“How was your conference?” the detective asked.
“Thought provoking,” Dickerson replied.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean,” she answered with a pause, “Dr. Abramhoff is something else.”
“What? He’s really smart, or just something else?”
“He’s already met with the governor of Illinois and obtained funding from the state to conduct studies at a local state prison.”
“Oh, really? That’s four steps ahead of you.”
“I have to think of something to accelerate our project.”
“How about collaborating?” the detective suggested.
“I don’t know,” Dickerson said. “He appeared a little pompous, even though he was a gentleman.”
“What, is he handsome?”
“You might say handsome,” Dickerson said, “I’d say studious, late fifties to early sixties, just a little chubby but dressed impeccably.”
“All right.” Pinkett gave up. “At least ask him for collaboration.”
“I’ll do that,” Dickerson promised.
5
THE FEAST OF OUR Lady of Guadalupe, on December twelfth, was a celebrated occasion for Catholics living in San Diego, especially for the vast population of Mexicans. Dr. Dickerson, over the years, had made plans to attend the yearly ceremonial mass, but schedule conflicts with her work always prevented her. This year, the feast fell on Wednesday. It was a very busy day for Dr. Dickerson at the university, but she promised herself she’d attend the afternoon festive mass and, for once, observe the carrying of the statue of Our Lady across Locust Street. She had always been fascinated by the story of the appearance of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s apparition to the folks at Guadalupe.
The first reading during mass was a passage from the Book of Revelation. Usually, only half paying attention, she could follow most readings during mass, a process she had mastered over the years of attending masses.
This time, however, her whole being sat straight up when she heard, during the reading, “No one could buy or sell except one who had the stamped image of the beast … that number is 666.”
The half sleep in her eyes immediately evaporated. Fully attentive now, she listened to Father Sanchez saying during the sermon that the number 666 was not physically written on the body or on the head of anyone, as Hollywood has made us believe, but rather: “We as Christians should hope and pray to God for illumination so that we can identify those who are the agents of evil and, in the process, be able to recognize and avoid their temptations. By the same token, we should be aware of God’s immense love for us and follow the path it takes to be a good Christian, no matter the cost, so that in the final analysis we shall inherit God’s Kingdom and not that of the devil.”
Driving back to the laboratory, and all afternoon, Dickerson was consumed with wild thoughts of a possible connection between the number 666 in the Bible, and their bizarre HLA findings. Multiple thoughts raced through her mind.
Is this a coincidence?
Is there a connection?
Wait a minute. The number is 666. Our HLA is B66.
Is there an HLA 666?
Nope, wrong nomenclature.
What about HLA B666?
That’s not possible, because the B locus is not long enough to accommodate up to 600 positions.
What, then, is the significance of HLA B66?
Does it have anything to do with the beast in the Book of Revelation?
And why is it associated with hard-core criminals at the maximum-security prison?
Arriving home, late in the evening, Dickerson made her way straight to the bedroom. In the drawer of her nightstand, she knew there was a family Bible, the New American Bible. Her dad had given it to her on her graduation from medical school; he usually explained complicated situations to her by quoting passages from the Scriptures. Dickerson knew the Bible was there, but she had never picked it up to read, except today.
The reading was from the Book of Revelation, but what chapter? She hardly ever looked at the missals during mass. Not wanting to read the entire book, she called the church and discovered that the reading was taken from chapters twelve and thirteen. She read both entire chapters and, not wanting to stop reading, went all the way to the end of the book. Early the next morning, she called Detective Pinkett on her cell phone.
“Hey, you,” Dickerson greeted Pinkett.
“What’s up, Doc?” replied Pinkett.
“What do you know about the number 666?” asked Dickerson.
“What number 666?”
“You know, the one in the Bible.”
“Well, it’s supposed to be associated with the devil. What about it?”
“I went to church yesterday.”
“Good for you. Did you pray for me?”
“I forgot. Listen, the church reading was about 666. I went home and read the Book of Revelation, the part that talked about 666.” Dickerson’s voice was rushed.
“Where is this story going?” interrupted Detective Pinkett.
“Just hush and pay attention.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“As I was saying, after reading the book I thought about the HLA.”
“I’m not following, because I don’t see a connection.”
“Maybe there is none, but what if the 666 in the Bible is B66?”
There was a momentary pause at the other end, and then Pinkett replied, “Okay, let’s look at this closely. The Bible says 666, you have B66. I don’t see the match.”
“I know … I know,” Dickerson contended, “but you can’t deny the fact that B66 is, as I explained to you, found in criminals who have what might be called ‘hellish’ intentions.”
“Even if it is, are you suggesting that these people are devils … or whatever?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting, because this whole thing doesn’t make any sense.”
“Exactly. No match, no connections, makes no sense, case closed.”
“Thanks for your help,” Dickerson said in exasperation.
“I’m the one here trying to be realistic.”
“I know you are. There has to be a scientific explanation, though.”
“When you find out, could you please let me know?” Pinky ended on a sarcastic note.
