“Sounds convenient,” Emily said.
“Everything he’s done in the past can be viewed through that same skeptical lens,” Gibbons said, “So that’s why I find it hard to believe that he really thinks the end of the world is next week. He’s not the type to announce that the world will end on March first, only to recant on March second.”
“Maybe someone else has gained power,” Emily said, “Some internal conflict within the MCP—so now someone else is calling the shots.”
“That could be,” said Gibbons, “Although I doubt it. Three years ago, it was rumored that Burke’s power was being challenged by his second in command at the time—a man named Woodard. That didn’t last long. Woodard disappeared—the official story goes that he moved to South America to spread the good word of the MCP.”
“Was there an investigation?” I asked.
“An investigation of what?” Gibbons said, “There was never a crime as far as the official record is concerned. It’s not as though Woodard’s body showed up in the local ER with scripture burned into it. He just disappeared.”
“How is that possible?” I asked, “There must have been some record of Woodard’s existence... people can’t just vanish.”
“Sure, they can,” said Gibbons, “It happens all the time. The usual leads were tracked down—social security number, tax records, employment history, education. Interviews with personal contacts. And, of course—cell phone records. We can get an amazing amount of information if we have a court order—but if there’s no crime, there’s no reason to go to a judge seeking to violate someone’s privacy. Woodard just moved to someplace in South America where there’s no cell phone reception, remember? He even made an announcement before he left—by email, of course.”
“So, what do we do now?” asked Emily.
“I would need your informant to testify.”
“I don’t think he’ll do it. He’s scared. He’d need… convincing.”
“What could be more convincing that a visit from the FBI?” asked Gibbons.
We stayed in the FBI safe house for another half hour. Gibbons gave us a little more information—against his better judgement, as he put it. He said that the MCP had been on the radar of the federal government for many years but every time they tried to prosecute their efforts were foiled. Local politicians and local judges always got in the way. Charges never stuck and they were left with little more than rumors.
“Is there anything they can prove?” I asked.
“Up until today, I would have said no,” Gibbons replied. “But it seems things are changing. Even so, I don’t think a judge will sign off on a search warrant without a witness—someone with firsthand knowledge. The MCP lawyers are going to argue that it’s all a set up—two people are murdered and they’ve got biblical verses burned on their skin? It’s like a bad movie. And I have to admit—it does seem like a set-up. It makes you wonder if someone is doing this on purpose.”
“To what end?” I asked.
Before he could answer, Emily’s cell phone rang and she answered it. She said, “Hello?” and then, “WHAT?!” She opened her mouth again but made no noise. Agent Gibbons and I watched her. She was obviously shocked by whatever news she had just been given. She said, “OK, I’m on my way,” and hit ‘end’ on her phone. Gibbons and I just waited.
“He left,” she said, “My informant left the Church where he was hiding. He’s gone. He’s out on the streets.”
We took the federal SUV back into Hawk Claw. Gibbons didn’t want to leave me alone, so I lay in the back of the vehicle and tried not to get carsick. We went to the Church and Emily went inside. A few minutes later she returned. Her witness—Franklin Monteiro—was undoubtedly on the streets looking for heroin. Emily and Gibbons conferred in the front seat and then we drove off again. I got bounced around for a while and then we stopped in a driveway—I couldn’t see much.
Gibbons got out and Emily slid across into the driver seat. I asked her what was happening. “Just stay down,” she said. A few minutes later Gibbons got into the passenger side and we drove off.
“My informant wasn’t much help,” Agent Gibbons said, “He says he usually hangs around downtown and looks for certain people—there are a couple dealers and known sex workers and they frequently spend time in the vicinity around the Sleepy Hawk Motel. So, we’re going to have a look around.” I stayed lying on the rear seat, so it wasn’t too exciting. In fact, it was boring. We cruised around the neighborhood and then parked where we could see the Sleepy Hawk Motel.
“So, this is where I should come to if I ever want heroin and hookers?” I asked. No one laughed. I tried a different approach. “What happens if we see this witness of yours?”
“Then I try to talk some sense into him,” Emily responded, “We can offer him a safe place to go—the reality is, he’s only here looking for one thing. I’m ashamed to say it, but I hope he already scored—because if he’s high, he’ll be a lot easier to deal with. If he’s still looking for a fix, he won’t come with us.”
“What happens if we don’t find him?” I asked. Emily didn’t answer. We sat in the car as night descended on Hawk Claw. I was beginning to think that police stakeouts were not nearly as much fun as they seemed on television. My legs were cramping, and I had to urinate. I wondered how long we were planning to stay here. I was pretty sure my bladder was going to explode. Right then Emily’s radio crackled to life and the dispatcher’s voice came through loud and clear.
“All units, all units, please respond, report of a dead body, address 55 Main, Route 12, Sleepy Hawk Motel. Room 19. Possible foul play. Requesting police response with EMS backup.”
We all froze and looked at one another.
“You go,” Gibbons said to Emily, “I’ll stay with Dr. O’Neill.”
