The Prophet (18 page)

Maggie followed Halsted Street past a string of restaurants of various types and nationalities—Thai, Italian, Mexican, BBQ. It was a nice street. Dotted among the hole-in-the-wall restaurants and small locally owned businesses were several new apartment buildings and townhouses. The cars parked out front were new and fairly expensive, not top of the heap but far from bottom of the barrel.

Ahead, she saw a building of light-colored brick with a bright orange awning. Black letters stenciled over the orange read
Kingston Mines
, then in slightly smaller type
Live Blues Music 7 Nights A Week Till 4 AM
. She found a place to park a block up in front of a small corner grocer and followed the sound of blues guitars back to the bar. After paying the cover charge, she slipped inside. The room was larger than she had expected. The ceiling tiles were orange and white. College kids lined the bar along the right side and the tables in the center. There was a stage backed with slatted wood paneling and doors that seemed to lead nowhere. Instruments filled it, but no band. The music came from an adjoining room containing another stage.

She had been told that Ellery Rowland would meet her in the back of whichever room the music was in. She stepped around the corner into the second room. Three big black men and one short white woman with graying hair were on the stage. The white woman was on lead guitar and vocals. Maggie was no blues connoisseur, but she knew the woman could play, despite looking a bit out of place. The tables were long and narrow and reminded her of the ball returns in an old bowling alley. There had been one near Maggie’s home when she’d been a kid. It had been closed down for years, but she and her friends had broken in on more than one occasion.

She stepped up into another section filled with the narrow tables and shiny black and chrome stools. Murals depicting scenes reminiscent of old-time speakeasies covered the walls, and she couldn’t tell if they were painted on or some kind of wallpaper. There was only one person in the far back of the room. He sat next to three vintage arcade games—Pac-Man, Galaga, and an old Atari racing game. He was an unusually handsome man dressed in a light purple-and-white-striped shirt beneath a dark blue suit with subtle purple pinstripes. He had long brown hair and a prominent widow’s peak. He looked out of place among the college kids and their jeans and Abercrombie and Fitch.

“Are you Ellery Rowland?”

“The one and only,” he said, raising his voice over the music. He had a slight English accent. “You must be Special Agent Carlisle. The man on the phone should have just told me to look for the most beautiful woman in the place. I would’ve spotted you straight away.”

Maggie felt herself blushing but resisted the urge to giggle like some obnoxious schoolgirl.

He gestured for her to sit down. “Would you like something to eat? They have some great Cajun food. I especially recommend the jalapeño and cheddar cornbread.”

She had noticed the smell of grease, and although she was a bit hungry, she said, “No, thank you.”

As she removed her leather jacket and draped it over an empty stool, the waitress approached. “Drinks?”

“Ladies first,” Rowland said, gesturing with an upturned palm.

“Tanqueray and tonic.”

“Make that two. I didn’t think federal agents were supposed to drink on duty?”

“We’re not your typical federal agents. Besides, I’m always on duty.”

“This is a good place to let your hair down.”

“I can see that. It’s a nice place. And you’re not quite what I was expecting.”

He laughed and threw back his head. It was a good laugh, honest and full of charm. “You probably expected to meet me at some type of gothic rave pumping dark techno music. With me all decked out in make-up and piercings.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“I’m not surprised. There’s a lot of misconceptions and confusion about modern satanism.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Okay, first of all, there are several different types of modern satanic groups. The LaVeyan satanists and several other types that make up the majority actually don’t believe in the devil. There are no elements of what you would consider devil worship within the Church of Satan. Such practices are looked upon as being Christian heresies. They don’t accept the dualistic Christian world-view of God versus the devil, so they obviously aren’t choosing to side with any supernatural being. These satanists don’t believe in the supernatural at all, good or evil.”

“So why call themselves satanists at all? Wouldn’t they be atheists?”

“In a way, but they see themselves as their own god. Satan is just a symbol of man living as his prideful, carnal nature dictates.”

“Okay, but you said there are several types.”

