by Steven James
He shook his head. It looked like he’d been crying.
She pointed up. “In the sanctuary?”
He nodded once again.
“I’ll be back for you.”
Twenty feet past him, she found the stairs that led up to the church itself.
++++
I heard movement twenty or thirty meters to my right and went to check it out but only found a stray dog, mangy and lean. It wore a collar. Likely, it’d been someone’s pet and was then left behind when its owners moved away, and was driven by its circumstances to become what it was now.
A stray dog is one raised in captivity.
A feral one grows up wild.
Ali, Fayed, Blake, Dylan—I wondered which type each of them was.
Angela contacted me that Pack-a-derm Shipping, the company that brought the mannequins to Toronto, also shipped to Detroit.
Pack-a-derm.
Pachyderm.
Elephants.
The War of the Elephants.
Everything was starting to come together.
++++
Sharyn entered through the back—the narthex—of St. Gerard’s Church.
This wasn’t anything like the small chapel they used when they filmed the movie Sanctuary, the church where Millie’s dad had been the minister. That was a much smaller clapboard building. This was more of a cathedral.
The high, vaulted ceiling had crumbled through in half a dozen places and uncertain sunlight oozed in as if it were wary of the consequences of entering the decrepit sanctuary.
Surprisingly, most of the windows were still intact and the ones that were made of stained glass distorted and twisted the light as it came through so that nothing looked quite natural in the old church.
Vile, sacrilegious graffiti marked the west wall up front near the transept.
In addition to words mocking religion and faith, someone had drawn the snake in the Garden of Eden encircling a naked Eve, its fangs embedded in her neck, a trickle of blood and yellow venom dripping down and across her chest as her face was contorted in pain.
Many of the brick supports for the building were crumbling under the weight of the years. However, the sturdy wooden beams above Sharyn’s head looked surprisingly resistant to time and decay.
“Hello?” she called anxiously. “Livvy, are you here?”
The cavernous room played with her words in a way that seemed to both swallow them and amplify them at the same time, creating a hollow, eerie echo.
“Are you here . . . here . . . here?”
++++
Only because of Ralph’s military training did he hear the soft padding of movement around the edge of one of the crumbled walls.
He eyed down his Glock’s barrel. “I’m FBI. Step out with your hands up.”
A man did step out. A man who dwarfed even Ralph.
“Hands up!” Ralph said.
The giant raised his hands.
“Now turn around.”
The man didn’t move.
Ralph had never met this man, had only seen him in the footage of Blake driving over the border from Windsor—he was Blake’s associate.
“I said turn around.”
But the man just stared at him. Didn’t reply. Still didn’t move.
“Maybe you don’t speak English. Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Wait, you don’t look German. No lederhosen.”
No response.
Ralph evaluated things. In his entire life, he couldn’t recall ever being outmatched in a fight, but this guy looked like he could pick him up and break him in half.
The man finally said, “You’re gonna need backup.”
“Ah. So you do speak English. I don’t like calling in backup when there’s only one person. Waste of resources.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t think that needs to be your primary concern right now.”
“I’m giving you the chance to walk away.” The man’s voice reminded Ralph of the sound of a concrete mixer.
“I’m the one with the gun.”
“Yes.”
Ralph smiled slightly. “Alright, big guy. Easy way or hard way?”
“Let’s go with the hard way.”
“I’m not entirely disappointed you said that.”
++++
Rather than come at me, the dog snarled briefly, then stared past my shoulder, gave two raspy yaps, and backed away.
Someone or something was behind me.
Fayed?
I spun, Glock in hand.
Blake stood between me and the wall.
Beyond him lay the stairwell to the bomb shelter.
He dropped his gun and kicked it aside. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you, Patrick?”
“I might,” I said. “Get on your knees.”
++++
Footsteps echoed lightly from the stairwell that descended into the bomb shelter, and Ali tilted up the flashlight.
Fayed appeared. “How many agents came with you, Ali?”
“Two.”
“And will they return you to the federal building?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “And I’ll do it when I get there.”
The vests that The Brigade of the Prophet’s Sword used were slim and easily concealed under a person’s shirt, or sometimes just around his or her waist. Some were even sculpted to avoid detection in a pat-down. During Ali’s training in Yemen, he’d learned how to use them efficiently.
Fayed aimed a handgun at Ali and set the suicide vest down before backing up two steps.
“Go ahead and put it on.”
“Why a gun? Do you not trust me? Would you shoot me after we have made it this far?”
“This gun isn’t meant for you, brother. It is meant for the agents.”
Ali brushed one hand lightly across the back of his pants, to make sure that the handcuffs were ready, and then walked toward the vest.
++++
As Ralph approached the big guy to cuff him, the man barreled forward, hands still in the air, still raised to the side.