After that conversation, Dr. Dickerson fixed her customary breakfast of two pieces of toast, one boiled egg, black coffee, and an orange juice. While eating breakfast, she decided to go back to the church library and find out all she could about the Book of Revelation.
At the library, she couldn’t find any significant answers, except that the book was written by St. John, using unfamiliar symbols, during the early years of Christian persecution at the hands of the Romans. Dickerson went to work the next day still in awe, and bewildered over the possible connections between ancient revelations and modern-day science.
At the 10:00 A.M. medical rounds, the subject was ankylosing spondylitis, a disease affecting the spinal joints. It had a high predilection for HLA B27. Seizing on that, Dickerson began. “Dr. Pavigoose, what is your understanding of the HLA system?” she asked the third-year resident, a shy, introverted man who thought Dr. Dickerson always picked on him.
“I think the HLA systems define compatibility,” Dr. Pavigoose answered. Even though he was shy, he was nonetheless intelligent and quick with his responses, a characteristic admired by Dickerson.
“Yes, go on.”
“It defines individuality and orchestrates a rejection when foreign tissues or organs are introduced in the body.”
“How does it define or mark an individual?” asked Dr. Dickerson.
“Current literature suggests that individuals with specific and well-characterized HLAs may be prone to manifest specific diseases or characteristics.”
“Impressive, Dr. Pavigoose, you’ve been following the literature.”
A faint smile gleamed on Dr. Pavigoose’s face.
“What we do know today a
bout the HLAs, especially the B loci, is that they have the unique ability to single out disease processes in certain individuals.” Dickerson eyeballed the rest of the morning-round team. “Most importantly, as you will be hearing in the near future, is that B loci may be associated with human characteristics. The telling point, at this time, is that it may predetermine behavior.”
“Is it similar to the predestination theory report by Dr. Abramhoff at the Loop University in Chicago?” asked Dr. Pavigoose.
“Something like that,” replied Dickerson.
PART
V
1
THE SNOW ON SIXTY-FIRST Street off US Highway 65 in Hobart, Indiana, looked like glistening white powder on this early February morning. It was a cold Saturday morning, and it had snowed all night long. Alexander Andalusia, with great caution, guided the Ford truck he was driving, concentrating on the road in anticipation of sudden ice patches.
Sixty-first Street, the second road off Highway 65 to Hobart, was still under a massive reconstruction into a four-lane tarred road.
Alex had been through this road multiple times, and knew where the hidden ice patches might be located. Not that he had not veered off the road once or twice before, but each had resulted in only minor incidents. He arrived at the Marathon Gas Station to fill up the truck and pick up a shovel.
Looking at his watch in a surprised gesture, Steve, the store manager inquired, “What are you doing up this early, Alex? It’s only … five o’clock.”
“Hey Steve, good morning.” Alex smiled and stomped his boots on the outdoor carpet to shake off the snow.
“Morning,” Steve replied, wondering why Alex did not have a scarf around his neck, since it must be at least ten degrees below zero, counting the wind-chill factor.
“I just need to get me a little gasoline and pick up a shovel to work on my barn,” Alex replied.
“You should have waited for daylight on this godforsaken day, so that you could at least see where you’re going,” Steve insisted.
“You know me, early to bed and early to rise.”
“I see, I see … says the blind man to the deaf wife,” Steve said in jest.
“Early morning sense of humor,” Alex replied.
“No better time!” Steve said, and then asked begrudgingly, “What time do you normally go to bed?”
“Oh … usually nine or ten at night.” Alex gestured with his hand.
With that, Alex picked up a new Winchester shovel, pulled out his wallet, paid for his purchases, and headed for the door.
“Have a nice day.” Steve waved.
Alex resumed his journey home.
Reaching the T-intersection of Sixty-first and Arizona Street, he nearly veered off the road toward the snowy parched fields on his left.
Nerves, Alex rationalized. Controlling the steering better, Alex completed the turn and made it to the house without further incident. He arrived at the wood-crafted gate at the entrance to the compound, closed the gate behind him, and then drove straight to the barn. He picked up the shovel and carefully hid it behind the dirty table where he cut different shapes of wood.
Alex was a gifted carpenter. He could take a piece of log, set it on the table, and in about three to four hours carve out a wooden bird or a wooden horse. The barn became a messy collection of Alex’s different carpentry work.
On one occasion, Cathy, Alex’s wife, ventured into the barn, came out, and requested that Alex clean it up and put it in some organized fashion, or she would clean it herself. That request generated a very angry look from Alex. Ever since Alex married Cathy some three years ago, he had considered her a nag. She would nag about this, and nag about that, and Alex hated nagging.
“Between your job and that stupid barn, I don’t think you have enough time to get me pregnant,” Cathy angrily accused during one of their exchanges.
That was really hitting below the belt, Alex thought, and since then he had vowed to put an end to it.
* * *
“Wake up, sweetheart,” said Alex, nudging Cathy.
“W … hat?” came a sleepy voice under the jumbled bedcovers.
“I need you to help me at the barn,” Alex requested.
“What time is it?” inquired the sleepy voice.
