Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  Revelations talks about seven thunders and seven seals. If you were John of Patmos, a man of the first Century, how would you write about a future that no one then understood? How would you describe a cell phone? Or a CT scan. You couldn’t in normal words.

  John was shown a vision of a new world, covered in a network of evil ideas and sin. The world was wrapped in this dark, disgusting lacework. A digital nervous system strangling humanity. Growing tighter every day. And at the center of this web of lies were nodes or beginnings. Seven of them. So John described them as thunders. Because they were horrible and powerful and crushing. Seven thunders. Seven servers. The monstrous seven servers that the global Internet is built on. Later you can Google this if you want. It’s common knowledge. You can use the same evil network that is killing our world to find a truth.

  The Internet is Satan’s Road. A highway to Hell. It’s all in the writings of John – the most misunderstood genius of all human history.” Then Gideon paused and got up from his rocking chair and strode over to wall covered in period paintings.

  “This is the work of Hermonius Bosch. A painter from the 17th Century. Historians thought he was describing Hell. But if you look closely, he was painting the real world. The violence. The ugliness. The pain.

  Next Monday at Noon all that will end.” He knocked the painting from the wall and turned back to the camera.

  “Now I know you are skeptical. You may have heard this before. And I’m not asking you to give up your homes or your wealth to the church. This church has billions. God has insured our survival, and we are invincible.”

  I’m also not asking you to hide in your basement at the appointed hour. I just want you to know that this time the prediction is correct. This is the true church. In a week, the world as we know it, will end.

  As predicted, the first thing you will witness, is planes falling from the sky. It’s a frightening image. You have a choice though. Don’t fly. Don’t let your friends or loved ones fly. Do whatever you need to do. Because I guarantee you that planes will plummet to the earth as Revelations predicted. And when you finally see that and believe, I ask only one thing. That you gather here. Come home. We will welcome you, we will feed you, and we will console you. And we will plan the next steps for a new world.

  You will also see the financial system collapse. Stocks will vanish into thin air. Banks will crumble to dust. You will need gold. Go and buy gold on Monday and put it in a safe place. John is advising that you sell your stocks and your mutual funds. Or don’t. Because money will have no value come next weekend anyway. All we ask is when that happens, don’t despair. Join us here. You will be welcomed.

  Power systems will go black. Nuclear plants may go critical. For those of you without guns, it may be time to acquire them. The world will be a troubling place for a while as we go through the change.

  People will try to rob you. Or harm your family and your children. You will need guns to protect yourself and your tribe. We will become the true Soldiers of Patmos. We will fight the good fight for a new world.”

  The next video presentation Holly watched on the giant screen was quite famous and had been viewed millions of times on YouTube. Gideon was re-visioning the world again. Clean cities. Smiling inhabitants. Forests re-planted. A world without technology. The video ended with a close-up of Gideon’s piercing blue eyes, a tear running down his face.

  “I’ll see you all on the other side. God bless all of you.”

  When the lights came up, Holly noticed that many of the congregation had smiles on their faces. What did they hear or see that made them happy, she wondered? But she could also see a few, standing out from the rest, who looked fearful, even shell-shocked. As they streamed out to the massive lobby, the same uniformed men and women who guided them to their seats, were there with tablets in their hands, stopping people, making conversation. One touched Holly’s arm.

  “You’re new to our church, aren’t you?” she smiled.

  “Yes. It’s like, very impressive.”

  “Would you like to join?” Holly hesitated. She had come out of curiosity only; she wasn’t really in the market for a religious overhaul. The young girl in the dark suit continued. “I ask because there isn’t very much time. When the end comes, shouldn’t you have a place to come to? A sanctuary where people like you, who care about you, can look after you and your friends?”

  “You really think the world is going to end next week?”

  “The old world will, absolutely.” Her certainty was chilling, even though delivered with the most innocent and comforting smile Holly had seen since attending Kindergarten. “And what have you got to lose? If the world goes on its hurky-jerky way, then we’ll all go shopping for shoes instead of coming here next Monday. But if anything should happen, you have us. But only if you are a member.”

