Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  "Ding-a-ling!" Nick la­ug­hed ent­hu­si­as­ti­cal­ly.

  It oc­cur­red to Wen­ton that al­co­hol might not be the only subs­tan­ce flo­wing thro­ugh Nick's ve­ins. The man was eit­her high or vir­tu­al­ly psycho­tic.

  "You wan­na fuc­kin' pull it to­get­her?" Wen­ton snap­ped.

  Nick sta­red at Wen­ton with an exag­ge­ra­ted lo­ok of hurt and then a big smi­le spre­ad back ac­ross his fa­ce.

  "What do you know abo­ut a Web si­te?" Wa pus­hed. "We know you we­re in­vol­ved with it."

  "A Web si­te. A Web si­te," he sang. "It's not the Web si­te that's go­ing to get you, it's the prop­hecy."

  "What?" Wen­ton snar­led.

  "He's re­tur­ning. He's pro­bably he­re right now if you be­li­eve Gary. But no one can stop it. That's why it's a prop­hecy. It was al­re­ady de­ci­ded," Nick sa­id in a hus­hed whis­per. His fa­ce sta­yed se­ri­o­us for anot­her mo­ment be­fo­re he bro­ke in­to la­ugh­ter aga­in.

  "This is fuc­kin' use­less," Wa sa­id, tur­ning to Wen­ton. "You wan­na go?"

  Wen­ton nod­ded. "Fuc­kin' lu­na­tic," Wen­ton sne­ered, pus­hing back from the tab­le. "Fe­els li­ke I'm in­ter­vi­ewing Ed­ward Car­ter all over aga­in."

  "NO!" Nick Stan­gos scre­amed.

  Wa and Wen­ton fro­ze as Nick co­ve­red his fa­ce and drop­ped his he­ad to the tab­le.

  "What?" Wa as­ked.

  "Don't say that na­me. He's the one," Nick his­sed in­to the tab­le.

  "What na­me?" Wen­ton de­man­ded. "Edward Car­ter? That na­me?" He smi­led as he sa­id it. He li­ked that it bot­he­red Stan­gos. He li­ked that so­me- thing co­uld at le­ast get a re­ac­ti­on out of the slob.

  "So you don't want us to say Ed­ward Car­ter?" Wen­ton smir­ked.

  "Shut up," Wa snap­ped at Wen­ton. He tur­ned back to Nick. "Why do­es that na­me bot­her you, Nick?"

  "Don't say that na­me. Don't say that na­me," he mo­aned and rol­led his he­ad back and forth on his hands.

  "Did you do so­met­hing to Ed­ward Car­ter?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  He roc­ked back and forth wit­ho­ut ans­we­ring.

  "You fuc­ked Ed­ward Car­ter up, didn't you?" Wen­ton con­ti­nu­ed.

  Wa sat back down at the tab­le, his eyes glu­ed to Nick.

  "Just don't say that na­me," Nick ple­aded.

  "What'd you do to Ed­ward Car­ter, Nick?" Wen­ton pus­hed.

  "I didn't do anyt­hing."

  "You did so­met­hing. The­re's so­met­hing up­set­ting you. Let's help each ot­her out."

  "Just don't say that na­me. He's the one. He's the one."

  "We're not go­ing to say the fuc­kin' na­me," Wen­ton sa­id im­pa­ti­ently. "Just tell us what hap­pe­ned to him. Why is he the one? What do­es that me­an?"

  "The Scrolls spo­ke of him. Of 'the child of in­cest,'" Nick mo­aned. "The one that starts everyt­hing. The end of everyt­hing. It co­uldn't be stop­ped. I'm go­ing to die."

  "You're not go­ing to die," Wa tri­ed to com­fort him.

  "Fuck you!" he scre­amed, bol­ting up in his cha­ir.

  Wa was start­led, but Wen­ton didn't re­act.

  "You don't know what's go­ing on or who they are. They aren't hu­man. They can get to an­yo­ne. They've pro­bably al­re­ady got­ten to you."

  "Tell me abo­ut Ed­ward Car­ter," Wa in­ter­rup­ted. "How's he fit in?"

  "SON OF A BITCH!" Nick scre­amed, grip­ping the si­des of his he­ad and clo­sing his eyes. "You can't know abo­ut any of this. How the fuck do you know abo­ut Ed­ward Car­ter?"

  "Just tell us. It's too la­te for the­at­rics," Wen­ton sa­id ca­su­al­ly.

