by Ethan Cross
It was time for another sacrifice.
72
The suspect was just sitting in his car. Marcus could tell that it was a man, but little else could be discerned through the increasing snowfall. It appeared that the man had a cell phone to his ear. “It’s not a Camry,” he said.
Vasques lowered her binoculars and said, “It could definitely pass for one in the dark.”
“Maybe.”
Marcus’s phone vibrated in his pocket. The display showed an unknown number, and he knew exactly what that meant. It had to be Ackerman. He pressed the power button on top of the phone to deny the call and avoid further distractions.
“Who was it?”
“Not important.”
“Does he call you a lot?”
“All the damn time.”
Belacourt’s voice came over the radio, cutting their conversation short. “Okay, all units move in. We want him alive.”
Marcus had overheard Vasques debating with Belacourt about how to handle any strange vehicles. She had persisted in her belief that they should allow the killer to approach the house and catch him in the act. She was worried that capturing the wrong person could alert the real killer to their presence. Belacourt had argued that they had no officers in the house, for fear of them being seen by the cameras, and they hadn’t had time to loop the feed. He had been worried about the woman’s safety. Marcus knew that they were both wrong and both right. Although, in this situation anyway, he agreed with Belacourt. Of course, he never would have told Vasques that.
The man in the car had put down the cell phone and was staring at some small device that he was cradling against the steering wheel. The bright LED display of the device lit the man’s features with an eerie glow. It could have been some type of remote video monitoring system.
Marcus watched as the police units converged on the dark blue sedan. Four SWAT team members in full body armor approached unseen alongside a neighbor’s house. Then three of the unmarked vehicles drove up, waiting to hit the lights until they were right on top of the suspect vehicle. The cars skidded to a halt and blocked the target vehicle in on all sides. Coordinating with the vehicles, the SWAT team scrambled through the snow and surrounded the sedan. The officers in the cars had their guns drawn and covered the suspect. The whole thing took only a few seconds, and the suspect was secure.
The man was wearing jeans and a button-down dress shirt with some type of logo on the left-hand pocket. He wasn’t dressed all in black or even dressed appropriately to go trudging through the snow.
Vasques swore under her breath. “It’s not him.”
“No, just a guy who parked on the wrong street. I’m betting that was a GPS unit that he was looking at. He’s lost.”
“Dammit, if the Anarchist was out there watching, he’s definitely gone now.”
Marcus took another long swig of coffee and said, “He’s not here. We’re in the wrong place.”
73
Schofield heard soft music playing inside Liz Hamilton’s bedroom. It was some type of acoustic coffee-house rock. Her living room smelled like a forest. A beautiful Fraser Fir Christmas tree covered with decorative orbs and lights and topped by an angel blocked the home’s front window. It was a healthy and fragrant tree. An expensive one that seemed out of place in the modest single-bedroom home. He looked up at the angel perched near the ceiling. Its eyes seemed to follow him accusingly.
The door to the bedroom lay only a few feet away, and the animal part of his brain was exhilarated by the proximity and by what he was about to do. He had no plans to drug this woman and deliver her to the Prophet. He had no plans to shoot this one. This time, he would demonstrate his new-found strength by overpowering her and consuming her soul. He was about to force the type of confrontation that he had previously worked so hard to avoid, and in prospect, the act felt strangely liberating. It would give him confidence that he would finally be able to face the Prophet. It would prove that he was indeed stronger than he had ever been.
Knowing that if he thought too long about it then the unknown variables and risks would prove too dissuasive, he acted quickly and rashly. He kicked in the door. The lock plate cracked easily from the frame, and the door swung inward.
The light from the living room flooded into the bedroom and lit Liz Hamilton’s face. The noise and light caused her to spring up, instantly alert. She looked directly at him. Her shrill cry filled the bedroom and made him hesitate for just a split second. But it provided enough time for Liz to roll from her bed and lunge into the attached master bathroom. She slammed the door in his face.
He stepped back to kick it in, but then he realized her plan. He knew the layout of her house as well as she did. The bathroom connected to a small laundry room that in turn opened back into the kitchen. She wasn’t locking herself in the bathroom. She was heading for the back door off the kitchen.
Trying to block her escape, Schofield turned back and ran through the ruined door of the bedroom, past the Fraser Fir in the living room, and into the home’s kitchen.
He slid around the corner on the dark linoleum. The kitchen lights were dark, but a window above the sink provided access for ambient illumination. He could see Liz’s dark shape in the shadows. The thrill of the hunt had his adrenaline pumping. He felt alive. She grabbed for something on the counter and lunged forward.
With a speed born of pure animal instinct, he pulled to the side and barely avoided taking the knife in the center of his abdomen. It sliced through his black jacket. He was not normally a fighter, but that didn’t mean that he lacked the ability to defend himself. He slapped the knife from her hand and lunged for her throat.
His weight overpowered her, and they fell to the ground, his hands crushing her larynx. Liz tried to scream, but it died in her throat as a harsh choking rasp. Her fingers clawed up at him.
