The Prophet (30 page)

The Prophet watched the women tremble in the back corner of their cage. When he had placed them inside, he had stripped them down to their underwear. They were both beautiful. Especially the Schuyler woman: she was an athlete. He could tell by her muscle tone. It was unusual for a woman of her age, and it spoke of aerobics and a strict workout regimen. If only there was more time. He smiled in at them, and the black woman gave him a defiant and angry look. She was strong. He liked that. She cradled the other woman’s head against her chest. They had both been crying but were relying on each other for strength. It always amazed him how dire situations could bring total strangers together so quickly.

He chuckled as the women’s faces changed. Shrinking, expanding, glowing. But the effect of the LSD was diminishing. The weight of this reality was pulling him back down and chaining his spirit into the mortal coil. The medicine was wearing off. He longed for the moment when this world would be no more, and he would no longer need help from a drug to fly.

A strange noise echoed over the concrete floor, and it took him a moment to realize that it was his phone. “Hello?”

“Prophet, it’s Erik.”

The Prophet smiled again. It was good to hear the voice of his
Disciple
.

He had known that he would need help to ensure that the darkest night went exactly as planned, so two years ahead of time, he had begun a passive search for a new recruit. Someone that he could trust to help him complete
The Work.
After all, he had always known that Schofield was weak. And Belacourt had lost his way. The cop had been an unwilling although necessary participant, but he was no longer a true believer. He was no longer one of
The Disciples
. Which saddened the Prophet, since Belacourt and Schofield were the only remaining members of his original flock. But they were also prime examples of the weakness and ignorance of mankind. Even men like them who knew the truth could easily be led astray by the society of the slaves. That was exactly why he had isolated his flock at the compound in Wisconsin.

But then the Father had blessed him with Erik Jansen. He had been a Neo-Nazi and then a Theistic Satanist whom the Prophet had met in an online discussion forum. A man that the Prophet could trust. A true believer in
The Work
. A new
Disciple.

“Speak, brother. What troubles you?”

“It’s Belacourt. He just called me, screaming. He was very upset. I’m sorry, Prophet, but the agent named Williams survived the fire at your old compound.”

The Prophet jerked forward in his chair. “What? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. But he saw me when I set the fire, and it led him back to Belacourt. But that’s not the worst of it.”

The Prophet stood and paced the room. The concrete floor was freezing beneath his naked feet. “He wants money.”

“Yes, sir. He said that you owe it to him. Said that he’d turn himself in and tell the police everything unless you paid. He mentioned that they might give him a deal if he gave them Harrison and the two of us.”

The Prophet closed his eyes and watched the colors spin and twirl in strange new shapes. After a moment, he said, “Here’s what I want you to do.”

They had followed Belacourt’s signal up through residential areas and then down Route 30 past drug stores, shopping plazas, and fast-food restaurants. Then he abruptly cut north and made a stop in a residential area north of Lindenwood. Marcus guessed that he was stealing another car and ditching the Impala. Then he had made the call. Stan recorded it and then played it back for them. Unfortunately, Belacourt hadn’t revealed much other than one name: Harrison. It wasn’t much to go on in a city the size of Chicago.

Marcus pulled the car over in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot while they waited for Belacourt to make his next move. There seemed to be a Dunkin’ on every other corner in Chicagoland. Faint worry lines creased Vasques’s face. She seemed to be on autopilot while she processed Belacourt’s betrayal.

Eventually she said, “Why do you think Belacourt personally asked me to be part of this case?”

“No idea.”

“Don’t give me that crap. I want an answer.”

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Fine. They didn’t want too many investigators involved. The more people, the bigger the chance of someone figuring something out. So almost all the killings took place in Belacourt’s jurisdiction. That way he could control the flow of information.”

“You’re avoiding the question. Why me specifically? He didn’t want the feds involved, so he recruited one that he didn’t think was smart enough to hurt him. And he was right. I would never have figured any of this out without your help.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe any of that. Belacourt just thought you were someone that he could control. I’ve reviewed your file. You’re a damn good agent. You’ve done fantastic work breaking up human-trafficking rings, and you shouldn’t come down hard on yourself because you’re not built for profiling serial killers. Belacourt might have seen you transferring from the BAU as a sign of weakness, but I see it as a display of strength. You realized it wasn’t a fit, and you figured out what was. Hell, I’ve tried to run from what I am my whole life.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

He scratched at the stubble on his cheek and considered his next words carefully. “This may not be the best time, but there’s something else that I want to tell you. About the other night—”

“You don’t have to say anything to me. I know. But you probably should say something to Maggie.”

He laughed. “Maybe you’re not such a bad profiler after all.”

