The Prophet (24 page)

Sitting in Vasques’s gray Crown Victoria twenty-three miles southwest of downtown Chicago, Marcus drummed his fingers against the passenger-side dashboard and sipped a Starbucks coffee. A local classic-rock station was playing Led Zeppelin over the radio—Robert Plant singing
When the Levee Breaks
. The target’s house had mint-green siding and black shutters. It was perfectly average, not old not new, not poor but not rich. The street was quiet, and they hadn’t seen much traffic. It was the kind of street that Marcus and his friends would have used for stickball when he was a kid back in Brooklyn—suburban, calm, isolated. Small flurries of snow floated lightly through the air and landed on the windshield. The snow would restrict visibility and obstruct their surveillance of the target’s residence if it got any worse.

Fast-food boxes littered the passenger-side floor of the Crown Vic, and Marcus had to shove them back against the seat to make room for his feet. The scent of grease left behind in the empty containers merged with the smell of their coffees, overpowering Vasques’s exotic floral perfume. But Marcus could still taste her on his lips. The car was cold and dark. Both of their coats were pulled up around their necks, but they couldn’t risk showing any signs of life in the vehicle by turning on its lights or heating—the condensation on its windows would be a giveaway.

“Where’s Belacourt?” he said.

Vasques took a swig of her coffee and replied, “Watching the alley up on the next block.”

“Does he know I’m still here?”

“Nope.”

“What’s he going to do if he sees me?”

“Not sure. Smoke will probably come out of his ears. An aneurysm may be involved. But let me worry about that.”

The Led Zeppelin song faded out on the radio, and the DJ ran through a list of news items. He mentioned the predicted snowstorm scheduled to hit the area, and then started talking about the upcoming winter solstice. Marcus grabbed the dial and turned up the volume.

“. . . and due to the lunar eclipse, this year’s winter solstice will not only be the longest night, but also the darkest. And not just the darkest of this year, it’s predicted to be the longest, darkest night of the past five hundred years.”

Marcus said, “That’s it. Whatever the Anarchist is planning will happen that night.”

“You sure?”

“Darkest night in five hundred years. What better time to perform some kind of apocalyptic ritual?”

“But that’s two days away, and he’s only taken one victim that he hasn’t killed. His pattern was two killed in four days and then five abducted over the next five days.”

“Things change. Maybe he plans to escalate things. Or perhaps he’s already taken three that we don’t know about.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“I can feel it. That’s what he’s working toward, and two days from now he’ll have five sacrifices ready for his ritual. Unless we can stop him.”

Vasques’s police-band radio squawked to life, and Belacourt’s voice came over the airwaves. “We’ve got a dark blue mid-size approaching the house. It could be a Camry. Everyone hold positions until I give the go, but this could be our guy.”

While sitting outside the home of the next sacrifice, a woman named Liz Hamilton, Schofield used one of the neighbors’ un-secured wireless networks and accessed the camera feed inside the house. He watched as Liz slept peacefully, the covers rising and falling at slow, consistent intervals. Liz was an early to bed, early to rise kind of person.

Closing the laptop, he observed the falling snow and tried to work up the courage to do what had to be done. He had to know the Prophet’s plans for the final ritual, and he could no longer delay the inevitable. He dialed the number from memory, and after three rings, the Prophet’s slow and soothing Southern voice came over the phone.

“Do you have the girl, Harrison?”

Schofield’s voice failed him. His tongue felt fat and useless in his mouth.

“Harrison? Are you there, boy? Did you get my message from earlier?”

“I’m here, Prophet. And I did receive your message.”

“So you’ve stayed away?”

“Yes, sir. Just as you instructed . . . Sir, I . . . I was wondering about the final ritual.”

“Just do as you’re told. Don’t concern yourself beyond that. I’ve made all the arrangements.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I need to know who the final three sacrifices are. I need—”

“How dare you question me! I speak for the Father. By questioning me, you are questioning him. We each have our roles to play. You focus on preparing yourself for the ascension, and let me handle the details.”

Schofield bit down on his lip, and his whole body shook. He could almost feel the whip tearing into his back, ripping the flesh. The Prophet naked and screaming in some strange tongue. But he’d only been a boy then. A boy with a hollow soul. Now he was a man and had taken the strength of others.

He summoned all the strength and courage of his victims and said, “That’s not good enough. Tell me! Who do you plan to use as the sacrifices?”

The Prophet was quiet. His slow breathing and the hiss of static filled the line. “I think you already know.”

“They’re not part of this. I’ll never let you near them.”

“You’ll do as you’re told.”

“I won’t let you hurt my family!”

“Why do you think I sent you back to live with your grandfather and lead a normal life?” The Prophet laughed. “You’ve honestly never considered it until now, have you? I gave my permission for you to have a family. They’re mine. Your children only live because I allowed it. And why do you think that is?”