  "EDWARD CAR­TER IS EVERYT­HING!" Nick scre­amed. "If you know what hap­pe­ned to him, what ma­de him, you'd know everyt­hing. He's the re­ason everyt­hing has go­ne to hell!"

  "So what'd you do to him?" Wa bar­ked.

  Nick sud­denly stop­ped and lo­oked up at Wa. "I didn't do anyt­hing to him. It was Gary Wright­land."

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  "What are you do­ing ho­me?" Mar­le­ne Wright­land as­ked her hus­band as he en­te­red the back do­or. "Not fe­eling well?"

  He pa­used and lo­oked up the small sta­ir­well to his wi­fe stan­ding in the kitc­hen. He re­ali­zed it was unu­su­al to be ho­me early in the af­ter­no­on but it co­uldn't be hel­ped. "For­got so­met­hing."

  "For­got what? I co­uld've run it over to the church." She wi­ped her hands on a to­wel and then drop­ped it on the co­un­ter off to her si­de.

  "No, it's mo­re so­met­hing I ne­ed to check. Don't worry abo­ut it. Go back to wha­te­ver you we­re do­ing?"

  "Fi­ne." Mar­le­ne threw up her hands. She'd se­en him in a "mo­od" be­fo­re and didn't want to get in­to it.

  Gary watc­hed his wi­fe turn and mo­ve back in­to the kitc­hen. He to­ok the sta­irs, two at a ti­me, to the se­cond flo­or. He pas­sed the bath­ro­om on his right and then his son's ro­om be­fo­re en­te­ring the mas­ter bed­ro­om at the end of the hall.

  Once in­si­de he glan­ced back to ma­ke su­re Mar­le­ne hadn't fol­lo­wed. He clo­sed the do­or, qu­i­etly. He lo­oked up at the sec­ti­on mar­ked out on the ce­il- ing, the at­tic. His he­art po­un­ded and he lo­oked away.

  After ca­re­ful­ly drag­ging the re­ading cha­ir to the cent­re of the ro­om, he re­ac­hed up and co­uld just ba­rely to­uch the at­tic do­or hand­le.

  Gary tug­ged gently un­til he felt the he­avy springs drag. Ste­adily, he pul­led the trap­do­or down un­til he co­uld re­ach the ed­ge with his hand. He pul­led it furt­her un­til he co­uld re­ach the lad­der se­cu­red in­si­de. So­on he was cro­uc­hed in­si­de the cram­ped at­tic.

  The­re was lit­tle to be fo­und in the at­tic. Blown-in in­su­la­ti­on fil­led every cor­ner with lo­ose bits of grey and whi­te.

  He stra­ined for­ward, fe­eling be­ne­ath the soft in­su­la­ti­on un­til his hand met so­met­hing smo­oth and hard. He pul­led the over­si­zed bri­ef­ca­se out and held it clo­se to his chest for a mo­ment.

  And then he ret­re­ated, mo­ving qu­ickly down the lad­der with the bri­ef- ca­se tuc­ked awk­wardly un­der one arm.

  Once back on the bed­ro­om flo­or with the trap do­or se­cu­red and the re­ading cha­ir pus­hed in­to its ori­gi­nal po­si­ti­on, he sat on the ed­ge of the bed. The lar­ge ca­se sat at his fe­et. He lo­oked down at it, con­temp­la­ted ope­ning it. He knew he sho­uldn't. He co­uld fe­el its po­wer hid­den be­ne­ath the le­at­her and tuc­ked in­to he­avy fo­am in­si­de.

  Gary re­len­ted. He le­aned to the ca­se and pul­led the flap back. The ca­se fell open in two sec­ti­ons and Gary sta­red in at a so­lid me­tal­lic sur­fa­ce. Only one di­al was vi­sib­le on the out­si­de. He wan­ted to ta­ke the inst­ru­ment out and hold it, but he didn't. I ha­ve a job to do. I can't be he­re. He ran his fin­gers along the cold me­tal and gently ca­res­sed the di­al. He knew he sho­uldn't to­uch it but he co­uldn't help him­self. Thro­ugh no cons­ci­o­us cho­ice, his eyes clo­sed. He felt for the lip of the ca­se and snap­ped it shut.

  His eyes re­ma­ined clo­sed for a mo­ment as he tri­ed to re­ga­in his ba­lan­ce. His legs felt uns­te­ady but he was run­ning out of ti­me. He sto­od, mo­ving the ca­se to the si­de with his fo­ot. He step­ped to the clo­set and re­ac­hed in­to the back. When he pul­led his hand out he held a lar­ge grey wo­ol over­co­at and a pla­in ba­se­ball cap.