Vasques smiled back, but he could see sadness in her eyes. He wondered if the Maggie comment was just a self-conscious guess that he had now confirmed. She said, “What about Jansen? Do we know anything about him?”

“We’ve put out an all-points on him. I had Stan check his background while I was on my way back from Wisconsin. Pretty standard scumbag. Dishonorable discharge from the Marines. Went to Pontiac prison for assault. Started running with the Neo-Nazis, and later he turned to satanism. About two years ago, he dropped completely off the grid. But he’s a foot soldier. He’s not smart enough to be the Anarchist.”

“So we’re thinking this Harrison that Belacourt mentioned on the phone is our guy?”

“I think so.”

“What about the list of Camry owners? We should check that for the name Harrison.”

“Already did. No Harrison.”

“When did you do that?”

“In my head. I memorized the list. Your next question is going to be about the spouses, but no go there either. I had Stan add each spouse’s name onto the list as well.”

“What if it’s a company car?”

“I reviewed the list of businesses, too. Nothing that fits.”

Marcus’s phone rattled in its resting spot in the center console. He slid his finger across the screen to answer the call and then put the device on speaker. “What do we have, Stan?” he said.

“Belacourt just received a call from Jansen,” Stan said. “They’re meeting behind Jackson’s Grove mall in two hours. Belacourt said that he’d be driving a green Honda Civic and would park along the back edge of the parking lot’s far corner.”

Vasques asked, “Did he say anything else?”

“I can play it for you, but that was pretty much it. Short and to the point.”

Marcus slipped the Crown Vic into gear and pulled out onto Route 30, heading in the direction of the mall. This wasn’t going as he had hoped. Belacourt hadn’t given anything useful away on the phone, and the foot soldier was coming to the meeting instead of the general. Even if they took in both Jansen and Belacourt, there were no guarantees that it would lead to Conlan or the Anarchist. Belacourt might turn state’s evidence, but he might not. And if Marcus’s suspicions were correct, five women would be ritualistically murdered the next evening, and the clock was ticking. He growled and reached out to disconnect the call, but Vasques caught his hand.

She said, “Wait, Stan, was the list of Toyotas you pulled just for Illinois or did you include Indiana as well?”

“Just Illinois.”

“Indiana’s only a little over twenty minutes from here.”

“Okay, checking now.” There was a pause that lasted a few minutes as the phone line filled with nothing but the sound of clicking keys and the whir of computer fans. Then Stan said, “Nothing matching the name Harrison.”

Marcus added, “I’m fairly certain that the Anarchist lives within only a few minutes of Jackson’s Grove, if not within the city limits.”

She shook her head. “What about businesses, Stan?”

“One sec . . . I think I got something. There’s a security company called Schofield Security Associates that owns several Camrys.”

Marcus leaned toward the phone, as if closer proximity would make the answers more easily accessible. “That fits, Stan. Can you get a list of employees?”

“I can try, but I’ll have to hack their personnel files. Wait a second, I’m on their website now. They list the company officers, and one of them is named Harrison Schofield.”

“What’s his job?” Marcus said.

“Chief Financial Officer.”

“That’s him. Everything fits. Do you have an address?”

“Hold onto your butts, boys and girls, because our man Schofield lives right there in Jackson’s Grove.”

Marcus checked the time. A little after two in the afternoon. Schofield should have been at work, but he might already have received a warning from Jansen. They needed to take Schofield down soon or risk the killer escaping. If that happened, they might never find him, and those women would be as good as dead.

Everything was coming together and falling apart at the same time. He knew that Vasques wouldn’t let up on Belacourt, and he didn’t blame her. If Belacourt was the man responsible for
his
parents’ deaths, the monster inside Marcus would have broken free already and killed the cop slow and bloody. Vasques was handling it pretty well, all things considered. But there was no way she would let Belacourt get away.

Andrew was making some calls about Jansen and awaiting further orders, and Maggie was resting up from the Wisconsin trip. He could call both of them out, but they still didn’t have enough bodies. They were spread too thin.

“Stan, call Schofield’s office and find out if he’s there, but don’t tip him off in any way. Then get the local police department out there. Tell them that he’s a suspect in a serial-murder case and is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Then send me his home address and the address for his office.”

Marcus disconnected the call, took a left on a side road, and pulled over. The tires rumbled as he tore through the snow to reach a parking spot next to a packaged liquor store named Cliff’s. Advertisements for twenty-dollar thirty-packs of Budweiser and seventeen-dollar bottles of gin hung in the front window.

Before he could speak, Vasques grabbed a handful of his shirt and leaned over the console to stare directly into his face. “I’m going after Belacourt. I won’t let him get away with this. And I won’t let anyone stand in my way.”