Schofield was quiet. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I allowed it because they provide what’s been missing from the other rituals. When you were a boy, we made sacrifices, but they didn’t really mean anything to you. It was the same last year. They weren’t your sacrifices. It wasn’t your choice. Your heart wasn’t ready. It wasn’t dark enough, hard enough. The last ritual was only to prepare for the darkest night. Everything we’ve worked for has been leading to this. The darkest night in five hundred years. Now you are ready. When you choose to sacrifice your own children to the Father, you will ascend to the throne. You will be the true Antichrist. This world will be no more, and a better one will be born from the ashes.”

The fear and doubt flooded over Schofield, but he wiped away his tears and said, “No. I won’t allow any harm to come to them. I’m tired of doing what you tell me to do. I’m not your puppet. I’m not that little boy anymore.”

“You’ll do as you’re told!”

Schofield hung up the phone. Anger, fear, and confusion swirled inside his mind. The maelstrom threatened to tear him apart from within. It felt as though the pillars holding up his fragile world were crumbling, and the sky was falling down upon him. He was losing control and had no idea how to stop the downward spiral.

He looked toward the home of Liz Hamilton. He needed her strength. His confidence and power had grown with every kill, and if he wanted to protect his family and stop the Prophet, he would need all the souls he could get.

It was time for another sacrifice.

The suspect was just sitting in his car. Marcus could tell that it was a man, but little else could be discerned through the increasing snowfall. It appeared that the man had a cell phone to his ear. “It’s not a Camry,” he said.

Vasques lowered her binoculars and said, “It could definitely pass for one in the dark.”

“Maybe.”

Marcus’s phone vibrated in his pocket. The display showed an unknown number, and he knew exactly what that meant. It had to be Ackerman. He pressed the power button on top of the phone to deny the call and avoid further distractions.

“Who was it?”

“Not important.”

“Does he call you a lot?”

“All the damn time.”

Belacourt’s voice came over the radio, cutting their conversation short. “Okay, all units move in. We want him alive.”

Marcus had overheard Vasques debating with Belacourt about how to handle any strange vehicles. She had persisted in her belief that they should allow the killer to approach the house and catch him in the act. She was worried that capturing the wrong person could alert the real killer to their presence. Belacourt had argued that they had no officers in the house, for fear of them being seen by the cameras, and they hadn’t had time to loop the feed. He had been worried about the woman’s safety. Marcus knew that they were both wrong and both right. Although, in this situation anyway, he agreed with Belacourt. Of course, he never would have told Vasques that.

The man in the car had put down the cell phone and was staring at some small device that he was cradling against the steering wheel. The bright LED display of the device lit the man’s features with an eerie glow. It could have been some type of remote video monitoring system.

Marcus watched as the police units converged on the dark blue sedan. Four SWAT team members in full body armor approached unseen alongside a neighbor’s house. Then three of the unmarked vehicles drove up, waiting to hit the lights until they were right on top of the suspect vehicle. The cars skidded to a halt and blocked the target vehicle in on all sides. Coordinating with the vehicles, the SWAT team scrambled through the snow and surrounded the sedan. The officers in the cars had their guns drawn and covered the suspect. The whole thing took only a few seconds, and the suspect was secure.

The man was wearing jeans and a button-down dress shirt with some type of logo on the left-hand pocket. He wasn’t dressed all in black or even dressed appropriately to go trudging through the snow.

Vasques swore under her breath. “It’s not him.”

“No, just a guy who parked on the wrong street. I’m betting that was a GPS unit that he was looking at. He’s lost.”

“Dammit, if the Anarchist was out there watching, he’s definitely gone now.”

Marcus took another long swig of coffee and said, “He’s not here. We’re in the wrong place.”

Schofield heard soft music playing inside Liz Hamilton’s bedroom. It was some type of acoustic coffee-house rock. Her living room smelled like a forest. A beautiful Fraser Fir Christmas tree covered with decorative orbs and lights and topped by an angel blocked the home’s front window. It was a healthy and fragrant tree. An expensive one that seemed out of place in the modest single-bedroom home. He looked up at the angel perched near the ceiling. Its eyes seemed to follow him accusingly.

The door to the bedroom lay only a few feet away, and the animal part of his brain was exhilarated by the proximity and by what he was about to do. He had no plans to drug this woman and deliver her to the Prophet. He had no plans to shoot this one. This time, he would demonstrate his new-found strength by overpowering her and consuming her soul. He was about to force the type of confrontation that he had previously worked so hard to avoid, and in prospect, the act felt strangely liberating. It would give him confidence that he would finally be able to face the Prophet. It would prove that he was indeed stronger than he had ever been.

Knowing that if he thought too long about it then the unknown variables and risks would prove too dissuasive, he acted quickly and rashly. He kicked in the door. The lock plate cracked easily from the frame, and the door swung inward.

The light from the living room flooded into the bedroom and lit Liz Hamilton’s face. The noise and light caused her to spring up, instantly alert. She looked directly at him. Her shrill cry filled the bedroom and made him hesitate for just a split second. But it provided enough time for Liz to roll from her bed and lunge into the attached master bathroom. She slammed the door in his face.