  Fi­nal­ly, he mo­ved to the lar­ger dres­ser that sat aga­inst the far wall of the bed­ro­om. He sto­oped to pull open the bot­tom dra­wer. He re­ac­hed in­to pi­les of un­der­we­ar and socks and felt at the back. His hand ca­me ac­ross so­me- thing cold and hard. He pul­led his arm out and sta­red at the lar­ge eight-inch hun­ting kni­fe in a fit­ted plas­tic ca­se. This ti­me,
he tho­ught, I'm go­ing to fi­nish the job.

  THIRTY-NINE

  "Gary Wright­land?" Wa as­ked in surp­ri­se.

  Nick's he­ad hung limp. Wen­ton tho­ught he might ha­ve pas­sed out and re­ac­hed ac­ross the small tab­le to flick the man's he­ad. Nick jer­ked but didn't lo­ok up.

  "Are you sa­ying Pas­tor Wright­land has so­met­hing to do with Ed­ward Car­ter?" Wa as­ked, an ed­ge ri­sing in his vo­ice.

  "Do you know Gary?" Nick mumb­led, still not lo­oking up.

  "I just met with him a few days ago."

  Now he lo­oked up. "You met with him?"

  "Yes."

  "What'dhe­say?"

  "He told me abo­ut you get­ting kic­ked out of se­mi­nary."

  Nick la­ug­hed.

  Wa ig­no­red it. "He al­so told me abo­ut yo­ur ex­pe­ri­ments. The stuff with the low fre­qu­ency we­apons."

  "Did he?" Nick grin­ned.

  "I'm get­ting ti­red of this shit," Wen­ton blur­ted. "Just tell us what you fuc­kin' know."

  Nick's de­me­ano­ur chan­ged aga­in. His he­ad dro­oped. "What can I tell you?" He lo­oked as if he might cry and then he sud­denly la­ug­hed so hard that he star­ted to co­ugh. He had to bra­ce him­self aga­inst the tab­le. Spit hung off the cor­ner of his lip and he wi­ped it away on the sle­eve of his shirt.

  "I'm de­ad," he conc­lu­ded. "I can't tell you anyt­hing."

  "Try," Wen­ton sa­id co­ol­ly.

  "Did Gary tell you abo­ut the De­ad Sea Scrolls?" he as­ked Wa.

  "Oh shit," Wen­ton mut­te­red, co­ve­ring his eyes. "We're get­ting' re­li­gi­o­us aga­in."

  Wa frow­ned at him be­fo­re tur­ning back to Nick. "He men­ti­oned them. He did so­me grad re­se­arch the­re. At the Qum­ran si­te."

  "What?" Wen­ton sa­id. "Did you say Qum­ran?"

  "What's the mat­ter?" Wa as­ked.

  "Not­hing."

  "You've he­ard Qum­ran so­mew­he­re be­fo­re?" Wa as­ked.

  "Ne­ver­mind."

  That was the only ans­wer Wa ne­eded. He re­ali­zed Wen­ton had be­en ha­un­ted by the word just as he had be­en. "So what abo­ut the Scrolls, Nick?"

  "I ne­ed a drink." He pus­hed away from the tab­le, at­temp­ting to stand. Wen­ton le­aned ac­ross and with con­si­de­rab­le for­ce se­ated Nick back in his cha­ir.

  "Okay," Nick con­ti­nu­ed. "I'll get a drink la­ter."

  "The Scrolls," Wa promp­ted.

  "Fi­ne. How much did Gary tell you abo­ut the scrolls? Did he tell you that the De­ad Sea Scrolls con­ta­ined mo­re than just bits and pi­eces of the Bib­le?"

  Wa shrug­ged. "I think he men­ti­oned so­met­hing li­ke that."

  He sig­hed as tho­ugh this sho­uld be com­mon know­led­ge. "The jars fo­und ne­ar Qum­ran con­ta­ined three types of scrolls. Bits and pi­eces that we­re iden­ti­fi­ed as early ver­si­ons of the Bib­le. Bits and pi­eces that we­re pro­bably con­tem­po­rary art of the ti­me inc­lu­ding tra­di­ti­onal songs and such. Ba­si­cal­ly crap.