A light burst through the window in the back door. His stare shot in that direction—he was half expecting to see a policeman aiming a gun and a Maglite through the glass. But there was nothing there. It must have been another car driving through the alley. Luckily, he had pulled his Camry far enough into Liz’s yard to allow the car to pass.
Schofield heard a noise and looked back down in time to see Liz pull a nearby drawer completely out of the cabinet and slam it against his head.
Falling backward away from her, he landed flat on his back on the dark linoleum. He reached to his head and found it bloody and aching. The sudden pain brought a moment of clarity, and he wondered what he had been thinking. Had he wanted to be caught this time?
The sound of her footfalls scurried toward the bathroom, and he pulled himself up from the floor.
Stumbling after her in pursuit, he grabbed the handle of the bathroom door and shook it. Locked. The doors were cheap hollow-cores, and he kicked it in easily. She had already moved through the other door and into the bedroom.
She looked back and screamed again as he rushed from the shadows. He tackled her down onto the bed and pounded his fists against her. Another scream filled the air, and it took him a moment to realize that it was coming from deep in his own throat.
She pulled away and tried to crawl across the bed, but he grabbed her legs and wrenched her back beneath him.
His hands found her neck again, and he squeezed even tighter than before. The light from the living room shone over her face, which was turning purple as she fought for air. She clawed at his hands, scratching against his gloves. Then she swiped at his neck, and her nails dug into the skin on the side of his throat.
He screamed again and shook her, pressing her farther down into the folds of the blankets and mattress. His fingers were like a vise, and he could see the strength leaving her.
She was a blond just like his oldest daughter, Alison. He had never noticed the resemblance before, but he saw it now. He thought of his wife and children and what the Prophet would do if he found them.
He regretted having to hurt this woman. He regretted being forced to kill t
hem all. He had never wanted any of this. But if he had to choose between the sacrificed women and his family, the decision was simple. He had always gone along with the Prophet before for fear that the older man would hurt his wife and children, but it had also made him stronger. That was the Prophet’s mistake. The killings had filled Schofield’s hollow heart and given him the strength to fight back. A strength that he had never known before.
Liz’s arms continued to flop ineffectually against him for a few more seconds, but then they fell limp. He looked deep into her eyes as she lost her grip on this world and slipped away.
He caught her soul, her life force, and drank it in.
He debated on whether to leave a signature, but he supposed that it didn’t really matter. Prison wasn’t an option for him. If the police tied him to one murder, that would be more than sufficient to destroy his life. So he removed a small folding knife from his pocket and carved the Circle A into her forehead. Then he slit her wrists and used her blood to smear a large Circle A on the wall. He rubbed some more blood into his mouth and felt more of her power enter him.
The house was a mess, debris from the confrontation and other evidence everywhere. This was exactly what Schofield had always tried to avoid. His fingers found the gash on his neck, and he looked down at Liz’s hands. His DNA would be there for sure and maybe in other places in the house from the wound on his head.
And they had also made a lot of noise. A neighbor might have called the police. They could be on their way at that moment. They could be approaching the house, closing in on him.
Pulling his silenced pistol, Schofield checked out the windows and then stepped into the backyard. He didn’t see anyone looking out their windows, but that didn’t mean that they hadn’t called the police and retreated to the safety of their homes. He needed to be quick.
Inside Liz’s garage he found a pair of hedge clippers. Then he went back inside and, after dropping the garden tool onto her bed, retrieved a gallon of bleach from the laundry room. Starting in the kitchen, he dumped the bleach anywhere he thought he might have dripped blood. After following the trail back to the bedroom with the bleach, he soaked the body and the sheets. Then he looked down at the woman’s fingers. Knowing what had to be done, he picked up the hedge clippers.
74
Sitting in the basement of his antiques shop, the Prophet prepared to confer with his master about the complications arising from Schofield’s defiance. He placed three pieces of blotter paper treated with lysergic acid diethylamide—or LSD—into his mouth. Most hits of acid obtained on the street contained a mere one hundred micrograms or less per hit, but in order to break down the walls of this reality and contact the other side, the Prophet employed a dose containing four milligrams. He had no fear of overdose, since no documented human deaths had ever been caused directly from the use of LSD. The only downside of the drug for him was that regular use caused a rapid tolerance build-up due to the down-regulation of 5-HT2A receptors in the brain. Luckily, his tolerance would diminish after several days without use, so there was little fear of his lines of communication with the Father ever being severed.
The drug could be absorbed either sublingually by holding it in the mouth or in the stomach if it was swallowed. But sublingual absorption led to a faster onset of the drug’s effects. The Prophet needed answers now, so he held the pieces of blotter paper in his mouth for several moments, chewing them and rubbing them on his tongue, before swallowing.
He stood up from the old wooden table and walked across the cold concrete floor to the sturdy cage that held the girl. He was naked and each step sent lovely tendrils of sensation up through his body. Schofield had said the girl’s name was Melissa Lighthaus, but the Prophet didn’t care about her name. She was just another dumb animal, a piece of livestock, to be used and thrown away. She was merely another one of the slaves that would soon die in The Great Fire.
