The Prophet (23 page)

There was a knock on the door of Maggie’s hotel room. Vasques was glad. She had run out of things to say as the direction the conversation was taking had become more and more awkward.

“I’ll get it,” she said.

Andrew stood on the other side of the door. He looked deflated somehow, and there was a sadness in his eyes that hadn’t been there earlier. “Umm, hello, Agent Vasques.”

“I was looking for Marcus.”

“He’s back in our room.”

“Okay, thanks.”

As she slipped past him into the hallway, Andrew said, “He really needs to get some rest while he can.”

“Absolutely, I just wanted to run something by him. I’ll be quick.”

Vasques didn’t give him a chance to object. She just swung the door shut and headed for the elevator. The hallway had textured walls the color of a Georgia peach, and the carpet’s red swirl pattern gave her vertigo. Or maybe it was just the situation she was rushing into. She felt sweaty and a little sick to her stomach.

While sitting on the edge of Maggie’s bed, she had come to a decision. In her professional life, being passive and overly cautious could get people hurt or killed. But so could jumping in head first with your eyes closed. Despite that, she had no problem reacting to life-and-death situations. Within a split second, her body and mind would spring into action. It was second nature.

So why did she find it so damn hard to make decisions concerning her personal life?

In the past, Vasques had never allowed herself to be spontaneous or adventurous when it came to emotion. But as she had sat there thinking of the enigmatic new man in her life, she’d decided that now was as good a time as any to start.

The alert message from the tiny motion detector that Marcus had placed by the door to his hotel room vibrated against his chest. The room was dark, and his face was buried in a pillow. Still, he wasn’t sleeping. He assumed that it was probably Andrew who had triggered the device, but he also wouldn’t let himself be killed by a lazy assumption. The gun beneath his pillow was a snub-nosed .357 Magnum Taurus revolver. It was compact and made from a lightweight polymer, but it also packed a punch and kicked like a mule. Most importantly, it required a heavy ten-pound double-action trigger pull, which meant that there was virtually no chance of it discharging accidentally. Marcus found that particular trait to be very important for a gun that rested next to his head every night.

Rolling from the bed with the .357 in his hand, he paused and listened. No one had entered or knocked. He cocked back the gun’s hammer, changing the ten-pound pull into a mere 2.5 pound squeeze. Someone from the hotel would have knocked already, and the list of people who knew which room he was actually staying in was short. Andrew, who wanted him to rest. Maggie, who either didn’t know they were back or knew from Andrew that he was trying to sleep. Allen, who was still in the hospital. Stan, who was back in DC. Or Vasques.

He dialed her number, and she answered on the second ring. “Are you outside my room?”

“How did you know that?”

“I didn’t hear you knock.”

“Because I hadn’t knocked yet. Come let me in. I’ve got something to show you.”

Marcus slipped the gun into the back of his pants and headed for the door. Checking through the peephole first, just in case, he let her in. “Has something happened? The camera thing pan out?”

“No, I just thought you might want some company.”

For the first time since he had met her, she seemed almost timid. It cast a softness on her features and an innocence in her eyes that only added to her beauty. He shut the door behind her, and before he realized what was happening, she had pushed him back against the wall and pressed her lips against his.

He didn’t fight it. The kiss was intense and full of a longing hunger. His arms slipped around her back, pulling her close. He could feel the firmness of her body as she rubbed against him. The exotic flower scent of her perfume was stronger than ever. He ran a hand through her long, dark hair, and she went for his belt.

“A bit fast, isn’t it?” he said breathlessly.

“I’m tired of being cautious. Tired of waiting. Just go with it.”

Vasques pushed him back onto the black leather couch and straddled him. The gun dug into his back, but he ignored it. She pulled off her shirt, revealing a lacy black bra. The sight of it surprised him; he had expected something more utilitarian from her.

Bending down, she kissed him again with even greater ferocity. Her long dark hair fell over his face and chest. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers through it. But in his mind, all he could see was Maggie’s face. He thought of her on the lunch date with Ellery Rowland, and jealousy overwhelmed him.

And then Vasques’s phone rang. She growled and looked at the screen. “It’s Belacourt. I have to take this.”

Marcus could only hear her side of the conversation, but it was enough to know that something had happened. She hung up and said, “A woman in Orland Park found cameras in her attic.”

“Call him back.”

“Why?”

“Don’t let him send anyone inside the house and make sure that she doesn’t mess around with those cameras.”

“She may have already.”

“Or she may have freaked out and called the cops first.”