He must have guessed that since he wasn’t reaching for a weapon, Ralph wouldn’t shoot.
And Ralph didn’t.
He wasn’t about to have his conscience trouble him for dropping someone who might not be armed. If the guy had a weapon, sure. No problem. But as it was, it looked like he was going to have to take care of this a different way.
Since his holster was still back at the federal building, Ralph tossed his gun out of reach and readied himself to take the full force of the freight train.
At impact, they both went crashing heavily to the floor.
++++
“We had a deal,” Blake said to me.
“Deal’s off. Besides, you didn’t deliver Dylan. Where is he?”
“Is Fayed here?”
“Get on your knees, Blake, and tell me where Dylan is.”
Cuff him, Pat, then get back to the stairwell.
++++
Trying not to cringe from the pain from his injured rib, Ali pulled his shirt on over the suicide vest.
“It looks good,” Fayed told him. “I can’t even tell that you’re wearing it.”
++++
As Sharyn moved forward, the dampened light that sank through the stained glass merged into an odd smear of translucent colors. One of her hands looked reddish brown, the other a muted orange. As she turned to scan the area, the colors rotated, shifting, sliding across her skin.
“Dylan?”
“Over here.”
The voice came from the front of the church. Male, but, with the odd acoustics of the building, she couldn’t tell if she’d ever heard that voice before. She expected that it was him, but wasn’t certain. Also, it’d been fifteen years since she’d heard
Dylan speak.
He must have entered through the room near the front where the priests would change.
She couldn’t see his face. He was backlit from a window that would’ve looked down on the altar if it were still there.
From where she stood, her flashlight beam wouldn’t have reached him, so she slipped it into her back pocket thinking that, if necessary, she could use it as a weapon later. Pat had told her that the man he’d fought in the attic had used his light as a distraction. Maybe she could do that here.
“Are you alone?” the man asked.
“Yes. Where’s my daughter?”
“Set your gun on the floor. Any knives. Anything else you have.”
“First tell me where my daughter is.”
“Safe. Close. You’ll see her soon enough. Put your weapons down.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because even though you’re alone, it doesn’t mean that I am.”
She looked down and saw a red dot on her chest. It wavered back and forth for a moment and then established itself right over her heart. When she gazed up, she could see a dark form crouched on the balcony, but it was impossible to identify who it might be.
Slowly, she knelt and laid her gun down, but kept the flashlight in her pocket.
“It’s good to see you again, Scarlett.”
“No one has called me that name in a long time.”
“That’s too bad. It’s a beautiful name. Come here.”
The floor was covered with layers of grit and dust. The broken ceiling panels that had long ago cratered in and crumbled to pieces now littered the floor. The pews were gone, leaving the vast space vacant: a shell encasing nothing but forgotten prayers and hymns lost to the past.
++++
Ali heard Agent Bowers shout to him, “Ali? Are you there?”
The sound distracted Fayed momentarily and Ali rushed him. Fayed got off a shot, but it only went into Ali’s leg and it wasn’t enough to stop him.
They struggled for a moment, and finally Ali was able to grab the gun and throw it toward the wall. He snapped one end of the handcuffs around Fayed’s wrist, and the other cuff around his own.
“I have a vest,” he hollered to Bowers. “I will blow it! I do not want it to spread! I have Fayed! Close the door now!”
87
2:34 P.M.
Dispersal
I heard Ali shouting that he had a vest and to shut the door and finally all that he had in mind became clear to me. It’d never been about capturing Fayed.
If you don’t close the door and he kills himself, the particles in the air could infect this entire block. You can’t let that happen. He’s close enough to being contagious. It could spread through the whole city.
Blake said to me, “So you do have Fayed here.”
“Go down and meet him.”
“Think I’ll pass.” Blake backed up. “It looks like you have a choice, Agent Bowers. Chase me, or seal up that shelter.”
“How about both?” I said, and darted toward the bomb shelter as Blake ran in the opposite direction.
++++
Fayed yanked harshly at the handcuff, then with his free hand he punched Ali in his injured face, and while Ali was off balance, he dragged him to the side, reaching for the gun.
“Close it now, Agent Bowers!” Ali shouted. He didn’t want to blow the vest until the seal was complete.
He couldn’t!
But he also couldn’t wait.
++++
I scrambled down the steps to the bomb shelter door, saw a man aiming a gun at Ali.
“Tell my sister I love her.” Ali hollered, “Close it. Now!”
I slammed the door and spun the lock.
++++
As the door closed, Ali said, “You deserve this, Fayed.”
“Brother,” the man gasped. “I—”
And in his final moments, Ali did not pledge his love to God, but whispered the name of his sister instead.
This is for you, Azaliya, he thought.