  “OK then. What do I need to do?”

  “You just need to tell me about yourself.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. Let’s start with your friends and family.”

  The process took about half an hour, something the Soldiers of Patmos called merging. They recorded all of her personal information, friends and close family names and locations, job details, birth date, credit card information, hobbies, allergies, basic medical facts, email addresses and more. Everything went right into the tablet.

  When Holly looked around, she saw dozens of other new members going through the same process. She looked over at one young woman and they exchanged a brief glance. The other woman shrugged her shoulders as if to say what can I do? That was how Holly felt. Why did the church need all of this information? But what harm could it possibly do?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kam O'Brien had been in the Royal York Hotel in Toronto only once before – when he was eighteen, attending a wedding for a cousin whose name completely escaped him, someone he had never seen again. He had fallen hard for one of the bridesmaids. They had stumbled drunkenly to her room after the wedding, and they were just about to make love when her boyfriend started banging on the door. Kam spent two chilly hours on a windswept balcony that was only two feet wide listening to the sounds of the couple making-up on the other side of the glass. He couldn't remember the bridesmaid's name either, but he recalled how pretty the city looked from up there on the tenth floor, refusing to give up hope that the boyfriend would eventually leave. Finally he tapped on the glass. No one was happy that night.

  The hotel's main foyer hadn't changed in a quarter century – three stories of ornate gold filigree and carvings – a warehouse full of antique furniture. Kam crossed the main lobby, passed the stairs that spiraled up to the mezzanine, and found a long bank of brass-plated elevators.

  Chapertah had called him late last night, sounding drunk and sleepy. He had heard that Kam was in town for a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday and asked if he'd come and see him. Kam had only met him once before years ago. He couldn't recall having made any kind of impression on a man who was world-renowned as a cosmologist, but otherwise cool and withdrawn and a little bit loopy. An egghead. Kam had to admit though that he felt honored by the invitation. After all, Chapertah was the Pavarotti of the Cosmology world. But something about the call, or Chapertah's inflection or tone, made Kam uneasy. After all, he was just a retired History Professor. He had no claim to fame, had never published anything of significance. What the hell did this guy want from him?

  He got off on the eighth floor and followed the room arrows past a stairwell, a noisy ice machine, and finally to room 10-242 at the end of a short corridor. The hallways seemed so narrow, much narrower than he remembered. He knocked lightly and waited. Then he knocked again. The door clicked and moved aside slightly.

  Chapertah peeked around the opening, his hair unkempt, and his eyes puffy, like he had just been woken up from a drugged sleep. He squinted at Kam for a few seconds as if he had decided he was the wrong person.

  "Chapertah. It's O'Brien. You . . . "

  "Come . . . " waved the sci
entist, in a hurry to close the door. "Were you followed?" Before Kam could answer the odd question, Chapertah chained the door. He had his face pressed up against the peephole, up on the tips of his toes in his stocking feet. He was short, about five foot two. His white shirt had come out of the back of his pants.

  "Indra. Is everything alright?"

  "Oh yes. Life is wonderful." He pushed the thick black hair out of his eyes. "Sit down." He took Kam by the elbow and led him past the bed to two chairs around a small round table. The only light in the room was the glow from the TV set to some News channel, the sound muted. The curtains were closed tight.

  Chapertah pushed Kam into a chair. "No, I am not alright and I thank you for asking. But that should not be your concern." Chapertah sat on the edge of his unmade bed, his hair sticking up, several days’ growth of beard visible on his unlined face.

  Kam waited for more, but his host seemed pre-occupied. "How is your health? You look like you haven't slept," Kam asked.

  Chapertah smoothed the bedcovers down, looking distracted. His eyes were darting around in his head like flies trapped in a bottle.

  "Sleep is over rated. At least when one is awake, there are no dreams."

  "Dreams?" asked Kam.

