Revelation

by Wilson, Carter;

  There he was poked and prodded by a team of doctors who examined every bit of his ravaged body. In Harden, the physicians discovered a cornucopia of ills, including malnutrition, anemia, broken teeth, fractured ribs in various stages of healing, cuts along both sides of the face, and poorly sutured knife wounds to the back of his right hand and lower abdomen. Not pretty, one doctor had told him, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. More than once he was told he was lucky to be alive.

  The doctors eventually gave ground to the police, who poked and prodded Harden even more. It didn’t take long for the reality to strike everyone fully.

  Here was the missing kid. All the way from New York. Kept prisoner in an old farmhouse in Iowa. Who had done this to him?

  Clues to that answer came from Harden’s manuscript, the bloodied, typed pages he’d been carrying when he was rescued. But that manuscript ended with the chilling scene from Harden’s twenty-first birthday in June. There was nothing in the pages about what happened to Harden after that night. How he got to the cell, and what happened to him there. The police asked many questions, but Harden simply told them he would only speak to Agent Mike Barrillo from the FBI. His allowance for trust was narrow.

  Thanks both to Walter and a medical staffer who gained access to Harden’s medical chart and recognized his name, word of Harden’s sudden reappearance spread. In a few hours, swarming reporters from networks and newspapers descended on the hospital. The doctors closed access to their patient, and even the attempts to reach Harden by his hospital-room phone were thwarted. That was okay by Harden, who wanted nothing to do with them. There was so much to tell, but not to these people. He just wasn’t ready to talk about it.

  All he wanted was to talk to his dad, eat a burger, and get some sleep.

  Reston Campbell took the first flight out and saw his son about eighteen hours after Harden had been found. Harden had never given thought to how much, if at all, he loved his father, and vice versa. But seeing his father’s tears and hearing his voice crumble into exclamations of gratitude to God and Jesus revealed what Harden had always hoped to be true: the father and son, in fact, loved each other immensely. The reunion ended with the doctor insisting on rest for Harden and his father promising to be back first thing in the morning to see “my little boy.” Harden had never heard his dad use that term before, even when Harden had been a little boy.

  He stared at the clock on the wall, its illuminated hands telling him it was just after eleven at night. Harden managed a weak smile. He was happy to know the time once again.

  Seconds later, his door slowly opened. Harden tensed, still associating an opening door with bad things happening.

  His doctor stepped into the room. “Sorry to bother you, Harden,” he said. “I know it’s late and you need to sleep.”

  “Can’t,” Harden said. “I’ve been sitting here awake since you last left.”

  “I’ve been talking to the police. They’ve been tracking down the man you’ve been asking for.” He looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Mike Barrillo?”

  “Yes,” Harden said. “Agent Barrillo. FBI.”

  “FBI. Yes. Right.”

  “Did they contact him?”

  “No. Well, that is, not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?” Harden sat up more in his bed.

  The doctor looked uncomfortable. “Harden, you see, the thing is—”

  “The thing is what?”

  He sighed. “There is no Mike Barrillo with the FBI. The police have assured me they checked thoroughly, and no one with that name, or any name like that, works there. Are you sure you have the name right? How do you know him?”

  Harden’s head was spinning, not with disbelief at the nonexistence of Mike Barrillo, but as his own stupidity.

  Of course Barrillo’s not real, at least not a real FBI agent. He was Coyote’s plant all along.

  He wasn’t in the theater that night to question Coyote, Harden realized, but to question me. The actor playing Barrillo got me to tape Coyote, but I’ll bet it was our own conversations being taped and being fed back to Coyote. More information to use against me, data with which to judge me, to consume me.

  Coyote knew everything all the time. When I wrote about Barrillo, he wasn’t shocked or scared, he was laughing his ass off at my naiveté. He probably couldn’t believe I was so stupid to actually think a real FBI agent would want to enlist the help of a dopey college kid.