“—am not—”
Ali closed his eyes—
“Fay—”
Ali depressed the trigger.
88
Even from this side of the bomb shelter, I could hear the explosion and feel the rumble through the floor. I could only pray that after all these years the seal would be enough to keep the aerosolized particles in.
Ali was dead. Fayed was dead. Blake was here, was close by.
The only one we didn’t know about was Dylan.
Blake. Find him. Stop him.
Go.
So I did, sprinting in the direction he’d gone.
++++
As Sharyn’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she was able to more clearly see the outline of the man, but still could not tell for certain if it was Dylan.
A simple wooden chair sat beside him where the altar would have been.
Just like in the climax of Sanctuary.
He rested one hand on top of the chair. “Have you been to this church before?”
“No.”
“Neither have I, but I read up on it. They have weddings here.”
“Who does?”
“Goth kids mostly. The space is free. It’s memorable. Unique. And illegal—which I’m guessing adds to the thrill. They sweep it out, tweet last-minute invites so the police don’t show up, and voilà! Good to go, as long as the church doesn’t fall in on your head and crush everyone to death.”
Hearing him speak that much, she was finally able to identify that it was Dylan’s voice.
Yes, it was him.
“I thought this place would be appropriate.”
“For what?”
“Us,” he said. “Come closer.”
She’d taken four steps and dipped into the shadows again when she heard the soft brush of a light footfall behind her, just to her left.
Sharyn spun to face the threat, but was a breath of a second too late and saw only the blurring sweep of the pipe swinging toward her head.
++++
Dylan nodded toward the person who’d helped him, the one who’d given him advice on how to leave a clean crime scene, the one who’d led him to the graffiti artist who called himself Igazi.
“Are you ready?” Dylan said.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“Well then, I guess it’s time to get started.”
“I’ll go get the girl.”
++++
The big guy could take a punch.
No matter how hard Ralph pummeled him in the jaw, the man shook it off. And when Ralph hit him in the stomach, it was like punching a tree trunk.
But Ralph could take a punch as well.
Neither of them backed down.
Ralph gathered his strength, balled up his fist, and hauled off a punch to the guy’s stomach as hard as he’d ever hit anyone. This time, finally, it had an effect. The behemoth stumbled backward, but when Ralph swung again, he deftly avoided the punch, grabbed Ralph, and threw him face-first into the cement-block wall.
Okay, so that was a bad idea executed poorly.
Ralph turned and faced him, worked his jaw back and forth, and then glanced at the soot now smeared across his chest. “And see, I really liked this shirt. Now you’ve made me mad.”
++++
A stretch of greasy water lay before me. Shallow. At least four meters wide.
Blake had stepped into it, and the wet footprints led south, away from the far edge of the puddle.
Judging by the stride length and partial sole impressions, I could tell he’d been running, probably full-out.
I crossed the water.
His wet footprints disappeared back into the gloom.
++++
Christie parked behind a Yaris
that she assumed was Sharyn’s car, and once again checked the text she’d received from Sharyn’s number, an urgent request for her to get to this church as quickly as possible. We can talk in private here, it read.
Sharyn had told her earlier that she wouldn’t have time to get together today, so it all seemed strange to Christie. But since the flight didn’t leave for another couple of hours, it worked out. She left her car and went looking for a way to get into the church.
++++
As I ran through the old factory looking for Blake, I thought of the case, of everything that’d occurred this week.
The mannequins in the house. The unmelted ice in the whiskey glass in the dead scientist’s garage. The timing of what happened there as Blake got away, and I realized that it didn’t fit. That it couldn’t fit.
There were no ice trays in that house.
This went deeper than we thought.
Yes. And why Detroit? Why not another city?
Because location matters. There’s something here that isn’t anywhere else, and that makes it the ideal place for this.
Pack-a-derm.
Ferilex.
Die in your rage.
Then a thought, and if I was right, it would turn everything on its head.
I couldn’t take time now to put a call through to DeYoung or Kennedy, but I would as soon as I’d apprehended Blake.
89
Sharyn heard voices, but they were faint.
One was her daughter’s, but the sound seemed to be coming from a faraway place, disguised and forgotten, finding its way to her not through the air but through some sort of thick liquid.
“Mooommmmy? Are you okaaaaaay, Mommy?”
Sharyn wasn’t even sure if she was awake or dreaming.
Awake. You’re awake, Sharyn.
But that’s what you would tell yourself while you were dreaming.
Open your eyes.
They’re closed. Open your—
She opened them, winced, and tried to gather her bearings. She could tell that she was lying on her side on something hard. Although her head throbbed, she didn’t seem to be hurt anywhere else, and when she tried moving her arms and legs, she found that she wasn’t tied up or restrained.