  He answered slowly. "You American's have an interesting term for certain dreaming. Nightmares. Like horses racing through one’s head. Very poetic for people with no souls."

  The man was on the edge, but still trying to make a joke. "Chapertah, does any of this have to do with your e-mail?"

  Chapertah exploded. "My God! I had forgotten I had sent that to you as well. How could I be so foolish?” He was up now, worrying the carpet. "What am I thinking of lately? Now you are in danger too."

  "From what? A silly translation of an apocalyptic text? Something that belongs in the Enquirer?"

  Chapertah's head swiveled on its narrow stalk. "Mr. O'Brien! Don't mock that text. I too thought it was a joke. You see the idiot box? The TV?" He pointed to the set mounted in a chest high shelf unit. "A cable links it from somewhere miles away, from . . . well, we just don't know, do we. And the phone?" He spread out his spindly arms. "You think you are safe in a locked room, but there are many avenues for them. Many, many avenues. Many dark roads." He ended his tirade staring at the phone at his side. Even Kam stared at it with a newfound fascination.

  "Chapertah. You need rest. Why don't I . . . "

  Chapertah was angry now and appeared less confused. "Be quiet and hear me out." He went again to the window, touching the glass." I am sorry. But you were the only one I could think of. I had hoped you might have an open mind. I am not so sure now. Do you want to understand?"

  "I’d like to help you if I could."

  Chapertah shook his head. "You cannot help me. You can only listen." Kam sat back and raised his hands, signaling he was ready to hear the story out. "Had you ever met a Kaufmann from Stanford?" Kam shrugged. "No, I thought not. He was a Jesuit priest who taught History. An agnostic eventually, of course. Everyone who studies the Bible long enough becomes a non-believer, they say. But Kaufmann was a very . . . gentle atheist. Not like me at all. We met at a conference on Ethics. Very bright. One night over Amaretto’s several of us had a revelation, pardon the pun."

  "You're rambling."

  Chapertah set O'Brien with a fierce look of concentration. "No. I am not rambling. Revelations. The Apocalypse text. Over drinks we solved it."

  "Over drinks you solved Revelations?”

  "A puzzle that has stymied philosophers for 2000 years. Yes, we solved it. Or at least cracked open the problem. It took a few more weeks to finesse the details, using some very expensive University resources – the new super-computer at Cornell. But in the end, we had the solution."

  "And that was what you sent me?"

  "The outline basically, but yes."

  "I'm certainly no biblical scholar. Why send it to me?"

  "I sent it to you because I suspected I was insane. I needed another point of view. And it does not need, as you say, a Biblical scholar. It needs a historian. And perhaps a computer expert."

  "I'd like to help . . . "

  "What you would really like is to leave this room and forget about the ravings of Professor Indra. But that will not happen. You have passed a fork in the road, a very dark road, one you may never see again." He collected himself, sat again. "I know I am not crazy now. Believe me, but I soon will be."

  In Vietnam, Kam had once seen a soldier with the same wild look in his eyes. He was shell-shocked; had seen a buddy blown to bits only a few feet away, his partner's right hand landing in his lap. When he saw the hand, and recognized it by the bandaged thumb, he snapped. It was like something came violently unhinged inside – something that was instantly irreparable. Everyone knew who examined him, that he would never smile the same way again, like the Arkansas farm boy he once was. Chapertah looked like this now – his eyes out-of-control, all the guide wires snapped. His lips seemed to quiver. When he forced himself to relax, it only made it worse. Kam was becoming afraid of the man.

  "They've found me, O'Brien." He smiled this nervously. "In a way, it is a relief." He swallowed hard, tapping his knee with his open hand. "And in another way, it is like your hell."

  "My hell?"

  "Your Christian hell."

  "Oh," said O'Brien, waiting for it. Chapertah was working up to something. Like a runner ready for the firing of the starting pistol. "Who are they?" he finally asked.

  Chapertah's head snapped around. "Excellent question. Excellent question. Well?" He cocked his head, as if listening. "Are you ready? Once I tell you, you can never turn back, you understand."