He had soundproofed the block walls of the old basement in order to contain the screams of the women it held. This was especially necessary since the old basement actually extended farther out than the building’s upper floors. The sidewalk was directly above the cage. The thought of the other slaves passing over her without any knowledge excited the Prophet. He had shared this information with her to add to her despair. So many people, so close. Yet no one could help her.
The effects of his medicine were taking hold, and the sight would be upon him soon. Reality was already changing around him, breaking down. What none of the slaves realized was that hell wasn’t in another place. It was all around them at all times. But on the darkest night, when the ritual was complete, the barriers placed around this world that kept the Father out would be no more. It would be such a glorious day when the walls crumbled. When hell and Earth would finally become one. Mankind was approaching the next momentous and inevitable step in its evolution. Soon, The Work would be complete, and he would step out from among the slaves and sit at the right hand of the true god.
But until that day came, he enjoyed being underground. It made him feel more connected to the Father by being separate from the world of the slaves.
The girl cowered in the corner of the cage. Her skin seemed to glow. Her eyes were bright purple orbs shining out from inside her skull. Her stink permeated the air from the bucket he had placed in one corner of the cage for her to use as a bathroom. But soon the smell would no longer be a bother. He could taste the metallic tinge of the medicine on his tongue as the other side began to bleed through. The padded walls were breathing around him. Eyes watched him from the dark corners of the basement. The shadows were alive, pregnant with the dark ones. The concrete had melted and now it rippled beneath him. His feet were sticking to it and sinking into it, and it took great power to pull them free and move across the room.
The basement was a large open space supported by concrete pillars. In its center, there was a large black pentagram painted onto the floor. Tall mirrors lined up with each of the symbol’s five points. A black metal stool rested within the pentagram’s center. The Prophet entered the sacred circle, sat on the stool, and waited.
The shadows along the outer perimeter of the circle changed forms. Oily black figures swirled all around him now, the dark ones. His thoughts curved in on themselves as he broke through to the other side of reality. Strange shapes crawled across the concrete. His reflection in the mirrors disappeared, and a smoky darkness swam on the other side of the glass.
“Father, Schofield has betrayed us. He has rejected The Work and rebelled against us both. I need guidance. The darkest night is so close.”
He closed his eyes and waited for the Father to show him the way. Strange colored patterns swirled behind his eyelids like a vivid kaleidoscope that transcended time and space.
Then a face emerged from the ocean of colors.
The Prophet opened his eyes and spoke into the darkness. “The boy is of the bloodline, and we’ve been preparing for this day. Still, I don’t know if he’s ready. But it’s not my place to question your will, Father. The boy will be the new Chosen. The true Antichrist.”
75
Vasques walked through Liz Hamilton’s home as if in a daze. The whole place smelled of bleach and showed obvious signs of a struggle. Crime-scene techs were pouring in and unpacking their equipment. The scene was still fresh.
Less than an hour before her arrival, a neighbor had reported some strange noises coming from Ms. Hamilton’s home. Two officers had been dispatched and had found the body. After that, there had been little point in watching the other woman’s house, but they still left a few officers and the four members of SWAT, just in case. Belacourt stood near the body, conferring with Stupak and another of the detectives from the Major Crimes Task Force. Belacourt’s clothes were wrinkled and worn, while Stupak looked like an investment banker with his expensive suit, perfectly shaved black head, and sculpted goatee.
As she took in the scene, Vasques couldn’t comprehend that this could have been the same man. The carn
age and violence were completely out of character for the Anarchist.
Belacourt walked over and said, “What do you think?”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I agree,” Belacourt said, stroking his mustache. “This has to be the work of a copycat.”
“Have you checked the attic for cameras?”
“Not yet, but we will.”
“You should get a handwriting guy to analyze the writing on the wall and the victim’s forehead. If we find the same cameras and the handwriting matches, then we’ll know for sure that this was him.”
“I just don’t understand this one,” Belacourt said. “For God’s sake, he cut her fingers off with a pair of hedge clippers. If this was the Anarchist, then he’s getting sloppy. Losing his damn mind. But that will make him easier to catch.”
Vasques bent over the body and looked into Liz Hamilton’s eyes. “It may, but it could also make things infinitely worse. If this was him, then he’s definitely escalating, becoming even more dangerous. I’ve got a bad feeling that there’s going to be a lot more blood shed before this is over.”
76
Marcus leaned back against the headrest of the Crown Vic and growled to himself. He looked toward the front of Liz Hamilton’s house. It was old and small, but well kept. Apartments that looked government-subsidized lined the opposite side of the street. Officers had set up a perimeter, but the apartments had emptied as the neighbors fought for a good view. It was like some kind of macabre block party. They could probably see as much as he could, which wasn’t much. There was a fresh crime scene and a dead woman in that house, and his own stupidity had made it so that he couldn’t visit it. He wasn’t sure how Belacourt would react at seeing that he was still in town, and he didn’t need the extra complications. He couldn’t afford another wasted night in jail. As much as he hated to, he would have to trust Vasques’s assessment of the scene.