Mark of the Beast

by Adolphus A. Anekwe

  “Nothing, sir,” a man responded.

  “We’re done,” said the boss. “Let’s get ready to get out of here.”

  He came back to the room and helped Jewel and the third guy clean up. They tied the corpse in a fetal position, picked up the body and the blood collected, and returned the mattress to the other room.

  Jewel cleaned the floor and turned off the kerosene lantern. Within minutes, five men emerged from the building, dumped the body in the trunk of one of the cars, and drove off.

  “Why didn’t you do something?” Semo asked in resignation. “You’re the Green Beret, aren’t you?”

  “Do something like what?” Aryan asked, looking at Semo in disbelief.

  “Go in there and shoot them. At least we could have saved the girl,” Semo suggested.

  “Did you see the other two guys that were watching the front?” Aryan said. “Those guys had Uzi submachine guns.”

  For a moment, neither man said anything as they contemplated what had just happened.

  “I think these guys are devil worshipers,” Aryan said. “Did you see how they slit her throat and collected her blood after that freak … that scary guy they called boss … said some mumbo-jumbo prayers?”

  “They raped her,” Semo blurted out. “How can these guys have sex with a young girl, one right after the other?”

  “They are not amateurs, I can tell you that,” Aryan said. “They have done this before several times and so far have gotten away with it.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I don’t know, but we should do something.”

  “We should do something?” Semo asked. “Remember, soldier boy … we’re drug dealers scouting for a secret airfield for illegal transportation of drugs … hello?”

  “We should do something,” insisted Aryan.

  “Let’s get rolling out of here.”

  7

  “THERE IS NO WAY on earth we will ever use that airstrip,” Mr. Micaela said when told about the incident. “Those people have desecrated the place,” he shouted while crossing himself.

  “So what do we do now?” Aryan asked. He had called Mr. Micaela for suggestions on what to do after their gruesome discovery.

  “We will find another location,” Mr. Micaela said.

  “I mean, what do we do about those guys in the house? Should we report them to the police? Because I think they are planning to do the same thing next Friday. The ceremony might be a routine Friday satanic church ritual for them…” Aryan was about to go on and on.

  “Okay, okay, let me think,” Micaela said. There were some background conversations, and Aryan knew that they were scheming up something.

  “Okay, this is what you do,” Micaela said, “you call us here, and then we will connect you to the Baton Rouge Police Department. You don’t give them your name. Tell them you want to report a crime, you describe what you saw, tell them to go check the location out if they want to, and let them know about what is planned for next Friday.”

  “But if they ask what I was doing there…?” Aryan asked.

  “Tell them you went camping or fishing or rabbit hunting; I don’t know, make up something,” Micaela said. “All I know is that they will not be able to trace the call.”

  * * *

  The arrest of John Bradford Fleming and four accomplices at the scene of the crime was sensational news in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. The state attorney general, the FBI, and the Pellagrini-Pinkett Project were immediately notified. Massive quad-state investigations resulted in the uncovering of bizarre satanic cult rituals where young, so-called virgins from across Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, and as far out as Texas were abducted and brought to the airstrip house.

  “Tell me, Mr. Fleming,” the state lead prosecutor asked when the case finally went to trial, “what made you, or better yet, what prompted you to join the juju cult?”

  “Objection,” Fleming’s defense attorney shouted for the countless time.

  “Overruled,” the judge said without hesitation. “Answer the question, Mr. Fleming,” he ordered. A sinister smile shone on Mr. Fleming’s face.

  “I presume you are a Christian?” asked Mr. Fleming, looking directly at the prosecutor.

  “Answer the question, Mr. Fleming. What prompted you to join the juju cult?” the prosecutor asked again, sternly.

  “I am sorry to say, but it is like me asking you what prompted you to be a Christian,” Mr. Fleming answered.

  “I trust by your answer that you do not believe in God,” the prosecutor asked, as he strolled toward the jury team seated at the right corner of the courtroom.

  “Your honor, what’s the relevance?” Mr. Fleming’s attorney interrupted, as he stood up where he was seated at the left-corner defense table, facing the judge.

  “Your honor, this particular belief is the central core of this whole trial,” the prosecutor explained.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Fleming,” the judge instructed.