  Harden thanked the doctor and told him he would talk to the police now. He’d tell them anything they wanted to know, though his understanding of the truth was suddenly blurred. The police would search for Wiley Martin, though Harden already knew Coyote had likely disappeared again, and wouldn’t be found unless that was part of his plan.

  Coyote had a plan for everything, had a reason for his every move. And his last move was to take Emma and disappear somewhere, while setting Harden free.

  This was calculated, Harden now realized. This wasn’t a move by a man fearful of the police closing in on him. This was Coyote’s way of telling Harden to come and find him. Harden pictured Coyote’s face, and this time he saw fangs. Come and rescue Emma, your secret love. The woman you stole from me.

  Coyote didn’t really let Harden free after all. He just let a little slack out of the leash as he pulled Harden deeper into the dark forest.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The criminal forensic examiners found Derek’s body buried under three feet of loose dirt thirty feet behind the old farmhouse. Although an advanced state of decomposition had loosened the flesh and sloughed most of the skin from his face, identifying him wasn’t very difficult. It was Derek, and the wounds Harden described to the FBI were consistent with the ones found on the corpse. Death by exsanguination as a result of knife wounds, the medical examiner concluded.

  The FBI appended the kidnapping charge with murder, naming Wiley “Coyote” Martin as the primary suspect. Initially, the story came only in small bursts of incomplete information, infuriating the public, who, suffering a slow news cycle, demanded to know the most intimate details of what had happened at that tiny college in New York.

  Before long, however, the story came together. Harden followed it loosely in the paper and on the news from his father’s house in Owen, though he refused to grant interviews himself. It was enough that he had to repeatedly talk about his experience with investigators. He didn’t want to relive it all with entertainment and news reporters who promised him cash and celebrity. Harden wanted none of that. All he wanted was to find Emma, which neither he nor the police were any closer to doing.

  In the end it didn’t matter. The media had enough sources inside the FBI to show the alleged trail of destruction Coyote had left:

  Coyote started a bogus cult for the assumed sole purpose of establishing a credible religious institution in order to shelter his family’s illicitly gained income. His father had been thoroughly questioned, but that yielded no clues to the whereabouts of either Coyote or the woman he abducted. No charges had yet been filed against Alastair Martin.

  Coyote duped hundreds of would-be believers with fierce words, intense charisma, cheap parlor tricks, and, as it turned out, drug cocktails, rendering some of his followers nearly catatonic.

  Coyote had demonstrated criminal negligence in the death of Cassidy Parker, the nineteen-year-old sophomore who smashed into the brick wall surrounding the Wyland cemetery.

  Coyote and his Children kidnapped three Wyland students, murdering one and torturing two others.

  A Child of the Revelation simply known as Big Ben had killed one of the Revelation’s own: Bill Stuggart of Olathe, New York.

  No one knew who Ben really was, and no one would ever find him. Big Ben simply vanished.

  Jacob was not named in the arrest warrant, but was rather being treated as another potential victim of Coyote’s. No one had heard from Jacob since June.

  No one else from the Revelation was talking, and despite Bill’s body and the treasu
re trove of other evidence at the farmhouse, nothing linked Coyote directly with any of the crimes. Even a record from the fax machine at the farmhouse showed all the pages from Harden’s manuscript had been sent to a phone number registered to a man named Simon Wolff, who turned out to be completely fabricated.

  None of it really mattered, though. Not to Harden.

  Only one question gnawed at him. In those biting hours, usually after midnight but before dawn, when sleep felt like a burden, a chore to be postponed to another day, and when the sounds of a house made the whole world feel manufactured, only one question gnawed though Harden’s body like a cancer.

  Was Emma alive?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  It had been three weeks since Harden walked out of the farmhouse, feeling the sunshine for the first time in months.

  Now he was safe, but he was far from being the person he once was. Despite his youth, Harden aged immeasurably over the past three months, and he no longer obsessed about his future. As long as the future existed, that was good enough for him.

