The Prophet (36 page)

The sight of the two grenades shouldn’t have shocked Marcus as much as it did, and he cursed himself for it. He had known that the police had found M67 fragmentation grenades in the killer’s basement, and he had even looked up their specifications. Schofield liked to plan ahead, but Marcus hadn’t expected the killer to try anything with his family on the line. But then again, he hadn’t considered the possibility of Schofield recognizing them as cops either. He considered that maybe his migraines and the lack of sleep were finally starting to take their toll on his thought processes and ability to reason.

Schofield said, “If you come any closer, I’ll drop one of these at your feet and throw the other out into the traffic on Columbus.”

Marcus slipped his gun back into its holster. “Let’s not do anything crazy. You don’t want to die here.” He took a step forward.

“Don’t move! I’ve considered all the variables! If there are other cops out there, I’ll use these to kill myself. If I drop one grenade, you could kick it away or run before the timer runs out and it explodes. But you wouldn’t be able to stop the one that’s going out onto the street. Odds are good that it would go off right underneath one of those cars. And if that doesn’t convince you to stay back, then I also have a backup plan.”

Schofield pointed at one of the large green sea-horse statues sitting inside the fountain, and a loud boom echoed over the park. A bullet ricocheted off the sea horse, sending up a puff of snow.

Marcus jerked instinctively at the sound, and Stupak nearly hit the deck. Normally, a hundred tourists and park-goers would have been running and screaming at that moment. But in the midst of the blizzard, Grant Park was as desolate as the moon, and the only other people around were the ones driving past inside their cars on Columbus and Lake Shore Drives. Marcus recognized the sound of a 7.62mm round, but most people would have dismissed it as a car backfiring.

“My grandfather Raymond. He’s a good shot,” Schofield said.

“Maybe on the range, but lining up a person in your sights is a whole different ball game.”

“That’s true. He actually wanted me to turn myself in, but when I explained that the kids’ lives were on the line, he agreed to do whatever it took. We’re pretty much the only family he has left, and he’d do
anything
to protect us.”

Marcus held up his ID, deciding to change tactics. “I’m not a cop. I’m from the Attorney General’s office. I have the authority to make you a deal. You give us Conlan and the women, and you can avoid prosecution.”

“Right, great idea. Then I’ll just walk away now and have my lawyer contact your office to draw up the papers. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, I think you’re scared. I think you’ve been scared your whole life. Scared of the Prophet, of your mother, of other people in general. But, most of all, you’re scared of yourself. You’re scared of what you’re capable of.”

“You don’t know me. We’re done here. Don’t try to follow me.”

Schofield took a step back, but Marcus matched the movement. He said, “I know more about you than you know yourself. I know that you think that you were born without a soul. I know the things that they told you as a child. The things that the Prophet did to you. I know about your friends up at the compound. About you sitting in the circle and watching them burn.”

Schofield moved back toward him and screamed, “You don’t know anything!”

With micro-glances, Marcus scanned the area. The park was full of places where a shooter could set up, but there was one that stood out. Less than a hundred yards over Schofield’s shoulder, there was a small green building topped by a metal roof with large awnings on all sides. A sign read Fountain Cafe. The place would have been shut down and empty during the winter, and it provided the perfect angle and a protected spot to shoot from.

“Really? I know who your father is. Do you?”

Schofield looked as if an angel had just descended from heaven and punched him in the gut. The look was equal parts awe and confusion. Schofield whispered, “You shut up.”

Marcus took another step forward. “Come on, Harrison. You’re a smart guy. You honestly didn’t believe that you were the product of some immaculate conception, did you? That Lucifer really crawled up from the pit and knocked up your mom? Come on. You’ve always had your suspicions.”

“You couldn’t possibly know.”

Marcus moved forward again. “I found your mother in the Will County Mental Health Center and paid her a visit. She broke down and told me the truth. Her dirty little secret.”

“You’re lying.”

Schofield held the grenades out in front of him like a barrier. His arms trembled, but Marcus didn’t think it was from the cold.

“You have a soul and a father just like everyone else, Schofield. And I think you know who it is. I think you’ve always known, but you’ve been too scared to admit it.”

“The Prophet is not my father!”

Marcus edged closer to the killer. “Your mother told me everything. How Conlan would bring her into his private quarters for a special lesson. I’m sure she wasn’t the only one. He was probably screwing every little girl in the compound. What was she, twelve? Thirteen? Did he take you in there for private lessons too?”

Schofield stepped forward and screamed, “Shut up!”

And then Marcus made his move.

Maggie had heard cops who’d been involved in shoot-outs talk about time slowing down and extreme events unfolding around them in slow motion as rushes of adrenaline kicked in. But that wasn’t the case for her. In fact, it was exactly the opposite. The events inside the small house in Brighton Park happened so fast that her mind struggled to keep up with them.