“You think he’ll still show up there?”

“He may not have watched the news or seen her calling the cops. It’s worth a shot.”

Vasques hit redial as she dismounted Marcus and looked around for her shirt. He knew that he should have felt disappointed that the call had interrupted them. But instead he was strangely relieved.

Ackerman stood back and admired his handiwork. As a general rule of thumb, he preferred to keep his games simple, but as he stared at the device he had built he knew it would prove to be worth the extra effort. Everything was now in place, and it was time to begin the evening’s entertainment.

He waved the smelling salts beneath Crowley’s nose, and the man came slowly awake. “What? Where am I? What is this!”

Ackerman reveled in the fear on Crowley’s face. It had been too long since he had truly indulged himself, and Crowley was the perfect playmate. Marcus might even thank him for this one.

The man sat naked atop the device with his hands bound behind his back. Leather shackles adorned with hooks dangled from both his ankles. Ackerman had built the torture device from specifications used during the Spanish Inquisition. He had been unable to procure an original, but his version would work just as well. The apparatus consisted of a tall vertical board topped with a sharp V-shaped wedge. While Crowley had been unconscious Ackerman had carefully positioned him with his legs straddling the wedge.

Crowley’s eyes jerked from side to side, taking in his surroundings. Since the device required tall ceilings, Ackerman had originally planned to conduct the interrogation within an abandoned school building near the repurposed crack house he had been staying in. He had even driven to Crowley’s shop with the device loaded into the back of a stolen delivery truck with that purpose in mind. But after a quick search of the back room of Crowley’s store, his plans had quickly changed. It was so thoughtful of Mr. Crowley to have provided his very own soundproof torture chamber. The ceilings in the consumer end of Crowley’s shop were around twenty feet high. The ceilings within the torture chamber matched those of the bookstore, except that noise-absorbent foam blocks lined ceilings and walls alike. Cameras hung around the room at different angles. Some high, some low. There had also been a small bed, a child’s bed, that Ackerman had pushed into the corner.

“You’re a bad man, Mr. Crowley.”

“Screw you. Who do you think you are? Get me down from here!” Crowley was trying to keep up his bravado, but Ackerman could see it quickly crumbling.

“What could you have possibly used this room for? Did you bring little boys here, Mr. Crowley? You are a registered sex offender. I hear that’s how your tastes run. The charge for which you were sent to prison.”

The high-speed rhythm of Crowley’s breathing reminded Ackerman of a washing machine spinning on high. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not here to judge you. Personally, I think that anyone who molests a child should have their lungs cut out. But I live in a glass house, so I won’t be throwing stones at you for your sins. I’m not here to seek revenge or force atonement. I just need answers.”

“Fine. Get me down. I’ll tell you anything.”

“I’m sure a man like yourself, someone who dabbles in the darker side of life and is somewhat a student of history, would be familiar with the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Whatever, mate! Please, just let me down.”

“This device was used by the Church’s Inquisitors during that time period and also by the Spanish and British armies. My father made me read about several methods of torture when I was a boy, but this one in particular has always fascinated me. The Spaniards had such vivid and twisted imaginations. I’ve been dying to try it out. Bring back an oldie but a goodie, so to speak. It’s called the Spanish Donkey.”

Apparently deciding to change his tactics from pleading to ordering, Crowley screamed, “I said get me down, you freak!”

Ackerman’s father’s words filled the killer’s ears—
You’re a monster .
 
.
 
. We’re going to play a little game, Francis
—but he ignored both voices, the one from the present and the one from the past. “The Spanish Donkey is widely regarded as one of the most brutal and painful forms of torture that the wicked mind of man has ever devised. When it was employed, there were many instances of men and women being torn completely in half. Can you imagine how intense the agony must have been? Feeling yourself being slowly eviscerated, knowing that the more you fought, the deeper the wedge would penetrate. Even if the accused survived the interrogation, almost without fail they died from infection. Of course, back then, they performed these actions one right after another. Little concern was paid to cleaning the apparatus before each new rider.”

“You don’t have to do this. I get the point, mate. I’m sufficiently freaked. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Please shut up now. You’re spoiling the moment. Where was I? Oh yes, the way the Donkey works is that I’ll ask you questions, and if I don’t like the answers, I’ll add weight to your feet. The sharp edge of the Donkey will cut into you. And I’m afraid that, by the very nature of the device, the initial consequence will be a slow castration.”

“Please! Let me down!”