Glancing down at her hand, Marcus slipped the Crown Vic into park and said, “Don’t be so dramatic. I’m not trying to stop you from taking him down. You can be the one to slap the cuffs on or put him in the ground. I don’t care either way. But I’m calling Andrew to pick me up, and then I’m going after the Anarchist. I would suggest that you scramble your FBI friends and use a coordinated effort to arrest Belacourt and Jansen together. But I’ll leave that up to you. I’ll also send you Stan’s contact info. He’s at your disposal. Either way, good luck . . . and be careful.”

Without another word, he grabbed his phone and stepped out into the cold.

With a tan leather briefcase dangling from his right hand, Harrison Schofield stood in front of a large chrome and glass desk that held a computer and monitor. The woman behind the desk looked at him with questioning yet sympathetic eyes. Her name was Valerie, but everyone called her Val. She was in her mid-forties and had mocha skin and short black hair. Her lips pouted at all times as though she had just tasted something sour and one of her arms hung in a sling, the result of permanent nerve damage from a car accident. She had been like that for as long as Schofield could remember, and when he’d been younger, he had sat in front of his grandfather’s office and

watched her type proficiently with one hand and a special keyboard. Behind her was a door with large black letters embossed on a gold plaque. It read
Raymond Schofield, President
.

“Hello, Val,” he said. “Is he in?”

Schofield already knew the answer to his question before she even opened her mouth. He had known that Raymond was scheduled to meet with a prospective client concerning a lucrative contract to provide security for sports stadiums that the potential customer constructed all over the world. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known the details of the meeting and had been forced to monitor the security gate from his office window for the entire afternoon. Then, fifteen minutes ago, he had finally witnessed his grandfather’s big Bentley pull through the gate.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Schofield. He just stepped out for a meeting. Can I help you with anything?”

“That’s okay. I have some papers for him. I’ll leave them on his desk.”

He took a step toward the door, but Val said, “You can just leave them here with me.”

Once, when Schofield had been a boy, the Prophet had picked him up by the neck and slammed him down flat on his back. The wind had been knocked from his lungs, and he hadn’t been able to breathe. He felt the same way in that moment as he fought for words and stammered at the older woman. The silenced .22 caliber pistol felt heavy in his suit jacket’s inner pocket. He liked Val. He didn’t want to have to kill her.

But then Val stood up from the desk, patted him on the arm, and said, “It’s okay, Mr. Schofield. Go on in.” She reached out and pulled open the big black door for him.

Once inside and with the door shut, he was able to breathe again. But he didn’t have time to truly center himself; he needed to be in and out. There was a massive family photo of Raymond and himself with Eleanor and the kids hanging against the back wall. It was an old cliché to have a safe behind a picture or painting, but it was also the best way to conceal it. The hiding place was more for aesthetics than for security. The safe’s protection came from its advanced features: a keypad requiring a fifteen-digit PIN number and a biometric palm reader that monitored ambient skin viscosity and temperature to determine duress.

Luckily, his grandfather had given him the PIN and programmed his handprint. He felt bad for betraying the old man’s trust, but he was also confident that if Raymond knew the dire circumstances, he would have given the money freely.

The safe slid open with a whirring of gears and the whoosh of a breaking seal. Val would be expecting him to be back out soon, so Schofield wasted no time in loading his briefcase and suit pockets full of the stacks of money that he found inside the safe.

He closed the briefcase and locked it, but as he stepped back toward the door, he heard the sound of sirens and screeching tires. Rushing to the window, the sight outside nearly stopped his heart. This couldn’t be happening now. Not when he was so close to escape. Black and white police cruisers with their light bars shooting out red and blue pulses converged on the office from several directions.

He thought quickly. He had planned for various circumstances such as this and had multiple contingency plans. After all, that was where his aptitude lay. Assessing the risks, calculating the variables.

Moving quickly to the door, he cracked it open and said, “Val, could you come here for a moment? I have something very important to discuss with you.”

Schofield wondered if he would have had the courage to do what he was about to do before he’d taken the souls of his last several victims. He didn’t think so, but self-preservation was always a strong motivator.

Val stepped inside and shut the door behind her. As she was turning back to face him, he pulled the silenced pistol and jammed it into her face. Her eyes went wide, and she froze in place. He had always heard that your life flashes before your eyes just before death. He wondered if Val was experiencing that now. Did she find happiness or despair in those memories?

Schofield said, “I’m a murderer, Val. The newspapers and television anchors call me the Anarchist. I’ve killed many, many people. I’m telling you this so that you realize that you don’t know me or what I’m capable of. But I know you. I know your family. And if you don’t do exactly as I say, I will kill you and every member of your family that I can find.”