“About five thirty,” replied Alex.
“What are you doing in the barn this early in the morning?” asked Cathy.
“You’re the one who asked me to tidy it up,” replied Alex.
“Can’t this wait till daybreak?” asked Cathy.
“It ain’t gonna take that long, and I need for you to help me make a decision,” answered Alex.
That’s odd! Cathy thought to herself. Alex had never before asked her to help him do anything, especially in the barn.
How many times had he yelled at her for messing around in the barn. “Snooping around,” he called it. Cathy thought the barn was off limits, a place where Alex took out his frustrations by making useless wooden caricatures.
Her curiosity awakened, Cathy got up and bundled into her thick robe, then followed her husband to the barn.
“This way, honey.” Alex directed her to the eastern corner of the barn, facing the hay.
As she turned to inquire what the hay had to do with the pile of junk on the other side, Alex swung at her with the shovel, hitting her right on her forehead. Cathy did not even have time to scream. She fell to the ground severely wounded, blood pouring out of her right eye. Alex, smirking at her face, and realizing that Cathy was now motionless, finally stopped swinging the blood-soaked shovel and sat on the pile of hay to catch his breath.
Rest over, Alex starting digging near the eastern corner of the barn. He took care not to disturb the old digs.
At 10:00 A.M. there was some noise at the front of the compound. Alex, almost finished with the four-foot-deep hole, peered out the closed door of the barn to see who it was.
It was the mailman putting the mail in the mailbox.
Alex intently watched the mail truck drive away without incident. He picked up Cathy’s limp body, dragged it into the hole, and neatly laid her down like a corpse in a coffin, hands across her chest. He covered the body with an old blanket that he purposely left in the barn, then proceeded to fill up the hole with dirt.
Alex then picked up seven bales of hay and laid them neatly over the new dig. Task completed, Alex went into the house, took a shower, cooked scrambled eggs and bacon, turned on the television, ate, and made plans for the evening at Judy’s Crab House on Route 30.
2
JUDY’S CRAB HOUSE HAD been a popular Hobart fast food diner with a flair for the extraordinary. Decorated by different old paintings on the wall, it boasted collections of old memorabilia of popular movie stars. Everybody loved Judy’s place. It became a popular eatery, not just because the food there was well prepared and tasted good, but also because the waitresses were something to behold.
Low cut, short-sleeved shirts, with cleverly exposed cleavage, must have been a requirement for waitressing at Judy’s Crab house.
Lots of single women dined out there with their friends, most wanting to be picked up for a date. At 5:30 P.M., Alex walked into Judy’s place. He sat at an end table close to the door so he could see every woman coming in. He ordered king crab legs with mashed potatoes off the dinner menu. Some female customers came in, but none were good enough for Alex. Alex settled in his chair, waiting for dinner to arrive.
Mona and two of her friends came through the door. Mona immediately noticed Alex. Mona had been a friend of Alex and Cathy for sixteen months, ever since they met at the Super Kmart store in Portage, Indiana.
* * *
“That will be $67.23,” said the five-foot-eight-inch-tall cashier.
“Are you paying for it?” Alex asked Cathy.
“Yeah I am,” grumbled Cathy. “Who else is gonna pay for it?”
“You folks from here?” asked the cashier.
What a beautiful smile, thought Alex.
“Yes,” Cathy said, searching for her wallet in her handbag. “This is Alex, my husband, and I’m Cathy.”
She is too pretty for this job, and what a body, Alex noted.
“I’m Mona,” the cashier said.
“Hi, Mona,” Alex said quickly.
After that first encounter Mona and the Andalusia family became good friends.
* * *
“Hi, Alex,” Mona said.
“Hi, Mona.”
“Where’s Cathy?”
The look on Alex’s face told Mona immediately that something was wrong.
“What happened?” asked Mona, as she pulled over a chair and sat down.
“Hey Mona, are you coming?” one of her companions asked.
“You guys go ahead and order. I’m gonna talk to Alex for a few.”
“So, tell me … what happened?” Mona pulled closer to Alex while looking at him straight in the eye.
“Cathy left me,” Alex said simply.
“Why?” asked Mona, resting her right hand across her chest.
“Well, she called me a slob, told me to clean the yard and the barn, or she was gonna leave.”
“I thought the … the two of you were getting along fine. I never imagined that there was any animosity or friction between the two of you.”
“Cathy has been kind of depressed lately. She blames me for us not having children, and I think that started it all,” Alex answered. He lowered his face and looked intently at the table.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There isn’t … anything to say.”
“Where did she go?” Mona asked.
“She went back to New Jersey. That’s where her folks are from.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Your friends will be offended if you don’t join them in a minute,” Alex suggested.
“Can I drop by to see you, just for a few?” Mona asked.
“Anytime, I’m by myself now,” Alex responded.
“How about tomorrow, say two p.m.?” suggested Mona.
“Two would be perfect because that would give me time for church,” replied Alex, acutely aware of Mona’s religious beliefs.
A faint smile lit up Mona’s face at the mention of the word church.
Mark of the Beast Page 8