She paused for a beat, and then flung open the door and began running towards the Motel. There was a man in the parking lot waving her in. Before I knew what was happening, Gibbons floored it out of there. I was pinned momentarily from the acceleration but there was nothing I could do so I just went with it. He did a series of what I assumed were ‘evasive maneuvers’ doing 180-degree U-turns, and generally driving like an out-of-control teenager. We did this for ten minutes while my bladder threatened to burst until Gibbons finally announced, “We’re here.” I poked my head up and saw that we were back at the safe house. I climbed out of the car. I had to get my balance and then I stopped to water the bushes before we went inside.
“We weren’t followed, I can say that for sure,” he said, “Assuming they don’t have drones or other aerial support.”
“Great,” I said, “I hadn’t even considered that the murderous cult chasing me might have aerial capabilities. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, “I’m gonna make us some burgers—you want some dinner?”
Again, I felt like Agent Gibbons was fixating on food at the strangest time, but it had been a long stakeout, so I said I liked mine well done with cheese. I tried to ask some questions while we made the meal, but Gibbons wasn’t having it—he just shook his head and told me to wait. Then, as we began to eat, I took it as my cue to ask questions, such as, “What the hell are we doing?”
“Pardon me?” he asked.
“Well, I’m pretty sure Deputy Holland is on scene with a dead witness, who was murdered by the MCP, and we’re here making burgers with a bunch of side dishes.”
“Would you pass the creamed corn?” he asked, and then said, “Well, doctor, let’s think this through. Deputy Holland is currently on scene with, presumably, a dead body. And unless it turns out that her witness just happened to overdose on heroin, we can assume it was a murder perpetrated by the MCP. Which means that, within a matter of hours, they were able to find and kill the only person that gave us any hope of getting a search warrant against them. Although, apparently, they think you’re a threat—despite the fact that, from what you’ve told me, you really didn’t witness anything of substance. So, where does this
leave us?”
“Up a creek without a paddle?” I asked.
“Yes, it does!” he said, “But wait! It’s worse than that! Because Deputy Holland has made it clear that there is a mole within the Sheriff’s Department—one mole? Two moles? A department full of moles? That’s always the problem with the MCP, you don’t know who you can trust. The deputy has utter faith in Sheriff Edwards, but I must confess that I’m not so certain. So, we really can’t trust anyone. Except Holland—I’m pretty sure she’s on the level, because she’s had every opportunity to kill you and make it look like an accident, and you’re still alive.”
“Wonderful,” I remarked. “So, what now?”
“Now,” said Gibbons, “I have some calls to make. Can you see if you can whip up some dessert?”
Chapter 12
Burke turned on the autopilot and let the computer fly the plane. He adjusted his headset and began the checklist for delivering the payload that was integral to the first phase of the MCP’s plan. They were going to return the earth to its original state—if all went well, it would revert to the garden of Eden. He smiled thinking of it. Everything would be transformed, and the new order would not allow for non-believers.
A thrill went through him. Even without the added gravity of the sacred mission that he was on, he loved flying his Gulfstream G280. He especially enjoyed piloting it at night. He had been flying since he was a young man and he had first earned his instrument rating nearly twenty years ago. This was something only a small percentage of pilots achieved. He found that soaring through the air on a dark night with only the stars above was as close to God as he could get. While he might do his best strategizing in the air traffic control tower, he was deeply inspired by flights like this one.
He was flying solo at 45,000 feet, and if this were a normal aircraft, he would have a co-pilot. But this was not a normal plane and he was not a normal pilot. He knew that he didn’t need any help. As long as he continued on the flight path of the righteous, he had nothing to be concerned about. He began flicking the switches that would release the cargo. The jet had been modified with an automated delivery system that left very little for him to do. Thus, he was able to put his hands back on the yoke and turn off the autopilot, letting the vibrations of the plane guide his hands as he had done one thousand times before.
Suddenly a red warning light came on and a buzzing sound pierced the cockpit. He turned the autopilot back on and reached for the manual that contained the checklist he must run.
This isn’t good, he thought. Engine two warning light and master caution light.
His mind very calmly went through the steps that would be necessary to deal with this emergency. He was not scared. He simply found it interesting that he was being tested. He smiled. This was simple. He would have to shut down engine two. No matter. He could fly with one engine. He knew that the proper procedure would be to declare an emergency and allow air traffic control out of Denver to immediately route him to the nearest airport. But he would do no such thing. He had a mission to accomplish and he knew that he was in no danger. He would not adjust his plans in the least. This was just a minor glitch and he already knew what had gone wrong.
Most of the payload had been delivered via the customized nozzles that released it on the underside of the jet. He had discussed this very issue with his chief flight engineer, and he had to admit that the man had been right. Burke had simply forgotten. He had been so caught up in the joy of flight that he had wanted to manually pilot the aircraft. But he had been warned about this. His engineer had told him that he should leave the plane on autopilot while the pumps were working. Ideally, he was supposed to be climbing while the delivery was occurring. Any loss of altitude by the aircraft could allow some of the crystals into the engines. The intake of a Honeywell jet engine was not designed to process anything other than air or rain. So, if the crystals entered the engine, it could shut down. This was, obviously, what had happened.