It was all just a flash of images and emotions. The gun in O’Malley’s hand. Something striking her face. Stumbling backward against the table. O’Malley firing into Andrew’s chest. Her ears ringing from the shots. The smell of burnt gunpowder in the air. Andrew falling back against a ratty old couch. The entire thing tipping over as gravity pulled him down to the pale yellow linoleum. He smashed into a small end table, causing an antique lamp with no shade to fall over on top of him.

Then O’Malley started to turn and bring the gun to bear on her.

Her first instinct was to run, but she fought the impulse. Instead she grabbed hold of one of the green chairs around the table and swung it against O’Malley’s back.

He cried out in pain but stayed on his feet.

Marcus had taught Maggie to use her environment as a weapon, always stressing that
anything
could be a weapon in the right hands. She followed that advice now as she grabbed the edge of the faux-wood table and flung it at O’Malley.

It struck him, and he stumbled backward. But he shocked her again by not going down. The man who only a few moments before had appeared frail and old in her eyes now seemed to have shed twenty years and was surprisingly strong and quick.

She went for the backup pistol concealed at her ankle, a .357 Glock 33 subcompact. But, as she pulled it free, O’Malley lunged forward and slammed her with an uppercut from the butt of the gun in his right hand.

Maggie felt the flesh on her face tear open as she slammed back against the linoleum. The impact drove the air from her lungs. Her Glock 33 slipped from her grasp and skidded across the floor and out of reach.

Her mind registered vaguely that she had been played, but she didn’t have time to consider the possibilities. O’Malley was raising the gun in her direction.

She rolled toward the back door as he opened fire. It was heavy and wooden, its paint white but flaking from age. The sensation of flying hot metal searing the air around her head and the noise of plaster exploding propelled her through the door. She staggered onto an old porch that had been closed in and converted to a laundry room. She fell to the floor and kicked the door shut behind her. Three more 9mm bullets smashed through it, splintering the wood.

Scenarios flew through her mind. Should she run out the back door and go for help? But she couldn’t just abandon the Schofield family in the house. It was her job to protect them, not just save her own skin.

Marcus’s words returned to her again.
Anything can be a weapon.

Maggie glanced quickly around the small porch. There was an old yellow dryer and a mismatched white washer. The room smelled of water damage. A shelf hung above the washer and dryer. It contained a dusty bottle of fabric softener and a big jug labeled Clorox with white letters over the shape of a red and blue diamond.

Anything can be a weapon.

Maggie grabbed the bottle and spun the cap. Then she squatted low and waited, another trick she had learned from Marcus. People expected others to be at chest and head level with them, which was where humans’ gazes naturally traveled first. Getting low and catching the old man unaware could save her a split second, and a split second was often all that was needed to turn the tide in a battle.

The respite lasted only a few breaths. It ended when O’Malley kicked open the door and aimed the Glock inside. She didn’t hesitate. She tossed the contents of the jug up at the man’s face.

He saw her at the last second and jerked back, which probably saved his eyes. But the bleach still landed on his face and arms. In his condition, with already damaged and exposed skin, the bleach must have felt like acid in an open wound. It soaked his clothes and bandages.

O’Malley wailed in agony. It was a high and penetrating sound.

But the trauma didn’t slow up the old man’s attack. Instead, it whipped him into a frenzy. His eyes were wild and insane as he rushed toward Maggie, and his mouth was wide open and screaming a banshee’s wail.

She stumbled back from her crouch, and he tackled her to the ground. His bandaged hands found her neck, and he squeezed while simultaneously lifting her from the ground and pounding the back of her skull against the linoleum.

There was no defense against such fury and violence. She kicked and clawed and gouged at his burnt flesh. But his rage eclipsed his pain, and the more she fought, the tighter he squeezed.

After a moment, Maggie could feel consciousness slipping away as her lungs cried out for air. She fought and tried to suck in a breath through her nose but was only rewarded with the pungent smell of bleach.

The darkness closed in, and she felt numb all over.

But then the back door of the small room burst open, and snow and light flooded into the room. The cold breeze felt good on her skin. She saw an indistinct figure in the doorway.

Maybe a neighbor who had heard the shots? Or a cop who was in the area?

The newcomer kicked O’Malley away from her.

Then the man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, shutting out the cold and snow. A massive stainless-steel revolver was pointed directly at O’Malley. Maggie recognized it as a Taurus Judge, a pistol that could be loaded with five shotgun shells.

She gulped in a mouthful of air and looked up at her savior. The breath caught in her already irritated throat. She coughed and gasped at the sight of him.

The man smiled down at her with a charming grin on his handsome face, a face that she had hoped never to see again.

Marcus had hoped to distract Schofield with talk of his childhood and the terrible events that had taken place at the Wisconsin compound. And it had worked. But before he could make his move, two things had to happen. First, he needed to slowly close the distance between them, and second, he needed Schofield’s body lined up between him and the Fountain Cafe, effectively blocking the view of the shooter inside.

