power tool?”

The cop looked at him. “Yeah.”

Myth Man smiled sympathetically. “The Reverend’s wheel chair. It’s been acting up. I’m going to play with it. Hopefully I can fix it.” He held a harmless expression and rubbed at his ears. That story was farfetched, but he counted on their ignorance. It would be a shame if they were smart. Then they’d needlessly die.

“Hmm,” the cop said.

The cop with the wallet announced, “It’s okay. It’s him.”

The other cop seemed mollified. “I know. I just want to make sure. Can you imagine the shit we’d get if the Rev gets whacked?” He looked to Myth Man. “This killer likes to dress up and impersonate people. Sneaky fuck,” he muttered. He grabbed a receiver off his belt. “Nurse is here.”

The door opened.

Myth Man hopped in, like an Easter bunny.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

T
HE INTERCOM TOLD PERKINS that Victor Markov had arrived. He called for the lights to increase their illumination. “Let there be light.”

When his attendant came into view, he thought the light change affected his eyesight. He squinted at Markov, but something was not right. Gone was Markov’s customary cheerful whistle. When he entered the room, Markov turned his back and did not immediately greet him, let alone check the computer that monitored Perkins’s vitals. Odd.

“Is something wrong, Victor?” Reverend Perkins remembered the nurse had said something about a plan the prior evening. He hoped it was a date, but by the looks of it, perhaps it went poorly.

“No problems here, cripple,” answered a voice that sounded like Markov but wasn’t. The accent was right but not the tone. The words echoed with haughty disdain. The man turned toward the bed.

Perkins peered closer. The clothes, the bag, the hair, the glasses, were all vintage Markov, but this was not his nurse. This was the killer he’d been warned about. As the connection registered, the man stepped forward with a needle. Unable to resist, he tried to call out, but the man’s free hand covered his mouth. After a minute, the man stepped back. An impish grin split his face. “Normally, my victims are all freaked out when they try to move and can’t. But not the paralyzed preacher; you’re used to the feeling,” he said sardonically and winked. “Can’t talk though, huh? The Lord’s Larynx has been forever silenced,” he mocked.

The man sat on the edge of his bed. “Easter,” he spat sarcastically. Besides this whole Father, Son, Holy Ghost nonsense, the whole holiday is a farce. The very name Easter is derived from the pagan goddess Oestre. Then you stupid Christians couldn’t settle on a day to honor your Christ. To fool the pagan masses, the majority picked a day to align with the pagan spring festival.”

He paused to cast a hard look. “I’m the exterminator. My mission is to rid this planet of the disease known as religion.” He stopped to sing the opening lines from, John Lennon’s
Imagine
:

Imagine there’s no heaven,
It’s easy if you try,
No hell below us,
Above us only sky,
Imagine all the people
living for today.
Imagine there’s no countries,
It isn’t hard to do,
Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too.

The killer shrugged. “Sorry, not much of a singer. As you can guess, I never made the church choir.”

The killer came closer and patted Perkins’s body. “Your death shall not be in vain. Think of this as your glorious moment. Your epiphany.” He smirked. “May your crucifixion help end a religion that started with such a gory spectacle.”

Reverend Perkins tried to ignore the blasphemy. With a body 90 percent immune from sense, only words could inflict pain. He thought of his wife and children. Despite what this devil’s minion believed, he was certain he’d meet his family in a better place. He wondered what happened to Victor.

“Oh, by the way,” the killer said, interrupting and almost interpreting Perkins’s reverie. “Your nurse was gay. Funny I know that, and I met the man only a handful of times. You’ve spent a decade with him and never knew it. Why? Because your holier than thou bullshit has condemned and ostracized this man as a sinner. Unable to exercise his own free will, he was forced to manifest a separate, duplicitous life.” The killer snorted. “He’s dead. Now so shall you be.”

The killer got off the bed. He opened Markov’s bag and took out a nail gun, camera, and radio. He pressed play, and Wagner’s mythical opera
The Ring
filled the room. “Ah, there’s nothing like music to soothe a man at work.”

Helpless, Perkins sat there as the killer surveyed the room. “That’ll do,” he said. Then he sauntered over. “Surely you know that the wounds typically depicted on Christ’s hands are another embellishment.” He grabbed one of Perkins’s arms. He pointed. “The hands would not support the body’s weight. Have to use the wrists,” he said as his thumb caressed the planned penetration point.

He let Perkins’s arm fall. “Sorry, we don’t have a giant wooden cross for you, but that wall over there should do. Ready to meet your Faker?”

When he finished his work, Myth Man exited the rectory. One of the cops on patrol inquired, “Is there a problem?”

Myth Man cast a look of reassurance. “Not at all, buddy. I have to run back to my place for a moment. The Reverend wants to hang something that will always be remembered.”

Myth Man stopped to open his bag. He took out the recently used camera. “Oh, before I forget. Is it all right if I take a picture? The Reverend thanks you for volunteering your time to protect his church. We hatched an idea that we think will give you ample recognition.”

“Gee,” said one of the cops, who lifted his cap and brushed his hair back. “That’s mighty kind of him.”

The two officers stood erect on either side of the door. They squared their shoulders and puffed their chests.

Myth Man digitally captured their pose. “Thanks, gentlemen. You’ll see in a day or two; every top police official will know what fine work you two do.”

The two cops grinned.

Myth Man put the camera back in the bag and put the strap around his shoulder. “Be back soon.”

Of course, there would be no return. It was Easter. He had plans at his wife’s sister’s house.