The Prophet (44 page)

Jim had time to scream, “NO!” before the shotgun blast thundered through the house.

He didn’t want to look. He clenched his eyes shut, but he knew that he couldn’t shut out the monster that had stepped from his nightmares into the real world.

When he opened his eyes, his heart leapt when he saw that the blast had discharged into the floor, and his daughter still lived.

“Are you ready to play nice?”

Tears flowed from his eyes. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll play your game . . . just don’t hurt them.”

“Good. I’ll give you one more chance. But if you try anything this time, I’ll get tired of this game and move on to another. You’ll like that game even less than you like this one. Let’s continue.”

Ackerman slammed the pistol back onto his lap.

This time, he didn’t pick it up. His mind reeled.
There has to be a way out of this. I’m a good cop. I have to find a way to save my family. But what can I do? The madman has a shotgun pointed at my head, and if I fail again, we’re all as good as dead.
From the corner of his mind, the only available path began to take form, but he pushed the thought away. It was too horrible. He couldn’t bring himself to consider the possibility. And yet, he did.

When he looked into his wife’s eyes, he knew that she had followed the same train of thought to the only possible conclusion. If only one of them could survive, it had to be Ashley.

The look in Emily’s eyes conveyed what she was thinking.
I love you. I understand. And it’s okay.
His wife, the love of his life, the woman with whom he planned to grow old, nodded her head and closed her eyes.

He picked up the gun and raised his shaking hand. He placed his finger over the trigger, but he couldn’t bring himself to squeeze. He lowered the gun.

How can I kill the woman I love?
He searched his mind again for an alternative. The only way to save his daughter was to kill her mother. An idea began to take form, but it was such a long shot.

He raised the gun again. He knew that he couldn’t move forward without his wife’s consent, but she had made her feelings clear. Her courage and resolve gave him the strength to do what had to be done.

He took aim and squeezed the trigger.

Jim sobbed into his hands. He prayed and begged for God’s forgiveness. He wanted the pain to end, but his beliefs told him that suicide might keep him from seeing his wife again in the next world. He couldn’t bear the thought of eternity without her.

The gun fell from his hand and struck the hardwood floor with a metallic thud.

Ackerman spoke as he reached down and sliced the rope that restrained Jim’s feet. “Well done. Let’s move onto another game. We’ll call this one . . .
The Easy Way or the Hard Way.
I’m going to give you a choice about how you die. Option number one is a shotgun blast to the back of the head. It would be quick and painless, but you would be very, very dead. Option number two is that I let you run out the backdoor. Of course, this means that you would have to leave your daughter behind, but don’t think about that. You don’t have a choice in the matter. If you stay, I’ll blow your head off, and she’ll be left alone with me anyway. Besides, I don’t care about your daughter. You’re much more fun to play with.

“I’ll give you a head start, and then I’ll come and find you. I won’t use the shotgun. I’ll use a knife. It will not be quick. It will be the most agonizing death that I can give you, but there is always the possibility that I won’t find you or that you could overpower me. That’s the decision that you have to make. Do you give up now and put an end to all your suffering, or do you hold on to the hope of salvation and face the possibility of a gruesome end? You have thirty seconds . . . ”

With one last, long look at his baby girl, he stood and bounded toward the back door. He didn’t want to leave her behind, but he didn’t want her to watch him die either. Ackerman was right. He didn’t have any other choice.

His mind screamed one singular thought:
revenge.
He no longer cared about his own life or how he died, but the killer had given him a chance to avenge his wife’s death, and he would take it.

He exited the back of the house and ran headlong into the awaiting arms of the dark forest.

Behind Jim, in the kitchen of the trooper’s once-peaceful home, Francis Ackerman Jr. picked up the phone and dialed. The man on the other end of the line answered on the fifth ring.

“Hello, this is Father Joseph. How may I help you?”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Silence answered.

“Are you there, Padre?”

The man on the end of the line exhaled slowly. “I’m here, Francis.”

“I’ve killed three tonight, and I’m about to do another . . . a cop.”

“Why do you call me? Is it just another of your games?”

“No. I just . . . I just needed someone to talk to. And you’re all I’ve got.” He clenched his eyes shut and fought back the tears. “I’m so tired, Father.”

“Through the Lord, you can find peace, but you have to want it.”

“I don’t believe in your God. I don’t want your heaven or your hell. I just want to sleep. I want darkness. Oblivion. I want it to be as if I never was.”

“It doesn’t work that way. One day, you will face judgment, whether you believe in God or not. But it’s not too late, Francis. Turn yourself in. I can help you. I can—”

“No one can help me. I’m far beyond your redemption.”

“No one is beyond redemption.” After a hesitation, Father Joseph said, “You can’t blame your father for all that you’ve become.”

Ackerman unconsciously rubbed at the scars on his hands and forearms as he thought about his father. He could still hear the man’s voice in his head; whispers in the dark.
We’re going to play a game, Francis . . . Kill her . . . Kill her and the pain will stop . . .

“At some point, you have to take responsibility for your own actions,” the priest said. “He might have set you on this path, but you’ve chosen to walk down it. You have to want to stop.”