At the mention of the abuse the killer had suffered at the hands of the Prophet, Schofield stepped forward and thus met both of Marcus’s requirements.

Marcus had learned a long time ago not to hesitate when your enemy gave you an opening. So when Schofield moved into position, Marcus quickly latched onto Schofield’s fists, clamping his hands over the killer’s like two vise grips.

Then he squeezed.

It took only around twelve pounds of pressure to break a bone in the hand of an adult man, but he wasn’t worried about breaking Schofield’s hands. He was more concerned with the two grenades held in the killer’s fists.

With both his hands occupied, Marcus tilted his head downward slightly, clenched his teeth, and stiffened the muscles in his neck. A headbutt sounded like a pretty straightforward maneuver, but in reality it could easily cause more damage to the person attempting it than the one receiving it. In principle, the concept was simple. The forehead is a large hard bone, but the face and nose are soft, fragile areas. A hard forehead crushing into a man’s nose could be a formidable blow if executed correctly.

And, unluckily for Schofield, Marcus had always been good at hurting people.

He thrust his head forward, bending his back and throwing all his weight into the attack. His forehead collided with the bridge of Schofield’s nose, and the killer’s head snapped back from the force of the blow.

Schofield’s grip on the grenades slackened, but Marcus kept hold of them as the killer let go and stumbled backward. Blood poured down Schofield’s face from his shattered nose. His eyes were dazed and glassy, and he nearly toppled over as he staggered away from the fountain in an unsteady run.

But Schofield wasn’t the only problem.

Marcus could feel the cross-hairs of a 7.62mm rifle lining up on him and Stupak at that very second, so he drew back his right arm and threw a grenade toward the sniper’s location. His main concern was to distract the man, not blow him up. And unless Schofield’s grandfather was some kind of hard-core Spec Ops rifleman, he’d be hitting the deck the second he saw an explosive flying through the air in his direction.

“Get to the fountain,” Marcus yelled to Stupak as he jumped over a waist-high black wire fence and headed for the lip of the landmark.

He pictured the grenade lofting toward the small building, striking the snow-packed ground, and rolling up to the cafe’s outer wall like the world’s deadliest snowball.

Stupak was on his heels as they slipped over the edge and landed on their hands and knees in two feet of snow that had accumulated in the bottom of Buckingham Fountain’s outer ring. The fountain was only four feet deep, but it was more than enough to provide them with cover.

The sound of the explosion thumped against his ears as the grenade filled the air with snow and concrete dust and fragmentation projectiles. Marcus felt the wave of pressure in his bones.

His left fist still held a live M67 fragmentation grenade, but he pulled his Sig Sauer with his right hand and scanned the cafe and park for signs of movement. He didn’t see Schofield. The Anarchist must have made it to cover. But he did see a flash of something in the window of the cafe and dropped back below the fountain’s concrete lip. He was thoroughly outgunned at this distance, pitting his .45 ACP pistol against a 7.62mm rifle. If they were going to stand any chance, he needed to get closer.

He scanned the interior of the fountain. Normally, water would have been above their heads, but during the winter the fountain was just an empty shell with its pipes, jets, catwalks, lights, and supports all exposed. Snow covered the decorative statues and obscured their details. Marcus couldn’t see anything that could help them, only the ornamentation and framework. No manhole covers indicating drains or tunnels that could lead them to safety.

Staying low below the fountain’s lip, Marcus moved toward the other end of the bowl. Then he chanced a quick look over the edge. There was a line of benches backed by shrubbery and small trees maybe a hundred feet away. Beyond that was a walkway bordered by a section of the park filled with several large trees. The wooded section butted right up against the back of the Fountain Cafe. If he could reach the benches and then the trees, he could flank the shooter.

But in order to do so, he would have to cross over a hundred feet of snow-covered open ground, and he would be completely vulnerable and exposed.

He poked his head up over the edge again and caught sight of Schofield limping from a line of trees toward the cafe. The killer’s impaired movement suggested that he might have taken some shrapnel from the fragmentation grenade.

Then a bullet ricocheted off the lip of the fountain just to the right of Marcus’s head, driving him back down.

“Dammit,” he said.

“This isn’t working out very well,” Stupak commented at his side.

“You think?”

Marcus searched for a solution and found one gripped firmly in his left fist. The first grenade had bought them enough time to reach cover, and he assumed that the second would do the same. But if Raymond Schofield was smart enough to realize that Marcus’s throw from even closer had fallen well short of the building, the older man might not take cover as he had the first time. He might take aim and squeeze the trigger instead. But it was a risk they’d have to take.

“Okay,” Marcus said. “Get ready to lay down some covering fire on that building. I’m going to toss this last grenade and then make a break for the trees. You keep them pinned inside, and I’ll work my way around to their backs.”

Stupak nodded, a .40 caliber Glock 22 held ready in his right hand. Marcus took a deep breath and prepared to throw the grenade.