  "I'm here, Chapertah! Tell me why."

  "I'm not sure. I thought once you might be able to help me."

  "I'll do what I can."

  "You can do nothing." Kam slapped his hands on his knees. "I should never have invited you here. You should go."

  Kam chewed his lip. He had said something wrong. Maybe he had missed a cue. "Do you need money?"

  Chapertah laughed aloud at this. "Did you know Nates?" He meant Esther Nates from Berkeley, a world-class theoretician. Before Kam could answer Chapertah continued. "She had all the money in the world and it didn’t help her for a nanosecond. And Bugsy? Who teaches Engineering at Columbia? They got to both of them."

  "What do you mean . . . "

  "Dead. They're dead."

  "Abraham must be in his late eighties . . . "

  "This wasn't natural causes."

  Kam felt dizzy. None of this made any sense. He was answering only to keep the conversation going. "Have you gone to the police?"

  "The police have phones. The police have data networks and radios and computers. What would be the point?" He froze then for a moment. If Kam didn't know better he'd guess that Chapertah had just received an electric shock. He guessed it was the scientist’s mind; now moving in fits and starts.

  "They know you're here,” said Chapertah.

  "The police?"

  "No. Abaddon."

  "Abaddon?"

  "They're old. Very old, those words." Then he laughed, an instant of humor and sanity. "My father used to say that fifteen minutes as a God was better than a thousand lifetimes as a man. Is it too late to trade?"

  Kam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A headache was beginning to boil up from somewhere in the back of his head. Indra’s body seemed less rigid now. "What do they want?"

  "They want me. I've been called."

  "Indra? Come with me. We'll go to my place by the lake. It's secluded . . ."

  "You have phones?"

  "We won't use them."

  "Computers?"

  "We'll unplug them."

  He smiled. "It doesn't matter." He shook his head slowly. "I can run, but they can't."

  "And that's good."

  "You don't understand. I mean my children? Can we hide them too?"

  "Sure. Lots of room."

  The weight of his decision seemed to bea
r down on him. He slumped. "No. I'm a practical man. A deal has been made. If Bugsy can live by it, then too can I?" He looked at his watch. "It is time. It is not a good idea to be late." When the phone rang on the side table, Chapertah jumped, and then clutched his chest. He had broken into a liberal sweat.

  He picked up the phone and said nothing. As he listened, his body sagged inward even more. Finally he said, "I understand." He put the phone back on the hook very carefully. He stood, bent his knees, his eyes clamped shut. His body was shaking.

  "The Book of Revelations speaks of a terrible future, Mr. O'Brien. A time when one man will have the power to rule all humans, but he will be like a beast. I have seen his face."

  Despite his skepticism Kam felt like the air in the room had suddenly dropped ten degrees.

  "The key to Revelations, the key to this horrible future, the missing piece for all these decades – is the dark road."

  Kam repeated it, his lips dry. "The dark road."

  "Yes." Chapertah swallowed and a shiver ran through his body.

  "Or as we know it, the Internet." Then he picked up a straight back chair in unsteady hands, opened his red-rimmed eyes and threw it and himself against the drapes and the wide expanse of window, tumbling out of O'Brien's sight over the eighth floor balcony railing in a hail of glass.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After the police accompanied Kam to the hotel lobby, and asked him to keep himself available, he sat down heavily on one of the wide period couches. He was running the image of Chapertah, as he threw himself against the window, over and over in his mind. What an incredible way to die, he thought.

  Kam had rushed to the edge of the room just in time to catch an image of Chapertah's dark form plunging into the roof of a waiting limousine eight floors below. The chair Chapertah used to break the glass, shattered in the middle of the street. The driver of the black limo leapt out of the driver’s door and rolled on the pavement, his hands still clinging to a newspaper. Another cab screeched to a halt, only inches from the driver's head. Kam imagined it must have sounded like a bomb going off inside the waiting limousine.