“Would Ben Jackson be the type of man to think this to mean that his son was implicating himself in Maggie Walter’s murder?” Mike Peterson asked.
“That’s what I thought,” Tom Hoffman said. “But I didn’t ask him that. I asked Ben what he thought this meant and he just shrugged and said, ‘aw, you know kids. He’s probably thinking I’m bugging him for something and he just snapped. He’ll get over it.’ ”
“Did he?” Mike asked.
“I don’t know.” Tom Hoffman looked at all four men gathered around the table. “I headed over there the next day and Ben told me that his son had suddenly packed a few days worth of clothes, took all the money in the house, and skipped town. He and his wife were just debating whether they should phone the police and report a theft when Mrs. Jackson realized it was probably their son that had taken the money.”
“Has Clint been in contact with his parents since he left?” Frank asked.
“No.” Tom Hoffman looked grave again. “He hasn’t. But get this.” He leaned forward. “Clint’s girlfriend comes up to me later that day. She tracked me down at the station actually, and told me she had some information she wanted to share. She said she was worried about Clint. I asked her if she knew where Clint was, and apparently she didn’t even know he’d skipped town.”
“He was still seeing her the whole time he was taking a sabbatical from his friends?” Frank asked.
“Yes,” Tom Hoffman nodded. “Apparently she used to sneak into his room through the window. I asked her about Clint’s sudden change in behavior and she told me everything I just told you. And what she told me was pretty much what I was suspecting. Clint was scared to death of Mark and Glenn, and felt his life was in danger. He said that these guys, whoever they were, had been the real deal when it comes to this devil stuff. Clint and David and Mary Ann and these other kids, they weren’t really cult members or anything. They were just a bunch of stupid kids looking for something to offend their parents and the community with. And the occult and satanic trappings are the way to do it. They knew this, and they flaunted it. It made them feel important and powerful, like they were apart from society. They didn’t really believe in it.”
“But Mark Lancaster and Glenn Wilson did,” Mike said.
“Exactly! And Clint could tell the minute they held the ritual that these guys weren’t fooling around. They were serious about it, and that scared Clint and David. And I think what scared them even more is that Mark displayed his powers to them. Hell, the guy knew Clint was lying when he rattled off that fake phone number. Clint said there was no way for the guy to know his phone number—his parents’ number is unlisted. And they’d never been by his house, he hadn’t even told Mark where he lived. They always met on neutral ground. There would have been no way for Mark to know anything that personal about him. But when he recited Clint’s phone number and address in that smug way of his, Clint knew he was up against something. And it scared the hell out of him.
“So he told Mary Ann everything. He told her not to tell anybody, that he was afraid of what might happen to her. Mary Ann, she knew that Clint was from a troubled background, knew he was moody—”
Mike Peterson interrupted. “What kind of troubled background did he have?”
“Ben Jackson is an abusive tyrant,” Tom Hoffman said. “Man has a rap sheet a mile long for various offences in that house. He’s been knocking Clint around since he was three years old. Helen stays with him, though. Says it’s her Christian duty to stay married to him.”
“Lord,” Reverend Powell rolled his eyes.
“That’s what I say,” Tom Hoffman said. “Mary Ann didn’t want to believe what Clint was telling her at first, but when he disappeared she knew it had to be true. She’s scared. They’re all scared.”
“Are the kids they hung out with afraid?” Frank asked.
Tom nodded. “Yeah.” Tom gripped his empty coffee cup. “Mary Ann says that she thinks these guys not only had something to do with those skinned dogs, she thinks they may have had something to do with Maggie Walters’ death.”
“How so?” Mike Peterson asked.
“Mary Ann doesn’t know,” Tom says. “She just feels they had something to do with it. She says Clint wouldn’t have run off like that so soon after Maggie turned up dead.”
Mike Peterson and Frank Black appeared to think about this. Vince’s mind was racing. He had the feeling Tom Hoffman wasn’t telling them everything. “So…you’re saying Clint’s girlfriend was spreading rumors of cult involvement just based on…their own fears?”