  His father looked up at him from across the table, the two men separated by plates of eggs and chipped mugs half-filled with coffee. The coffee was weak. That was the way his father took it, and so that was the way Harden made it.

  Harden took a deep breath and said something he had never uttered to his father in all the years of his life.

  “I love you.”

  Reston Campbell blinked.

  “Well, hell, Son, I love you, too. You know that, don’t you?” Reston fought to maintain eye contact.

  “Yeah, I guess I do.” Harden didn’t know why he had said those words suddenly to his father. He supposed because it was a statement of fact, and it seemed a bit silly to keep such things a secret. “Kinda wish I said it more growing up.” He then amended his comment. “Or at all.”

  “Me, too, Harden. Me, too.” Reston finally dropped his gaze and focused on his eggs. Harden looked out the dirty window and stared at the dead grass that was the front yard.

  “Empty today,” he said. “First time that’s happened.”

  His father chewed. “They’ll come.”

  Harden wasn’t so sure. The media had made daily encampments outside the residence, hoping for a brief moment with the young man who had so far refused to tell his story publicly. Harden remained inside the house, though occasionally Reston went out to pace the front porch, cradling an old shotgun in his arms like it was a newborn kitten. This kept the reporters on the other side of the chain-link fence, and even the most tenacious of them refrained from yelling out questions. After a few days, the herd thinned, and Harden hoped he had seen the last of them.

  “You can stay here as long as you want, you know.” Weak sunlight highlighted the leathery creases in his father’s face. “Maybe find a job here in town. Or . . . or do your writing. Whatever makes you happy.”

  Harden smiled. It was just ten months earlier he sat at this same table and watched as Coyote insulted his father. Harden was ashamed to remember agreeing with Coyote at the time, but that sentiment was now gone. He wanted it to stay that way, which is why Harden knew he couldn’t live here forever.

  “I need to figure out what I want to do, and I’m not sure this is the best place for that.”

  He father nodded and muttered, “Ayuh.”

  “But I want to stay for a little while, okay? You know, rest up and figure some things out.”

  Now his father returned the smile. “Long as you want. Like I said.”

  “But today, I’m going outside. I’ll walk to the store—get some groceries.”

  “Now wait a min—”

  Harden cut him off. “Dad, I’m going crazy in here. Remember what the doctor said? Don’t stay in confined spaces too long?” He swept his arm in front of him. “This place is a pretty confined fucking space. No offense.”

  “Language, Harden.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What about the reporters?”

  Harden looked outside. “I think they’re gone. To be safe, I’ll wear a ball cap and go out the back.”

  Reston mulled it over. “Want company?”

  Harden shook his head. “No, thanks. I think I want to be alone. Just for a bit, okay? You make a list of what we need, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Okay, Harden,” his father said after a silent moment. “If that’s what you want.”

  Of all the things Harden was unsure of, it was the one thing he did know he wanted. He wanted to be in a world without walls, if even just for a brief walk to the store.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The day fought to maintain its relevancy, a difficult thing to do in a town where indifference took a backseat only to Steelers football.

  It was an intense sun for mid-September, and the heat sat on Harden’s skin like an unwanted blanket. His skin was still sensitive to sunlight, and his dark sunglasses didn’t keep him from constantly wincing against the glare. Still, he was outside, and he promised himself he would never take an open sky for granted again. He reached the sidewalk at the next cross street and pulled up on the brim of his ball cap.

  The grocery store was in the opposite direction of his old elementary school. Not having to walk past it was another thing for which to be thankful.

  He made an errant kick at a broken piece of pavement, sending the piece tumbling a few feet into a thatch of weeds. He was just a block away from the store when he heard the footsteps behind him.

  Harden turned at the sound, then froze when he saw the man walking toward him.

  Agent Barrillo smiled.

  Well, not Barrillo. The man who played the role of Barrillo.