“Right, there are also groups of theistic satanists that
do
believe in an actual supernatural entity. The different Luciferian groups are an example of this type. Many of them don’t even consider themselves satanists because they argue that Lucifer is a positive figure while Satan is a negative and evil figure. Some consider Lucifer to be the Christian fallen angel. Others believe him to be an elder god who pre-dates Christianity. They take a stance that Lucifer is depicted as a mythic figure or symbol who represents admirable qualities—knowledge, independence, pride, mastery of self. He’s seen as the lightbearer, the bringer of knowledge and truth. A being of both fire, representing light, and air, representing wisdom. He’s characterized by sunlight, wind, and fire.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks. Rowland gave the short-haired brunette a wink and said, “Thanks, love.” Then he continued on with the lecture. “So, Lucifer’s the lightbearer, but in acknowledgment of the dual nature of wisdom and knowledge, that it can be used for good or evil, Lucifer is also represented to a lesser degree by the more traditional qualities of darkness. But these qualities are viewed not only as admirable, but highly desirable. In many ways, these satanists want to become Lucifer. However, in no way does this entail performing obscure demonic rituals to empower oneself. It’s more of a conscious effort toward self-improvement through learning and effort.”

The constant barrage of fried-food smells was making Maggie feel even hungrier, and she noticed the patrons at a table near them carry out a large cookie sheet filled with potato skins, jalapeño poppers, and loaded cheese fries. In between songs, a raspy-voiced man she assumed to be the manager or owner introduced the band and talked up their latest CD.

She said, “You make all this sound very mainstream and New Agey. Like the devil is some kind of self-help guru.”

Rowland shrugged. “Take it like you want, but satanism is definitely becoming more mainstream and breaking into the light of day. In fact, satanism is now allowed in Britain’s Royal Navy, despite much opposition from Christians. And in 2005, the US Supreme Court debated about protecting the religious rights of prison inmates who are satanists.”

“Okay, to each his own, and you paint a nice rosy picture. But what about satanic rituals involving human sacrifice and worshiping the Christian idea of the devil as the ruler of hell?”

His mood darkened a bit, his tone growing more serious. “Most of what you’re talking about is kids being stupid. Just looking for an excuse to vandalize property and piss off their parents. But the real deal is out there. Just like Christians or Muslims, we have our zealots. There are extreme sects that would fall within the clichéd definition of what a satanist should be, but they’re denounced and rejected by true satanists.”

“Listen, I’m not here to argue about religion or attack your beliefs. I’m here to catch a killer. Do you have any information that can help me do that or not?”

Rowland downed the rest of his drink, caught the waitress’s eye, and tapped the top of his glass. “I’ve heard talk. There are some groups operating in the Chicago area, but I’m not familiar with any of them. But I know someone who probably is. If this Anarchist bloke has ever been part of a larger group, this guy would know something about it. He’d have heard something.”

“Where do I find him?”

“Before I tell you, I want you to promise not to go see him alone. In fact, it’s probably better if you send one of your male counterparts.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Slowly, he looked Maggie up and down. “I’m sure you can, but this guy hates women. I don’t know the full story, but he’s been to prison. He’s a scary kind of guy.” Rowland took a pen from his suit pocket and scrawled down a name and address on a napkin.

She picked it up and said, “Is this name for real?”

He shrugged. “That’s what he goes by. So, now that we’ve gotten all that out of the way, I’ve seen your mouth watering over there. Why don’t you let me buy you dinner? You won’t regret it.” There was a clear invitation in his eyes for more than dinner.

Maggie smiled shyly and said, “You never told me what kind of satanist
you
are.”

The corners of Rowland’s mouth curled up in a devilish grin. “I’m one of those who follows my carnal desires.”

“I think I found him,” Andrew said from the floor, a stack of files with brightly labeled tabs surrounding him. “And we’ve got an address.”

“Okay, just take the whole file. Let’s pay him a visit.”

After replacing the various folders exactly as they had found them, they moved back down the hall, but then Marcus stopped and listened. At first, he didn’t fully comprehend what had changed, just that something was wrong. He held his breath and took in the sounds of the building and the city beyond. A furnace running. Dog barking. Cars zooming past on the Dixie Highway. And an engine idling somewhere close by, just outside the building’s walls, the sound vibrating against its front glass.

