Edward hoped that Lindell didn’t start to think logically and wonder how his mother could simultaneously be inside the vacuum-sealed coffin and driving a chariot at the same time. It was the least of his worries. Yet, given the psychoses that already had their claws deep in Lindell’s brain, it seemed unlikely that the preacher would take the time to question anything at this point.
The walls were decorated with pictures of Lindell at various points in his ministry. Some showed him feeding the sick and needy in sun-baked Somalia. Others showed him in a European lake, baptizing new believers. A few caught Lindell in his full glory, red-faced and sweating profusely on stage as he warned sinners about the dangers of Hell. Edward glanced back at the dead woman in the glass box and realized that she was responsible for this part of Lindell’s life. Maybe the man had done some good in his time. However, what the preacher was about to do was on such a scale that it would completely negate everything else.
Thankfully, the hallways were deserted. Everyone was in the auditorium fighting for their lives. Edward could still hear screaming and crying, but the sounds were muffled by the cinderblock walls. He thought about searching for a phone to call the authorities, then remembered all of those police officers outside the church bearing the sigil tattoo. More than likely, quite a few people had already dialed emergency only to be told that there were officers on scene. The officers on scene, in turn, had probably radioed in and reported that the situation was under control. Additional officers not involved with the Slaves of Solomon would be dispatched at some point as the calls to 911 kept rolling in. However, Edward couldn’t take the chance and wait for help to arrive. By then, it might be too late.
Although Edward had no idea where he was going, the horses did. Abruptly, they stopped at an impressive mahogany door with a huge brass knocker in the likeness of a theater mask. A digital keypad beside the door seemed to be the only way inside, and Edward racked his brain for a possible password. Getting into that room was paramount to his survival, and he looked around frantically, searching for some way to gain access.
There were no obvious passwords, and no blunt objects to break down the door. Edward’s mind raced, and sweat poured down his brow in nervous anticipation. Then, unexpectedly one of the horses whinnied again, and Edward recalled a vivid memory from his childhood that gave him an idea.
He remembered spending days on his Papa’s farm as a boy. Papa always kept a horse or two around because he knew all the grandkids liked them. The only problem was the horses didn’t always like Papa. Especially Blackie. Papa had gotten behind Blackie once and spooked the horse. He remembered Grammy having to rush Papa to the hospital to get six broken ribs mended. Those horses sure could kick when they wanted to.
It wasn’t the best idea, but it was the only one he had. Edward unbuckled the harness and led one of the pale white horses away from the chariot and toward the door. The horse didn’t try to run or resist. It was used to human handlers.
Edward positioned the horse facing away from the door. He spotted a bulletin board close by that was littered with thumb tacks. Knowing time was of the essence, he stuck the horse in the flank with the sharp end of one and pushed as hard as he could. The horse’s eyes widened, and it began to kick and buck. Its hooves struck the door, and the hinges gave way. The door splintered and the horse took off down the hallway like its tail was on fire.
An alarm sounded, and although Edward hadn’t considered this possibility, he was comforted by the fact that this alarm might summon the police. Surely, multiple calls for distress couldn’t go unnoticed, even if there were officers on scene. Edward ran inside hoping to find something that would help him stay alive.
One glance at the room was like looking at the twin halves of Lindell’s psyche. One half of the room was a shrine to Mother Lindell: brightly painted, well-lit, filled with pictures of the sainted lady that Halford loved so much. A bookshelf stood on one wall and was filled with Biblical texts, concordances, histories, and writings on theology. The room was neat, tidy and well kept. A wax model of the woman had been fashioned in such a way that she appeared angelic, smiling broadly, illuminated by a high-powered spotlight. In one hand she held a picture of her and her son. In the other a sword which would be used to smite unbelievers. It was unsettling how lifelike the replica looked. The other half of the room, however, was far creepier.
Just as he had wanted to preserve the body of his saintly mother so he would never forget the way she had loved him, Lindell had also seen fit to preserve the memory of the atrocities that had been done to him. Although the remains couldn’t possibly be real, Edward knew they were supposed to represent the devil on Lindell’s shoulder. This was the source of so much torment, and from the look of things, Lindell had done his best to repay the favor. He remembered hearing the preacher admit to killing his father and no doubt, he had reenacted the event over and over in this very room.
The bones had been scored, burned, filed, chiseled, and broken. An extension cord had been fashioned into a makeshift noose and tied around the skeleton’s neck. A Bible had been nailed to one hand. A can of beer had been nailed to the other. No doubt, Lindell had taken his frustrations out on these remains day after day, remembering all of the horrendous things that had been done to him by his father in God’s name. This half of the room was in shambles. Trash littered the floor. The carpets hadn’t been vacuumed in forever. Everything on this half of the room was darker, dingier, sullied to match the memories they represented.
There wasn’t time to fully explore everything. The sound of a violin announced that danger was approaching. Edward wished he would have hidden the glass casket somewhere. At the moment, it was outside the door in plain sight. All Nero would have to do is remove the lid, and the entire city would be a quarantine zone within a matter of hours.