  There was perhaps thirty feet separating the two of them, and that distance narrowed by the second as Barrillo kept walking and Harden stood still, his legs unwilling to do as his brain commanded, which was run. Moments later, Harden knew it was meaningless to try to flee. He simply wasn’t strong enough and would be overtaken by the man in seconds.

  Harden scanned the ground and saw a rock resting against a discarded piece of wood. The rock wasn’t enormous—about the size of a fist. But that was big enough. Harden lunged for it, picked it up, and held it at shoulder-height.

  “What the fuck do you want?” He kept the rock hoisted, knowing in reality his aim was poor and a rock was no match for a weapon if Barrillo had one.

  Barrillo halted and held up his hands. “Whoa. Take it easy, Harden. I just want to talk with you a moment.”

  Harden cocked his arm back a bit more. A drop of salty sweat fell from his forehead onto his upper lip. “I’ll call the police.”

  “With what, that rock?”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  Barrillo took one step forward. “So, I’m assuming at this point you know I’m not with the FBI. Sorry, buddy, I was just following orders. Though I have to say I’m pretty pleased with my acting. You fell for the act hard.”

  Harden waved his arm holding the rock.

  Barrillo didn’t seem intimidated in the least. “Look, Harden, if it makes you feel any better, I had no idea that sick fuck was going to do what he did—it certainly wasn’t part of the plan. I was just playing a small role, and I didn’t even enjoy doing that.”

  “Where’s Emma?”

  “Well, now, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Put that rock down and we’ll discuss.”

  “No,” Harden said. “You’ll tell me right now.”

  Another step closer. Harden hoisted the rock higher.

  “Don’t be afraid, Harden.”

  “I didn’t say I was afraid.”

  “Then put the rock down.”

  He kept it raised. “Coyote tried to kill me. I’m not putting the rock down.”

  “I don’t work for Coyote, actually. I work for his father. There’s so much you don’t know, Harden. You don’t even know my name.”

  “I don’t care what your name is.”

  “Sure you do. It’s Vincent. Really
, no bullshit. I won’t tell you the last name.”

  “Tell me where Emma is or I’ll smash this rock—”

  In three fast strides Vincent was on him, his movements so fast Harden only had time to cock his arm back to swing the rock. Vincent swiftly punched Harden’s arm just above the elbow, and Harden howled in pain as the rock fell harmlessly to the sidewalk. Then Vincent’s hand was around Harden’s throat, his fingers squeezing against his trachea.

  “You ever hear of a honey badger, Harden?”

  Another squeeze meant Vincent wanted an answer.

  “No,” Harden rasped. He could smell the sweetness of Vincent’s cologne.

  Vincent smiled. “A motherfucker of an animal. Lives in Africa, south of the Sahara. Small thing, you know? Twenty, twenty-five pounds. Like a little dog. Small. They look like big skunks.”

  He lightened his grip just a fraction, and Harden said, “Do they?”

  “They do, Harden.” Vincent was almost laughing. “They really do.”

  Harden felt the burn of fresh air scraping against his barely open windpipe. “Fascinating.”

  Vincent shook a finger at him. “No, Harden. That’s not fascinating. That’s just how they are. Many animals are much more interesting in terms of looks. Take the zebra. Or platypus. Hell, the platypus wins the strange-looking contest hands down against the honey badger.” Vincent tilted his head. “No, Harden. The fascinating thing about the honey badger is its ferocity. The honey badger has no natural enemies because nothing will tangle with it. You know why?”

  “I assume you’re going to tell me.”

  “Because it’s one angry fucking animal, Harden.” The pressure on Harden’s neck was back. “An animal without regard to its own safety. It will launch itself at you without fear of consequence. It doesn’t think. It just attacks, sinking its tiny, bacteria-ridden teeth into anything that pisses it off.” One more firm squeeze and now all air to Harden’s lungs was cut off. “I am Alastair Martin’s honey badger. The sooner you understand that, the more productive this little talk will be.”