Tom Hoffman sighed. He looked shifty, his eyes flicking back and forth. “Listen, Mary Ann told me more, but…”
“For God’s sake, spit it out, man!” Reverend Powell hissed.
“Okay, look,” Tom Hoffman leaned forward, his voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t tell you anymore here. We’ll have to go somewhere else, more private. Mary Ann did tell me more, and I checked it out and…and this shit is big. Real big, okay? Mary Ann doesn’t know how big it is, and I’m not going to tell her. Ignorance is bliss, right? The less she knows, the safer she is. When she told me certain things, though, I got curious and did some checking and found out shit that will blow your mind.”
“Tom,” Mike said, his voice just as low, his tone gentle and understanding. “We understand. We’re working on the same thing and we know how big this is. We understand the need for secrecy. Our plan is to gather and verify as much information as we can and take it to a trusted law enforcement official who has the power and authority to stop it. Why don’t we resume this discussion at Reverend Powell’s when your shift is over? We’ll show you some of the documents we have that will support what you’ve probably found out, and you can tell us more of what you came up with. Okay?”
Tom Hoffman nodded. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He still looked nervous but he was trying very hard to rein it in. “Yeah. I’d really feel better if I knew more about what was going on.”
Reverend Powell leaned forward. “Tom, trust in the Lord and you will be safe. Nothing can hurt you if you put on the armor of God.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tom Hoffman said. He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I gotta go. My shift ends at two. I’ll meet you at Reverend Powell’s.”
“We’ll be there,” Mike said.
They rose from the table and Mike threw down some bills for the tip. They meandered to the cashier’s and Tom insisted on paying the bill. They said nothing of the topic at heart until they were outside, walking down the front steps of the restaurant.
Reverend Powell was walking next to Tom Hoffman. “Trust me, Tom. You’re safe in working with us on this. With our combined spiritual strength, and the wisdom Mike and Frank have on this dangerous cult, we will no doubt prevail. But we need your help. We’re prepared to share all available information we may have if you’re willing to work with us.”
“Count me in,” Tom said. They walked out to the parking lot and Vince saw that Tom’s patrol car was parked a few cars down from Reverend Powell’s mini-van. Frank Black was walking behind them, with Mike staying beside the Reverend and the law enforcement officer. An elderly couple was hobbling toward the restaurant; Mennonite couples with five children in tow were in the parking lot talking to a middle-aged couple. A woman with short blond hair and a man with shoulder-length black hair and a mustache were walking up to the restaurant holding the hands of a two-year old girl. The sky was cloudless and still, blue as the sea. A blond haired man in his early twenties stepped out between two parked cars in the row on Vince’s right and began walking toward the restaurant. Vince didn’t even know what was happening until he heard Frank shout just as he barreled into the blond man. “Mike!”
Mike whirled around, reaching for his weapon. Vince jumped at the sound of Frank’s voice and for a minute the images he received were a jumbled mass: a handgun clattering to the ground; Frank struggling with the blond man on the ground; the sound of slamming car doors and running footsteps a
nd Mike yelling “Vince, duck!” Vince turned and saw two more clean-cut young men brandishing handguns cutting through the parking lot and he caught a brief glimpse of Mike raising his handgun and firing as he felt bullets whiz by, striking the car behind him.
Vince reacted on pure instinct. He slid underneath the nearest car and reached into his pocket for the semi-automatic handgun Reverend Powell had given him. He heard a volley of shots, heard shouts and screams and running feet as people ran for cover. He heard Reverend Powell cry out in pain, followed by another volley of shots and then excited shouts: “Get him, Joel, get him, get him, get hiiiimm!”
Then the scramble of running feet stopped and Vince saw a guy peering under the parked cars. The guy was two cars down from him. The man’s eyes blazed with hatred as he looked at Vince. He pointed a black handgun at him and Vince didn’t even think about it, he just pointed his own weapon and fired. He fired his weapon even as he was scrambling backward, trying to escape.