The choices were limited. Edward couldn’t run. He was in no shape to fight. His only defense was in his appearance. The violin’s schizophrenic noise was still far enough away to give Edward a minute or two to formulate a plan. He rushed back to the coffin, intent on figuring out a way to move it.
It was only as he got close enough to the body for a more rigorous inspection that he noticed something he had missed before. A small glass vial hung on a gold pendant around the dead woman’s neck. Edward felt a brief surge of hope and prayed that the nasty germ Lindell had manufactured was still confined to that vial. If not, what he did next wouldn’t matter anyway. Moving as fast as he could, Edward raced back into the office, grabbed the item that might save his life, and headed back to the coffin. It only took him a minute to pull the corpse out of the box, secure her in a nearby closet, and take her place. He had just closed his eyes and begun to play dead when Nero rounded the corner.
He must have lain there for ten minutes while Nero searched the premises. Then, without warning, the madman grabbed the reigns, coaxed the horse into motion, and began to drive. Unwilling to show his hand just yet, Edward did the only thing he could do. He closed his eyes and waited for the ride to stop.
Chapter 40
While inside the glass coffin, Edward opened his eyes long enough to see flashes of color zip past him as the horse pulled the carriage at an alarming speed. His only reassurance came from the sword he had stolen from the wax statue. Thankfully, the designers had opted not to construct it out of wax as well. It was the genuine article. The touch of cool steel made him feel better even though he had absolutely no idea how to properly wield a sword.
There was no way to determine where they were. Several times Nero stopped the horse and steered the chariot in a different direction. The hallways must have been so tight that the horse couldn’t have made the turn at full speed. Still that didn’t tell Edward much because he wasn’t familiar with The Garden‘s layout.
One thing he noticed after several minutes was the fact that they were going downhill. He couldn’t think of any reason why a church would have a loading bay or any kind of holding area that might need a graded slope. W
hich meant they were probably going to a part of the church known only to Lindell and a few select members of The Slaves of Solomon.
A secret place.
Further confirming his suspicions was the change in lighting he could perceive through his closed eyelids. One moment everything was bright. The next he was plunged into a darkness which was gradually chased away by glowing warmth. He took a chance, opened his eyes again, and saw that the light was coming from torches. They were in a cellar of some sort.
But that wasn’t quite right either. Cellars didn’t have stained glass depicting various scenes from the War in Heaven that saw a third of all angels cast out for their rebellion. This was more than a cellar. This was a church.
A church beneath a church. Nero’s inner sanctum. This must have been the place Kelly mentioned.
Edward closed his eyes again as the chariot came to an abrupt halt. Nero’s footsteps echoed off of the cold, stone floor and reverberated off of the cavernous ceiling. They had gone further underground than Edward had realized. There was another sound besides the echo of Nero’s footfalls that gave Edward room for pause and made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. It was a sound that wasn’t ominous or foreboding. In other circumstances it would have seemed almost commonplace. However, there was something about the flapping of wings that made Edward want to leap out of the glass box and run for the surface. He wanted so badly to open his eyes and see the source of the noise, but he had no idea where Nero was at this point.
The volume of air being moved by the wings made it seem as if the creature responsible was much larger than any pigeon or flock of pigeons. This was more like the sound a pterodactyl might make when flying. The thought that immediately sprang to mind was one Edward didn’t want to consider. One word kept popping into his mind over and over again, and it was a word he wanted so badly to forget right now. Angel.
He immediately thought of the shadowy figure from the laboratory, and shivered inside the glass coffin. Alastor.
Something passed in front of the light, temporarily throwing the space in front of him into darkness. Then, as if deciding to stay a while, the shape moved back, blocking out the illumination from the torch completely. Edward couldn’t see the figure, but he could discern the changes in light enough to realize that something very big was standing before him.
Edward trembled inside the glass box. If Nero was the one standing in front of him, he would see Edward shaking and realize he was an imposter. If it was an angel, there was no way to know what outcome the scenario would take. Edward tried to control his shallow breathing and force his mind to think of something less stressful. He was beginning to perspire, and corpses, as everyone knew, didn’t sweat.
He whispered silent pleas of help to God and tried to focus on the prayers he and Nick had offered up in the costume shop. They had asked God to surround them with His angels. They had asked for protection, and Edward had faith that God could do just that. He had no reason to fear anything. God had protected him thus far and would continue to do so.
Despite his faith, he nearly screamed when the lid from the glass box was removed and someone touched his forehead. Much to his surprise, there was something comforting in the touch. It wasn’t a probing, intrusive touch like he had expected. Rather, it was a gesture of reassurance that instantly sucked away all of the panic, unease and anxiety, leaving only peace in its place.
Whoever this was, it wasn’t Alastor the Executioner.
After a couple of seconds, the touch was gone. Calmly, the lid was placed back on the box, and the figure moved on. Edward discerned light on the other side of his eyelids again. Whoever had been standing before him was no longer there.