  "But the third ca­te­gory has be­en lo­osely re­fer­red to as 'apocryp­ha.' The­se are scrip­tu­res in­ten­ded to be part of the Bib­le but fre­qu­ently omit­ted from the dif­fe­rent ver­si­ons. Re­li­gi­o­us scho­lars and church le­aders ha­ve spe­ci­fi­cal­ly cho­sen to hi­de the­se works from the world. The mes­sa­ges of the­se scrolls ha­ve be­en de­emed eit­her too fan­ci­ful or too frigh­te­ning for mass con­sump­ti­on. They've be­en co­ve­red up."

  "What kind of stuff?" Wa as­ked.

  "For the most part, the Apocryp­hal Scrolls con­ta­ined clu­es to the com- ing apo­calyp­se and the end of the world. They con­ta­ined spe­ci­fic de­ta­ils of how the An­tich­rist wo­uld co­me in­to the world."

  "Ni­ce story," Wen­ton in­ter­rup­ted. Fa­na­ti­cal bul­lshit

  "I know," Nick ag­re­ed. "A lot of the stuff so­unds fan­ci­ful and I think that's why so many scho­lars and re­li­gi­o­us le­aders de­ci­ded not to inc­lu­de the­se scrolls in mo­dern bib­li­cal texts. But Gary was ob­ses­sed with the apoc- ryphal wri­tings. He was su­re he co­uld use the in­for­ma­ti­on from the­se

  Scrolls to avo­id the apo­calyp­se. He be­ca­me an arc­he­ology buff and an ex­pert on the De­ad Sea Scrolls and went on the ex­pe­di­ti­on to Jeru­sa­lem. It wasn't a part of his tra­ining in se­mi­nary. He did it to find out as much as he co­uld abo­ut the Scrolls.

  "So the De­ad Sea Scrolls pre­dict the end of the world, eh?" Wen­ton sa­id skep­ti­cal­ly.

  "That's not new. The Old and New Tes­ta­ments are full of re­fe­ren­ces to the end of the world. Es­pe­ci­al­ly the Bo­ok of Re­ve­la­ti­ons* It's one of the mo­re psyche­de­lic bo­oks of the Bib­le but ap­pa­rently it's mis­sing lar­ge sec­ti­ons that desc­ri­be exactly how the world is go­ing to end. That's par­ti­al­ly why Gary was so con­cer­ned with the De­ad Sea Scrolls. The Bo­ok of Re­ve­la­ti­ons that we see in tra­di­ti­onal Bib­les is in­comp­le­te. Many pe­op­le, li­ke Gary, be­li­eve that the full ver­si­on is con­ta­ined in the Scrolls but has ne­ver be­en re­le­ased."

  "What's the mis­sing stuff all abo­ut?" as­ked Wa.

  "The story go­es that one of the Scroll jars con­ta­ined a parch­ment that was lo­osely trans­la­ted as the 'Con­ver­gen­ce.' It desc­ri­bed the co­ming of the An­tich­rist, or the Be­ast. It's an event pre­dic­ted to hap­pen im­me­di­ately be­fo­re the end of the world and the se­cond co­ming of Christ."

  "Why do you ke­ep sa­ying 'the story go­es' or 'pe­op­le be­li­eve'?" Wa as­ked.

  "Be­ca­use this isn't exactly ac­cep­ted re­li­gi­o­us ter­ri­tory. Ba­si­cal­ly no re­li­gi­o­us le­aders will con­firm the exis­ten­ce of the Con­ver­gen­ce Scroll and very few aca­de­mics or arc­he­olo­gists will eit­her. It's a re­al cont­ro­versy."

  "Blah, blah, blah," Wen­ton in­ter­rup­ted. "What's this got to do with ECOR?"

  "Not­hing," Nick sa­id, surp­ri­sed.

  "So is ECOR tes­ting we­apons on pe­op­le, trying to ma­ke them in­sa­ne?"

  He frow­ned. "I don't think so. They just hi­red me to fe­ed the­ir re­se­arch te­am facts abo­ut elect­ro­nic we­apons. They knew I had an in­te­rest in that and ha­ve kept up-to-da­te on the re­se­arch. They we­re star­ting up a re­se­arch branch on it."

  "They we­re do­ing Web si­tes," Wa cor­rec­ted.

  "Yes, to do­cu­ment the­ir re­se­arch on tech­no­lo­gi­cal ap­pli­ca­ti­ons of-"

  "No, they we­re using yo­ur in­fo to do cons­pi­racy Web si­tes. They tho­ught it wo­uld help push de­lu­si­onal pa­ti­ents over the ed­ge."