The guy squeezed off a shot of his own, then suddenly stiffened. He slumped down, eyes glazed open in death. Another sound of running feet and Vince was backing out from under the parked car, weapon held out, the cacophony of noise and panic enveloping him and then Mike was looming in front of him, his features panicked, out of breath. “Come on, let’s go!”
Vince followed Mike, still keeping his head low. They rounded a corner and came to the next lane in the parking lot. Vince nearly stopped right there, frozen with fear and panic. There were two men that Vince didn’t recognize lying on the asphalt. One of the men had been shot in the back twice; he was still clutching a nine-millimeter pistol. The other guy was lying unconscious a few feet away, bleeding from his nose and ear. The guy that had been shooting at Vince was lying on his stomach, part of his body underneath a Buick, still holding his weapon. Mike expelled the spent clip from his firearm and slapped another one in place. His face was dotted with sweat. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Vince followed Mike a few feet to where the others were. Tom Hoffman had been caught by surprise but had managed to draw his weapon. He was slumped on the ground by his squad car, moaning loudly, his hands pressed against his stomach to staunch the flow of blood. “Motherfuckers shot me!” he wheezed. “Motherfuckers…shot me!” His mouth sprayed a mixture of spittle and blood.
Frank Black loomed in front of them. “Are you okay?” His eyes were wide with fright.
“Where’s Reverend Powell?” Mike barked.
“They got him,” Frank said. “We gotta get the fuck out of here!”
“Where did he go?” Mike yelled, grabbing Frank roughly.
“He went to the van,” Frank said. He turned and began running to the van and Vince and Mike followed, not even caring that they were being seen by witnesses, not even noticing the screams and cries of shock and surprised outrage that were now emanating from the restaurant.
When they reached the van Vince saw that Reverend Powell had managed to get the sliding panel door open and climb in. He’d also taken the keys out of his pocket. He was lying on his side in the middle seat, his torso covered with blood. Frank grabbed the keys and leaped into the driver’s seat as Mike and Vince jumped in and shut the doors. Frank started the van and pulled out of the slot, speeding out of the parking lot onto Newport Road.
“Slow down!” Mike barked. “Slow down or you’ll get us killed.”
“You’ll get the cops on us, too,” Vince breathed. He kept looking at the road ahead of them and down at Reverend Powell, who was gasping for breath.
“Drive…” Reverend Powell gasped.
“He needs a doctor!” Vince said, feeling sick with dread. “We gotta get him to a hospital, he’s gonna bleed to death!”
“Negative,” Frank said as he headed up Newport Road.
“No,” Reverend Powell wheezed. “No…get me…”
“We can’t take him home, either,” Mike said, turning back to Vince in the rear. “Somebody had to have recognized him at that restaurant.”
“Get me home,” Reverend Powell said quickly, gritting his teeth. He was trying hard not to cry out from the pain. “Just get me to the house so you can retrieve your vehicle and get out.”
“I’m sorry,” Vince Walters said, feeling anguished at what had happened. “It’s all my fault.”
“None of this is your fault,” Reverend Powell said with a hiss. “It’s the Lord’s doing.”
“Bullshit,” Frank said from the driver’s seat.
“We’re deep in battle,” Reverend Powell said, gasping for breath. “I don’t take what happened to me personally. Our adversary is the most cunning, most dangerous being in creation. He will stop at nothing.”
“But why?” Vince felt like screaming in his anguish. He hadn’t asked for Reverend Powell to be shot, hadn’t asked for any of this. He had nothing to do with The Children of the Night cult even if his mother was involved with them. He didn’t want to be involved in it. So why was he being targeted for death?
“It’s—” Reverend Powell paused as he closed his eyes in pain. Frank was driving well despite the seriousness of the situation. They were approaching Meadow Lane Road and Frank signaled for a left hand turn into the narrow country road. “It’s the will of God,” he finally said through gritted, blood stained teeth. “If it’s His will for one of us to die in battle for Him, so be it.”