  “All I can tell you is this, Mr. Attorney—there is an old Nigerian wise tale in Pidgin English that says, ‘God dai, na’im be poor man’s juju.’ Translated, it means, ‘poor people believe in God because they cannot afford juju,’” Mr. Fleming said to a shocked jury.

  Along with seven accomplices, Mr. Fleming was found guilty in the murder of three missing teenagers from Louisiana, Alabama, and Mississippi. Forensic evidence was still underway for another twelve, possibly twenty, other missing teenagers in the five-state area. In addition, there was a possible link to Mr. Fleming’s business operations.

  PART

  XI

  1

  DICKERSON FINALLY RECEIVED A call from Sacramento, California. Governor Nagoya’s executive secretary called to see if Dickerson had some time to discuss key critical issues with the governor.

  Dickerson’s secretary said, “One moment please.

  “The governor would like to speak with you if you have time,” she said.

  “Good morning, Governor,” Dickerson said, a little apprehensive.

  “How busy are you next week, Tuesday about two p.m.?” asked the governor, straight to the point.

  “Let me see,” answered Dickerson, opening her Tungsten T3 PalmPilot cover, pulling out the pointer, and scrolling through to Tuesday.

  “I have noon grand rounds that usually last one hour, maximum ninety minutes, so two p.m. is okay with me.” Dickerson figured that, no matter what, she would keep this appointment.

  “I will be in San Diego at the Seaport Village near the Hilton Hotel. We’ve scheduled a two p.m. news conference,” the governor said.

  “I’ll be there before two p.m.; that’s if you want me to be there,” Dickerson replied.

  “Good, then let me update you on what we’re planning,” the governor said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dickerson, not accustomed to calling any man “sir” ever since she had stopped calling her dad “sir” at age fourteen, thought it strange to hear herself saying that. She had always equated the word “sir” with being somewhat subservient, and thought that it subjugated her into an inferior position. She had always been first, or at the top, in all her classes, and everyone else looked up to her. She had adamantly refused to use that word throughout high school, college, and medical school. Her formal greetings were usually Mr. So-and-so or Dr. So-and-so. Yet, here she was, using the word for the first time since age fourteen, not sure exactly why she did. Maybe she was just excited.

  “We have had several meetings and consultations with the attorney general’s office and the state’s legal team over mandatory testing,” the governor said. “After researching the laws, we feel that the state is within its legal jurisdiction to order mandatory testing of its citizens.

  “But before I proceed further,” the governor said, “how do you feel about mandatory testing?”

  “I support it one hundred percent, sir, but the question I have, and it is the same question I have been asked over and over again, is w
hat to do with all the HLA B66-positive people?”

  “That’s also the question that posed the most challenge for us,” the governor said.

  “How did you all resolve that?”

  “What we have decided to do is to collect the data, including the DNA of all citizens, but we will have separate files for the HLA B66-positive people,” explained the governor. “We will have this information stored in the computer, the same way we have all social security information and driver’s license information stored in the computer. If a crime is committed, the crime scene investigation team findings will be first tested against all our DNAs and HLA B66 for any match. If there is a match, then that individual will be questioned extensively. If any connection is made, then so be it. If the suspect’s alibi is airtight, then the individual is subjected to surveillance monitoring while the investigation continues. At least, we then have a suspect.”

  There was silence on the other end after the governor finished.

  “Are you still there, Doc?” the governor asked.

  “Yes … yes, I am,” Dickerson said. “One thought though. If that be the case, then the HLA B66 positives are all suspects prior to any investigation.”

  “You can look at it that way,” the governor said, taking a little time to formulate a response, “but with a positive match, at least we have a lead. Besides, you and Dr. Abramhoff proved that the HLA B66 individuals are destined or programmed to commit crimes. What triggers them, according to you, we do not know, but at least we are trying, or are going to try, to do something.”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Dickerson said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “We need to set up test centers in all the hospitals and clinics, the same way the state collects statistics on all HIV and syphilis cases, for example,” the governor said. “For the remote areas, we have multiple state medical mobile units to go to those communities and accomplish the same mission. Of course, these mobile units will be accompanied by state police officers, just in case of any organized resistance or violence.”

  “What about those who refuse to test?” Dickerson asked, playing the devil’s advocate.