He was about to try and talk himself into believing that the figure had been Nero when someone moved in front of the light again. This time, there was no mystique in the figure’s movements. Nero grumbled as he toyed with one of the chariot’s wheels. Edward recognized the voice.
Nero’s mannerisms were also different, abrupt. He made no attempt at stealth. Edward was fairly sure that Nero hadn’t been the one to touch him. So who did that leave? Only one explanation could account for the feeling of absolute peace. Although he hesitated to term it this way, the sensation felt almost….supernatural. It had given him a brief moment of hope and was completely unlike anything he’d ever felt before. God had answered his prayer. He wasn’t alone in this struggle. God had sent help.
Edward trembled at the thought of the Lord’s angels surrounding this place, preparing to put an end to this threat. However, he suspected that his own role in all of this wasn’t quite done yet.
Nero was down at the end of the chariot cursing and working on one of the wheels. Edward knew he couldn’t lay there forever and wait for something to happen. If he was going to make a move, now was the time while Nero was preoccupied and he still had the element of surprise. The blade lay by his side, reassuring him with the touch of cold steel. He extended one finger ever so slightly and moved his finger along the edge of the blade, feeling how sharp it was.
He didn’t know if he was capable of killing another man, but he did know that it might come to that. He was surprisingly clear-headed and calmer than he had any right to be. The stranger’s touch had leeched away much of the fear in him and replaced it with something else that might have been tiny seeds of confidence.
Edward made his move. Knowing that he had only one time to get this right, he thrust his hands up and knocked the glass lid aside in one fluid motion. He grabbed the sword quickly and jumped to his feet. Nero sprang back, surprised and afraid. He was wearing his mask again, but the whites of his eyes showed through the slits. They were wide, cautious and full of trepidation.
“Sometimes bad things happen to good people,” Edward said. “But sometimes bad things happen to bad people and those people deserve it.”
“You’re not her,” Nero said as he pulled a wicked looking knife out of his tunic.
Edward tore off the wig he wore. “So I’m not.”
He grabbed the vial around his neck and clutched it. “What would happen if I shattered this on the ground?”
Nero eyed the vial cautiously. “We would both die horribly.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t?”
Nero shook his head. “I’m not scared of dying, but I don’t want to die that way. Trust me when I say it’s really a nasty little germ. Kill me with the sword instead.”
“I don’t intend to kill you. I want to talk to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Nero said.
“There’s plenty to talk about,” Edward said. “You involved me in this because you wanted to learn from me. You wanted to understand why I live like I do even after so much tragedy. Why not let me explain myself to you? Why not explain yourself to me?”
“Lindell’s the one who wanted to know about all that. Not me. All I care about is watching you suffer. That's all Christians are good for.”
“That’s not true,” Edward said. “You are Lindell, and he is you. You’re two halves of the same coin. You feel the pain he felt. He feels the anger you feel.”
Nero shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Nero had never seemed the nervous type.
“Going through hard times isn’t an excuse to turn your back on God,” Edward said. “He’s never turned his back on you.”
“It feels that way,” Nero said, his voice assuming a more rational tone. “And don’t give me the ’Footprints in the Sand’ speech.”
“Let me ask you a question. Your mother was a good woman. I don’t think there’s anybody who disputes that fact. Who created your mother?”
“God did. But he also created my father.”
“Who created Lindell?”
“God did. But he also created Nero. God created angels, but he also created devils. God created your wife and son, but he also created the drunk driver who killed them. How do you justify that?”
Edward mulled over that question for
a moment. “How did it feel when your father forced you to do what he said? When he made you lie there while he beat you with an extension cord?”
“I felt so helpless,” Lindell admitted, shirking off the Nero persona and the mask with equal ease. “I felt trapped.”
“Wouldn’t you feel the same way if God acted that way? If He forced you to follow? You have the ability to be Lindell or Nero. Good or evil. Angel or devil. Isn’t that a gift? You have the choice to be a victim for the rest of your life or to help other victims become strong again. You are still living as a victim. You are still that scarred, defenseless little boy who dreams of getting revenge.”
Lindell clenched and unclenched his fists, considering the truth of what he was being told.
“Let’s play a game,” Nero said, reclaiming the leadership role.
“What’s the prize?” Edward said.
Nero smiled. It was a wicked smile. “We play for what’s around your neck.”
Edward paused for a moment and thought about that. “I have no incentive to play a game. I already have the vial.”
“True,” Nero admitted. “But you want to make me see the error of my ways. Make me understand why God is love. If I win the game, you hand over the vial to me, and I’ll do as I please with it. If you win the game, I’ll willingly turn myself in and let the good doctors have a look at my head. It’s your best chance to save my soul, Edward.”
“I can’t save your soul,” Edward admitted. “But I can lead you toward that path of doctors and psych evaluations. I can also force you down it.” He pointed the sword at Nero. “I can make you do what I say.”
The Tears of Nero (The Halo Group Book 1) Page 25