“We’ll dial 911 for you when we get to the house,” Mike said. He took off his shirt and knelt down beside Reverend Powell and pressed the garment against the wound to staunch the flow of blood. “You’ll be okay.”
“We can’t just leave him!” Vince shouted.
“You can, and you will,” Reverend Powell said, gasping for breath. “Help me into the house, then get your stuff and Maggie’s box and go! And do it quickly!”
“It isn’t right!” Vince said. He felt like crying from the frustration of their situation. He was kneeling beside the wounded man. “It just isn’t fair!”
“No, it isn’t fair,” Reverend Powell said, looking directly into Vince’s eyes. “But sometimes when you obey the will of God, that may not seem fair to you either. Abraham didn’t think it was fair when God asked that he sacrifice his only son for him. And he would have done it, too.”
“Which way do I go?” Frank Black barked. They had come to an intersection. To their right lay a farmhouse; to the left was open fields.
“Right,” Vince said.
“Do as I say,” Reverend Powell said from the rear of the van. “For your sake, for the sake of the world, take your stuff and the evidence Maggie collected and leave.”
“And do what with it?” Vince asked. He felt that they were losing a war that was already lost. “What’s the point?”
“We have to find this Mary Ann girl,” Mike said. He was sitting next to Reverend Powell, patting his shoulder and keeping another hand pressed on the shirt that he held over the gunshot wound. “Maybe she’ll talk to us.”
“Yes, find her,” Reverend Powell said. “And if you can…” He coughed violently. Mike Peterson held him back so he wouldn’t tumble out of the seat. “If you can, take this information to your contact. Take the information to the press. This group must be exposed.”
Frank swung the mini-van into Reverend Powell’s driveway. “What if nobody believes us?”
“Just do it,” Reverend Powell said. His eyes glazed over, then refocused again. “I’ll…pray for you.” Then he blacked out.
Chapter Fifteen
WHEN THEY GOT to Reverend Powell’s home they operated like a well-oiled machine. Vince and Mike helped Hank inside while Frank dashed in ahead of them and quickly gathered their belongings. Mike lowered Hank onto the sofa in the living room while Vince headed downstairs to the basement for the box of evidence in the storeroom. By the time he was back upstairs, Frank had emerged from the bedrooms with their overnight bags. Frank looked nervous. “Okay, let’s get going.”
Vince still felt ashamed and guilty for the trouble that had expl
oded around them. “I’m so sorry,” he told Reverend Powell.
“It’s okay,” Reverend Powell said. He’d just regained consciousness and Mike had brought him a glass of water. Mike’s bloodied shirt was still clamped to his belly. “Just….call me an ambulance. And…who has my keys?”
Frank rushed to the kitchen and began dialing 911 as Mike held up the keys.
“The little gold key…” Reverend Powell said, his face strained with great pain. “It opens the lock on the box. Take it.”
Mike Peterson quickly took the key off and pocketed it, then changed into a fresh shirt. “I’m sorry to have to be so abrupt about this, Reverend but….you’ve never seen us.”
Reverend Powell nodded, wincing. “No….I haven’t…”
Frank rushed back into the living room. “There’s a rescue unit on the way. Let’s go.”
Vince had only a few seconds to look back at Reverend Powell as he headed out the door. He said, “I’m sorry,” again and joined Frank Black and Mike Peterson in the rented Pontiac. Mike drove and the rest of the afternoon became a quick blur.
THROUGHOUT THE DRIVE to Ephrata, Mike kept barking at Frank to duck down below the windows. “Your description is going to be all over the police broadcasters and if a cop sees us we are dead meat,” Mike said. “Stay the fuck down!”
Frank stayed down during the drive to the Ephrata motel as Vince sat in the front seat silently, staring out the window. When they got to the motel, Mike headed to their room first to get some wet towels. When he came back he wiped down the steering wheel and front seat. “We don’t have time to shower and change clothes,” he said, looking at Vince. “There’s no blood on you. What about you, Frank?”
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