“What would be the fun in that? Consider it a science experiment. You’re a tough guy, Crowley. Let’s measure what it takes to transform a real tough guy into a little girl.”

Crowley screamed and tried to struggle off the wedge. The sharp edge dug into him as he fought. He threw all his weight to the side, apparently trying to tip himself over. But Ackerman’s hand shot out and wrapped around Crowley’s ankle, holding him in place.

“Afraid it’s not that easy. But that does remind me: this was usually at least a two-man operation, but I’ll be making do with one. So when I add weight to one side, I’ll have to move quickly to the other to distribute the weights equally. I’m worried that the extra fluctuations and discrepancies will speed the process, but I guess we’ll just see what happens. So let’s play.”

Ackerman had purchased two 255-pound sets of rubberized Olympic weights and several yards of black nylon rope. While Crowley had been unconscious, he had threaded the rope through the holes in the weights in order to connect them to the hooks dangling from Crowley’s ankles. The original Inquisitors had used cannonballs, but this would work just as well. He hoped that he had acquired enough weights. After all, he hadn’t the foggiest idea of how many pounds of pressure would be required to split a man in half.

Crowley continued to struggle but only succeeded in causing himself additional pain. Ackerman started off slow, adding only five pounds to each ankle. He continued until the wedge began to draw blood. Crowley howled in agony, but Ackerman knew that very little permanent damage had been done so far.

“What do you know about the Anarchist, Mr. Crowley?”

“Get me down!” Crowley said, sobbing.

“Out of curiosity, does a satanist such as yourself ask God for help in moments such as this or do you believe your dark prince will save you?”

“Please!”

Ackerman added more weight. “The Anarchist?”

When Crowley spoke, his frenzied words came in a breathless flurry. “I don’t know who he is, but he was a member of a cult founded by a guy who went by the name Prophet. Said the devil spoke to him. His name was Conlan. They had some hidden compound up in Wisconsin. Thought they were going to kick-start the apocalypse with a kid they claimed was the Antichrist.”

“What was the kid’s name?”

“I don’t know!”

“Where’s Conlan now?”

“I don’t know. He’s gone underground. When he had the compound, he was actively recruiting. But there was some incident there, and he dropped off the map.”

“Did he try to recruit you?”

“Yes! Please!”

“Where’s the compound?”

“I only went once. It was on some guy’s farm—up in Wisconsin, like I said. Jefferson County.”

“What was the guy’s name?”

“I don’t know!”

Ackerman added more weight, and Crowley shrieked as the wedge sliced into his body. Tears and sweat made his skin glisten, and the fluids rained down on Ackerman as Crowley writhed and whipped his head around in pain.

“Please,” Crowley cried. “I think it had Bowman or Beaman on the mailbox, something like that.”

The killer considered this. It was a good lead. Marcus could check the property records in Jefferson County. Maybe find the compound. Maybe find Conlan. It was enough to get Marcus moving in the right direction, and Ackerman didn’t want to do all the work for him.

“Very good, Mr. Crowley. I believe you.” He retrieved a small notepad with a blood-red cover from his back pocket. After flipping to the first page, he wrote something down and tore out the sheet. Scribbled on the next and tore it out as well. He placed the notebook back into his pocket and stuck out his hands like a magician preparing for a trick. Each hand contained one of the torn sheets of paper. “Since you’ve answered my questions, I’ll give you a fifty-fifty chance of escaping with your life. One of these papers contains the word
Life.
On the other, I’ve written
Death.
Pick one.”

Crowley sobbed and mumbled something unintelligible.

“It’s not complicated. Every day we make decisions that influence our life and the lives of others. People choose to have one more drink, stray across the center line, and collide with another vehicle. They choose to abuse their children, do drugs, go to prison for tax fraud. But even simple and seemingly insignificant choices can change everything. Think of a man who called in sick for work or missed his train on September 11, 2001. All I’m doing here is pulling back the curtain and showing you how fragile life truly is. Now choose.”

“No, I can’t!”

“That in itself is a choice, but you won’t like the outcome.”

Crowley continued to sob for a long moment, but then got himself under control just long enough to say, “Right.”

Ackerman opened his right fist and read what was on the small piece of paper. “Too bad. It’s not your lucky day, Crowley.”

“No! Please!”

“I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. Had many fascinating and beautiful experiences and also felt a thousand years’ worth of pain. But I’ve never seen a man torn in half. Since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll return the favor. There’s no need to second guess yourself or your choice. I cheated and wrote
Death
on both papers.”

Crowley screamed. And Ackerman added more weight.