“I don’t think I locked the front door behind us,” Marcus said. “If they’re following SOP and are by-the-book kind of guys, the guards will check every door to make sure that they’re locked properly.”

“Maybe we can lock it before they make it up there.”

In reply, Marcus pushed through the double doors into the waiting area of the therapist’s office.

A flashlight beam struck him in the face, blinding him. A guard called out, “Don’t move!”

But Marcus didn’t listen. He recovered from the momentary surprise and rushed forward.

The beam of the flashlight jumped and stuttered around the room as the guard went for the taser on his belt.

A kids’ sand table covered with little metal boats and cars rested between Marcus and the guard. Kids could use a magnet attached to the surface with a piece of red thread to push the miniature vehicles around. A nice little science lesson. As he swept across the room, Marcus grabbed one edge of the small table and turned it on end. Still with one hand, he flipped it spinning in the guard’s direction.

The man’s left arm shot up to shield himself from the blow. The guard was young and in good shape, not some fat and balding reject from the police academy.

By the time Marcus had hurdled a row of purple imitation-leather chairs and reached the guard, the man had a Taser X26 in his hand and was taking aim.

Marcus’s left forearm collided with the guard’s wrist as he ducked away. The taser discharged. Small barbed darts connected to a long coil of wires, designed to cause neuro-muscular in-capacitation, shot across the room.

He brought an elbow hurtling toward the guard’s left temple. The blow collided with the man’s skull, and Marcus drove the impact home, throwing his full weight and momentum into the strike.

It was a good solid blow, the kind that ended confrontations before they even began. The guard struck the dark brown Berber carpet just as his partner came through the doorway. The second man already had his taser drawn. But he was also close, less than five feet away.

Marcus continued forward but raised his hands and shouted, “Wait! Police!”

If it had been him, even years before he had joined the Shepherd Organization, he’d have shot first and asked questions later. Hell, he probably would have shot first if he’d been pointing a .44 Magnum, let alone a less-than-lethal alternative like the taser. The rent-a-cop, however, didn’t have those instincts. He hesitated for only a split second, but it was enough.

Marcus grabbed the man’s wrist and wrenched his arm back, twisting the taser from his grasp and aiming it at his chest. Shock contorted the man’s face, and he said, “Wait! No!”

Marcus, however, didn’t hesitate. Five seconds of pulsing current later, and the guard was incapacitated and writhing on the ground.

The street hadn’t been plowed yet, and Marcus could feel his tires slipping on the snow and ice. Luckily, the Yukon could tear through almost anything. The scene around him was the same as it would have been on any of a million other streets—new homes jammed together with small yards and little privacy, some houses indistinguishable from those next to them, probably mass-produced by the same company. Some of the drives had been cleared, maybe by some young entrepreneur, but most hadn’t. The sidewalks were invisible beneath their covering of snow. Large flakes floated lazily through the air. He had heard the weatherman predict over ten inches in the next three days. The trees that weren’t stripped bare were pregnant with snow, and the cars lining the road were tucked in beneath a blanket of white. The cold had pushed everyone indoors and into bed. Only a few lights burned in the houses and none of the cars had been cleaned or used recently. Marcus and Andrew’s destination was the third house on the left. A car sat in the driveway, covered with snow just like the rest. He couldn’t see if it was a Camry beneath the thick white shroud but it had the proper size and shape.

Marcus pulled past and around the block, took in the surrounding area. There was an alley in the back. The snow there was compacted much worse than it was in the street. No garage in the back for another getaway vehicle, just a small shed for tools and a lawnmower. Route 43 was a block away. He could see the lights and hear the traffic there over the silence of the immediate neighborhood.

His cell phone vibrated against the cup holder in the center console. The display burst to life, and the name
Victoria Vasques
showed on the screen. “Hey, sorry about earlier,” he said, after sliding his finger across the phone’s touchscreen to accept the call.