  "Oh my god. That's not what they told me. I can't-"

  "Be­li­eve it," Wen­ton fi­nis­hed.

  "Fi­nish the story on Gary," Wa sa­id.

  He to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. "So Gary was con­vin­ced that if he co­uld find out everyt­hing abo­ut the co­ming of the An­tich­rist, he co­uld sa­ve the world. He was ob­ses­sed with it. It was all he ever tal­ked abo­ut. He'd re­se­arc­hed every- thing he co­uld abo­ut the Con­ver­gen­ce Scroll and was con­vin­ced he co­uld find a way to pre­vent the Con­ver­gen­ce."

  "How?" Wen­ton as­ked. "Plug up the ma­in exit from Hell?"

  Nick la­ug­hed but the ef­fort ma­de him co­ugh aga­in. This ti­me it en­ded in a ras­ping, wet gurg­le as he co­ug­hed up phlegm. He ca­ught it in his mo­uth and swal­lo­wed lo­udly. "Actu­al­ly, yes!"

  "I inad­ver­tently men­ti­oned so­me re­se­arch to Gary on cel­lu­lar ex­ci­ta­ti­on and re­li­gi­o­us ex­pe­ri­en­ce. He jum­ped on-"

  "English ple­ase," Wa grumb­led. "I'm just a po­or dumb cop."

  "Well, I just told Gary abo­ut how epi­lep­tics of­ten re­port re­li­gi­o­us ex­pe- ri­en­ces du­ring se­izu­res. Se­izu­res are es­sen­ti­al­ly just
all the ne­urons fi­ring at on­ce. It's li­ke a per­son sticks the­ir bra­in in a light soc­ket and BZZZZZZ." He nod­ded grin­ning bro­adly. He'd ob­vi­o­usly not tal­ked to an­yo­ne in a long ti­me be­ca­use he was tho­ro­ughly enj­oying ha­ving an audi­en­ce, even tho­ugh right now his audi­en­ce was sta­ring at him wit­ho­ut any hint of amu­se­ment. Nick's smi­le fa­ded and he con­ti­nu­ed.

  "So af­ter I told Gary abo­ut this epi­lepsy thing-which was just so­met­hing I ca­me ac­ross when I was do­ing my physics un­derg­rad deg­ree, he star­ted gril­ling me abo­ut whet­her that me­ant we co­uld ma­ke pe­op­le mo­re open to re­li­gi­on or at le­ast mo­re open to re­li­gi­o­us ex­pe­ri­en­ce. I sa­id no but he kept po­king and dig­ging aro­und. It was Gary who ca­me up with the idea of using low fre­qu­ency be­ams to open a per­son up.

  "Gary fi­gu­red we co­uld use an Ext­re­mely Low Fre­qu­ency be­am, or ELF, and at cer­ta­in fre­qu­en­ci­es sti­mu­la­te an in­di­vi­du­al's tem­po­ral lo­bes and cre- ate a con­di­ti­on not un­li­ke that ex­pe­ri­en­ced by the epi­lep­tics who re­port re­li­gi­o­us phe­no­me­na. So­me­how, Gary con­vin­ced me to help him bu­ild a mac­hi­ne. We bu­ilt it and he to­ok off with it."

  "But we­ren't you kic­ked out of the se­mi­nary for ex­pe­ri­men­ting with that mac­hi­ne?" Wa as­ked.

  "No," he sa­id al­most la­ug­hing. "I was kic­ked out for drin­king. I kept sho­wing up to lec­tu­res drunk. Did Gary tell you that I was the one ex­pe­ri- men­ting with the ELF?"

  Wa nod­ded.

  "Fi­gu­res. Any­way, Gary grab­bed the mac­hi­ne and to­ok off on the ex­pe- di­ti­on to the De­ad Sea Scrolls. It was shortly af­ter he left that I was kic­ked out of scho­ol. I didn't see him aga­in un­til he ca­me to vi­sit me a few ye­ars ago. He sho­wed up at my ho­use ran­ting and ra­ving abo­ut sol­ving the Con­ver­gen­ce. I tri­ed to hu­mo­ur him, even hel­ped him fix up the old ELF unit he had-sho­wed him how to bo­ost the po­wer-but re­al­ly didn't talk to him much. He was cra­zed. He re­al­ly sca­red me. He was so wor­ked up talk- ing abo­ut how he fo­und the por­tal. I didn't know what he me­ant at first, but he kept sa­ying he fo­und the por­tal. That's the first ti­me I he­ard the na­me Ed­ward Car­ter."