He stepped back to kick it in, but then he realized her plan. He knew the layout of her house as well as she did. The bathroom connected to a small laundry room that in turn opened back into the kitchen. She wasn’t locking herself in the bathroom. She was heading for the back door off the kitchen.

Trying to block her escape, Schofield turned back and ran through the ruined door of the bedroom, past the Fraser Fir in the living room, and into the home’s kitchen.

He slid around the corner on the dark linoleum. The kitchen lights were dark, but a window above the sink provided access for ambient illumination. He could see Liz’s dark shape in the shadows. The thrill of the hunt had his adrenaline pumping. He felt alive. She grabbed for something on the counter and lunged forward.

With a speed born of pure animal instinct, he pulled to the side and barely avoided taking the knife in the center of his abdomen. It sliced through his black jacket. He was not normally a fighter, but that didn’t mean that he lacked the ability to defend himself. He slapped the knife from her hand and lunged for her throat.

His weight overpowered her, and they fell to the ground, his hands crushing her larynx. Liz tried to scream, but it died in her throat as a harsh choking rasp. Her fingers clawed up at him.

A light burst through the window in the back door. His stare shot in that direction—he was half expecting to see a policeman aiming a gun and a Maglite through the glass. But there was nothing there. It must have been another car driving through the alley. Luckily, he had pulled his Camry far enough into Liz’s yard to allow the car to pass.

Schofield heard a noise and looked back down in time to see Liz pull a nearby drawer completely out of the cabinet and slam it against his head.

Falling backward away from her, he landed flat on his back on the dark linoleum. He reached to his head and found it bloody and aching. The sudden pain brought a moment of clarity, and he wondered what he had been thinking. Had he wanted to be caught this time?

The sound of her footfalls scurried toward the bathroom, and he pulled himself up from the floor.

Stumbling after her in pursuit, he grabbed the handle of the bathroom door and shook it. Locked. The doors were cheap hollow-cores, and he kicked it in easily. She had already moved through the other door and into the bedroom.

She looked back and screamed again as he rushed from the shadows. He tackled her down onto the bed and pounded his fists against her. Another scream filled the air, and it took him a moment to realize that it was coming from deep in his own throat.

She pulled away and tried to crawl across the bed, but he grabbed her legs and wrenched her back beneath him.

His hands found her neck again, and he squeezed even tighter than before. The light from the living room shone over her face, which was turning purple as she fought for air. She clawed at his hands, scratching against his gloves. Then she swiped at his neck, and her nails dug into the skin on the side of his throat.

He screamed again and shook her, pressing her farther down into the folds of the blankets and mattress. His fingers were like a vise, and he could see the strength leaving her.

She was a blond just like his oldest daughter, Alison. He had never noticed the resemblance before, but he saw it now. He thought of his wife and children and what the Prophet would do if he found them.

He regretted having to hurt this woman. He regretted being forced to kill them all. He had never wanted any of this. But if he had to choose between the sacrificed women and his family, the decision was simple. He had always gone along with the Prophet before for fear that the older man would hurt his wife and children, but it had also made him stronger. That was the Prophet’s mistake. The killings had filled Schofield’s hollow heart and given him the strength to fight back. A strength that he had never known before.

Liz’s arms continued to flop ineffectually against him for a few more seconds, but then they fell limp. He looked deep into her eyes as she lost her grip on this world and slipped away.

He caught her soul, her life force, and drank it in.

He debated on whether to leave a signature, but he supposed that it didn’t really matter. Prison wasn’t an option for him. If the police tied him to one murder, that would be more than sufficient to destroy his life. So he removed a small folding knife from his pocket and carved the Circle A into her forehead. Then he slit her wrists and used her blood to smear a large Circle A on the wall. He rubbed some more blood into his mouth and felt more of her power enter him.

The house was a mess, debris from the confrontation and other evidence everywhere. This was exactly what Schofield had always tried to avoid. His fingers found the gash on his neck, and he looked down at Liz’s hands. His DNA would be there for sure and maybe in other places in the house from the wound on his head.

And they had also made a lot of noise. A neighbor might have called the police. They could be on their way at that moment. They could be approaching the house, closing in on him.

Pulling his silenced pistol, Schofield checked out the windows and then stepped into the backyard. He didn’t see anyone looking out their windows, but that didn’t mean that they hadn’t called the police and retreated to the safety of their homes. He needed to be quick.

Inside Liz’s garage he found a pair of hedge clippers. Then he went back inside and, after dropping the garden tool onto her bed, retrieved a gallon of bleach from the laundry room. Starting in the kitchen, he dumped the bleach anywhere he thought he might have dripped blood. After following the trail back to the bedroom with the bleach, he soaked the body and the sheets. Then he looked down at the woman’s fingers. Knowing what had to be done, he picked up the hedge clippers.