“Don’t worry about it. It worked out. I headed over to the Jackson’s Grove precinct. While I was there, a call came in about a shooting in an alleyway. It turned out to be the Anarchist. He’s taken another woman and killed some poor bastard walking his dog in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m heading over there now. I thought you might want to tag along.”

“Okay, text me the address. I’m in the middle of something right now, but I’ll try to come after.”

“Anything I should know about?”

“No, just DOJ stuff.”

“More highly classified, you-could-tell-me-but-you’d-have-to-kill-me kind of stuff?”

“Something like that.”

“Hmm . . .”

“Did he shoot the guy walking his dog?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“He’s collected his brass at every other scene where he’s used a gun, but maybe he forgot this time. It would be real hard to do in an alley like that, especially in the snow. See if you can find the shell casings. Most people don’t think to wear gloves when loading their gun.”

“I’m sure the crime scene guys are on it. They know their jobs,” Vasques said.

“I’ve been told I need to work on trusting people.”

“That’s good advice.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds. Keep me posted if you find anything.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll see you in a bit,” she said as they clicked off.

Marcus suspected that if they did find the casings it would turn out that the Anarchist was in the minority and had probably worn gloves when handling his ammo. But the killer had to make a mistake at some point. They always did. The Anarchist was human just like everyone else. The problem was that cops were just as human, and they had to catch the mistake when it occurred. He needed to be at that scene, but it would be pointless if they had just driven past the Anarchist’s home.

But the car bothered him. It had been covered with snow when they’d passed. He wondered how long ago the killing had occurred and how long it would take for snow to cover the car.

“How do you want to approach this guy?” Andrew said from the passenger seat.

“We’ll try to talk to him first. See how he reacts. See if he matches the profile. But I’m going to drop you off at the alley, just in case he tries to run out the back.”

“Great. I get to stand out in the snow and freezing cold in some nutball’s backyard.”

“We live a glamorous lifestyle,” Marcus said as he pulled the Yukon up next to the end of the alley.

Andrew jumped out, still mumbling something under his breath. Marcus smiled. He had never had a brother, and Andrew was as close as he would ever get. He drove the Yukon around the block and pulled in behind the snow-covered car in the man’s driveway.

As Marcus stepped out, the snow crunched beneath his feet and came over the top of his tennis shoes. He wished that he had invested in a good pair of boots, but it was too late now. His socks were already soaked from his last walk in the snow, and his feet were freezing.

He pressed the doorbell, but nothing happened. Knocking instead, he heard movement inside, and a light came on. He tried to glimpse the interior through the glass in the front door, but thick blue curtains covered all the doors and windows. After a moment, the door cracked open and a groggy man peeked out, wearing red flannel pants and a white T-shirt that was yellowed from age and sweat. His gaze was wary, darting around the small porch, and he left the chain lock in place. His hair was long and had an oily sheen. The stink of body odor crept out from behind the door.

“What do you want?”

“Rudy Kolenda?”

“Yeah, what’s this about?”

“Sorry for disturbing you at such a late hour, sir.” Marcus raised his ID. The man squinted at it, and Marcus pushed it closer. “I’m from the Department of Justice. I’m just here to ask you a couple of quick questions, and then I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

The man shook his head in confusion. When he spoke, his voice was thick, as though his tongue was too big for his mouth. “Questions about what?”

“About a string of abductions and murders that have been taking place in the Chicago area.”

The man was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Just a second.” He shut the door again.

Marcus stamped his feet against the cold and blew into his hands. He expected the man to be unlatching the chain or maybe slipping on a coat to step outside. A guy like this could have drugs sitting out on a coffee table and would never willingly usher an officer of the law into his home.

There was some rustling and shuffling on the other side of the door. Then there was a sound that Marcus recognized immediately. The sound of a shotgun being pumped back.

He dove away from the door just as it exploded outward. Fire and flame. The heat of the blast searing his skin. Pieces of wood and fiberglass filling the air. Ears ringing. Heart pounding. He landed in a rose bush and rolled away, the thorns clawing at his face and hands.

Purely on instinct, he pulled the Sig Sauer pistol from his shoulder rig.

Then the greasy-haired man in the yellowed T-shirt threw open the door and raised the shotgun to fire again.