He realized his mistake and understood that he needed to stop the crystal delivery temporarily. Now, he had to keep the aircraft at level flight to ensure that when he began spraying again he wouldn’t lose his only remaining engine. He would put his trust in God that engine number one continued to function properly.
He restarted the pumps and in another thirty minutes he had delivered the rest of the cargo. He was never worried. He had known he would be successful. He started slowly banking the aircraft back towards the MCP compound. Now that his job was done, and the danger was past, he chided himself for forgetting how to perform the proper procedures for a safe delivery. He only hoped that there wasn’t too much damage to the engine.
It didn’t really occur to him that he could have lost both engines. Most people might have had an anxiety reaction—even if they were able to keep cool during the emergency, it was normal to show some fear afterwards, when there was time to think about the possible consequences. But he didn’t see it like that. He had never doubted that his mission would be a success. A double engine failure couldn’t happen to him, because such a thing would only happen to a non-believer. This had only been a test, and a minor one at that. He had never contemplated crashing. It was a simple matter of doing what he was destined to do.
When he was in the air, flying above the clouds, he lost any semblance of doubt as to whether his mission would succeed. Being up here, he was a million miles away from that musty cavern where the Reverend Thompson had tried to shake his faith. Burke knew now that his plane could never crash, and his plan would succeed—indeed, it was already ninety percent accomplished. In time, the crystals would take effect and the world would never be the same. There was no stopping the MCP and Burke would, in the end, be revealed as the true Messiah. It was only a matter of time—and that moment was almost upon them.
It won’t be long now, he thought as he gently eased the jet onto the runway. He decided on the spur of the moment that he would switch planes and pilot another flight tonight. He could think of nothing better than to go back up again, despite the close call he had just experienced.
He wasn’t worried. He knew he couldn’t crash. He couldn’t possibly come to any harm.
After all, this is God’s work, he thought.
When Emily Holland got out of the car and ran to room nineteen of the Sleepy Hawk Motel, her first thought was that she had failed Franklin Monteiro. As soon as she heard the call on the radio, she knew that he was dead. She knew that he had been murdered, and she knew that the MCP was responsible. She had been charged with protecting him—he had been her informant, her responsibility. She felt the guilt wash over her as she talked into the radio to confirm her arrival. She knew, logically, that it wasn’t her fault—Franklin had refused police protection, and he had left the safety of the Church of his own will. But this did not change the way she felt.
There was a man outside the room waving at her. She could see him silhouetted in the glow of the lamp mounted over the door frame. The Sleepy Hawk Motel had a typical motel layout, with twenty rooms in a row and corresponding parking spots in front of them. She covered the distance quickly and then she was standing next to the manager.
“You sure got here fast,” he said. He had a long, unkempt beard and a trucker hat. He was holding a cell phone in one hand.
“Have you touched anything?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. The door was open when I got here—there isn’t even anyone staying in this room. All I did was, I pushed the door open a little and walked in and saw him and… and I didn’t touch nothing. Well, I did turn the light on, and then I had to turn it off again—I couldn’t stand looking at it.”
“Very good, sir, can I ask you to step back a few feet and wait there?” Emily said and then she slowly walked into the room, holding her flashlight out in front and to the side of her. It was gloomy and she couldn’t see much but she could see the outline of a body. She put on nitrile gloves that she took from a pouch on her belt. She reached over and flicked the light switch.
>
Franklin Monteiro was stretched out on the bed with his arms and legs spread out to the four corners, in a pose that reminded Emily of the Leonardo Da Vinci sketch. He was symmetrically aligned, and more scripture was written on his chest. She didn’t read it—there would be time for that later. First, she had to clear the room.
“Hawk Claw Sheriff’s Department!” she announced loudly, “If anyone is in here, come out NOW with hands up.” She didn’t expect any response, but she had to be certain. She quietly kneeled down and looked under the bed. Nothing. She moved to the closet. In one fluid motion, she opened the door, shining the light inside as she pointed the gun. It was empty, save for an ironing board. She moved to the bathroom. The door was open, and it was small but the shower stall door was closed. It was fogged glass, and she could see that no one was in there. She opened it anyway. She even checked in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. No one was in the room.
“This is Deputy Holland, the room is clear, please send the Sheriff down here ASAP.” The dispatcher acknowledged her request and she heard sirens approaching. She wouldn’t have much time before the room was taken over by forensics and she knew she had to get whatever she could now. She took out her iPhone, and moving to the body, she began filming. She took video of the scene, slowly panning over the lifeless form of Franklin Monteiro. She felt nausea as she tried to clinically detach herself from the victim, who had ‘confessed’ to her so recently—this man who had told her about his mistakes and asked for her help. She felt sick but she pushed it down because she knew she had to do her job. She could see he had a fresh track mark in his arm. She knew that it was not her fault that he had been weak. It was not her fault that the MCP had preyed upon him.
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