“I can’t stop. It’s all that I am. I’m a monster.”

“I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t keep reaching out to me if there wasn’t a part of you that wanted to be better than this.”

“Don’t presume to understand me, Padre. It doesn’t matter what I want. I wish that I was a real person, but I’m not. And I never will be. I’m broken, and no one can put me back together again. Besides, I’m just giving the people what they want.”

“No one wants this.”

“Sure they do. Do you know how many letters I received when I was in the institution? They want a villain. They’re fascinated by me. I’m their god. To some, anyway. Others just need to see people like me out there to make them feel better about the darkness inside themselves. To make them feel normal. And if some cop gets lucky and kills me, it doesn’t even matter. I’ll live on forever. They’ll study me in psychology classes. Others will duplicate my work. They’ll write books and produce documentaries. The longer I evade capture, the more victims I take, the more shocking my crimes . . . the more my legend grows.”

“You know what would really make you a legend? Turning your life around. Think about it. People would be truly fascinated by a man who could do the things that you’ve done and still find his way to the light. You could be the villain and the hero. The Bible says, ‘Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.’ There is a way to have everlasting life, Frank. I can show you. I can help you. You just need to turn yourself in.”

“Good night, Padre.”

“Wait. Don’t—”

Ackerman hung up the phone. He dried the tears from his eyes and checked the time. He knew the possibility existed that the officer might escape from his grasp, but they never did. He was too skilled at his job.

He would find his new friend, and he would make good on his promise. Jim would die a slow death. The cop would scream until his lungs filled with blood and he drowned on the same liquid that once pumped the life through his veins. In the end, however, the taking of Jim’s life paled in comparison to devouring his spirit, and he knew that he had broken the man. He had made Jim realize and appreciate all that he had taken for granted, and then, he had stripped it all away.

He placed the shotgun on the counter and removed a hunting knife from a sheath at his back. He slowly turned it in his hand, admiring the blade. He pondered the glorious suffering that he would soon administer. He would savor and prolong every moment of Jim’s agony and of his own ecstasy. Then, in the end, when every exquisite scream had been extracted and every avenue of torture had been exhausted, he would take Jim’s life.

Francis Ackerman strolled into the diner and took a seat at the counter.

After a moment, the waitress said, “What’ll it be, mister?”

He looked deep into her eyes. “Coffee and steak.”

She scribbled on her notepad. “How would you like that cooked?”

“Bloody.”

“Baked potato, salad?”

“Just steak and caffeine, thanks.”

He turned his attention toward the television set mounted on the wall. Something caught his eye, and he asked the waitress to turn up the volume.

“In an incident that has shocked the entire state of Colorado, three men, including two State Troopers, were brutally slain last night. A fourth victim is currently being treated for a gunshot wound to the head but is expected to make a full recovery.”

He leaned forward in his seat.
Full recovery?

An image of a State Trooper at a podium replaced that of the anchorman. The subtitle read,
Major Christian Steinhoff, Colorado State Patrol.
He committed the name to memory. The perspiring policeman said, “Emily Morgan is expected to make a full recovery and has now regained consciousness. We will issue more details later, but according to Mrs. Morgan, an assailant matching the description of Francis Ackerman Jr. forced her husband to choose between her life and that of their daughter. Based on the findings of the preliminary investigation, we believe that the quick thinking of Trooper Jim Morgan saved his wife.”

The cop on the screen drank from a glass of water and continued. “Trooper Morgan and his partner, Trooper Tom Delaine, responded to a call a few weeks ago in which a young woman had been shot in the head. They had entered the residence in response to a domestic disturbance and found the woman lying in a pool of her own blood. They had thought she was dead, but upon further examination, she was found to be alive. The young woman had been shot in the head at an angle with a .22-caliber pistol, and the bullet had deflected off her skull. The impact knocked her unconscious but left her with a survivable wound.

“The wound to Emily Morgan’s head is almost identical to the wound sustained by the woman in the previous case. Although the previous incident involved a lower-caliber weapon, Trooper Morgan had gone to the shooting range on the day of the incident and still had his weapon loaded with a cheaper brand of ammo containing a lower grade of gunpowder. Although we can’t know for sure, we believe that Trooper Morgan successfully attempted to recreate the previous incident in order to save both his wife and daughter. Although Mrs. Morgan did lose pieces of her skull and ear and is being treated for swelling around the brain, she is expected to make a full recovery and is currently under our protection.”

He reclined back.
I’ll be damned
.

“Congratulations, Jim,” he said aloud. “Guess we’ll have to call that one a tie.”

He noticed that the older man sitting next to him at the counter held a spoonful of mashed potatoes halfway between his mouth and plate. He turned to find the man staring at him. A half-read newspaper rested on the counter in front of the older man, which undoubtedly contained a picture of the killer named Francis Ackerman Jr. The man trembled, and small chunks of mashed potatoes fell into his lap. The man didn’t seem to notice.

Ackerman sighed and shook his head.
My work is never done.
“Do you want to play a game?” he said.