  “We will easily track them down. The legislature is currently working on a bill that will deny or forfeit driver’s license, welfare checks, social security checks, identification papers, tax refunds, and so on, if you have not been tested for HLA B66 within a certain period of time.”

  “That’s very intrusive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s the era we are in right now.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  “You will assume the title of the state medical director for the mandatory HLA B66 program.”

  “Is it a paid position?” Dr. Dickerson asked.

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” the governor said seriously. “You will be responsible for centralizing the data there in San Diego, reporting on the statistical findings, and answering all relevant medical questions about the HLA B66.”

  “I am honored,” Dickerson said.

  “Is that a yes?” the governor asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I will see you next Tuesday at two p.m., at the Seaport Village. My advance team will contact you for logistics.”

  2

  A MILD CALIFORNIA SUN was shining throughout San Diego on Tuesday. A sense of calm appeared to have descended over the city. The day before, it had been cloudy and had drizzled virtually all day long, finally ceasing at about 6:30 P.M. There were no clouds in the sky on Tuesday. The Seaport Village, overlooking San Diego Bay, on toward the hanging bridge, looked like a picturesque twenty-first-century fishing village.

  The governor’s advance team could not have picked a better setting, thought Dickerson.

  “Why doesn’t the state quarantine all HLA B66-positive individuals?” asked the San Diego Union-Tribune editorial reporter after the announcement by the governor that the state would institute mandatory testing beginning the first Monday in August.

  At the opening of the news conference, Dickerson was introduced as the state medical director for the HLA B66 project, responsible for coordinating the state findings and reporting directly to the governor.

  “There is no reason to quarantine someone who is free of communicable diseases and poses no health threat to the state,” the governor said.

  “But they will become criminals at some point in time, and that may then pose a threat,” insisted the reporter.

  “We have put in place a mechanism to deal with that scenario,” answered the governor. He abruptly pointed to another question.

  “Aren’t you violating people’s rights?” asked the Los Angeles Times reporter.

  “We are not violating anybody’s rights. The state has the right to require HLA B66 testing the same way we require yearly immunization testing for all our citizens.”

  “How can the state, with clear conscience, let a person roam around, knowing full well that one day that person will commit a heinous crime? That is scary, don’t you think?” asked another reporter.

  The governor deliberated for a second, and then slowly responded. “In the United States of America, we follow the law. The law as it stands now does not give us the power to arrest and detain an individual based on a test that shows that one day they will commit a crime. That would require an act of Congress. But to answer your question, the reason the state is instituting mandatory testing is to be able to identify the HLA B66 positives, and in the process at least know who they are.”

  “Will the rest of the people in the state at least know who they are?” insisted the reporter.

  “Unfortunately not,” answered the governor, with a faint smile on his face. “We do not want vigilantes targeting this population, or any sort of witch hunting.”

  “Dr. Dickerson, I heard that the folks in Boston are working on a possible medical cure for HLA B66. Any truth to that?” asked another reporter, directing the question to Dickerson, who was standing behind the governor with the rest of the local officials.

  The governor stepped sideways, making room for Dickerson to stand at the podium.

  “I have not heard or read of any substantiated medical cure for HLA B66. HLA B66 is a chromosomal marking,” Dickerson responded with a furrowed forehead while attempting to identify the reporter that asked the question. “You cannot take a pill for an HLA B66 cure, as you call it. Changing this or any other genetic marker requires careful gene manipulations.”

  “What is a chromosomal marking?”

  “That’s a very long lecture,” answered Dickerson, smiling at the reporter. “But, basically, chromosomes are unique structures in the cell nucleus where nearly all human genetic information is encoded and stored.”

  * * *

  “Congratulations,” said Abramhoff, calling Dickerson hours after the nationally televised California news conference.

  “Well, thank you. I did well, didn’t I?” inquired Dickerson, feeling self-assured.

  “So what do I call you now, the California medical director?” asked Abramhoff jokingly.

  “I don’t know whether that’s an official title yet,” Dickerson cautioned.

  “Is that a paid position?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “If I may be bold to ask, what’s the pay?”

  “You know, they haven’t told me yet, and that’s the truth. The governor assured me that it’s a paid position when I jokingly asked him the same question.”

  “Dr. Achampi thinks the task might be daunting for you, but I have every confidence you can do it.”

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence. I think we can handle it here. They said that the state will most probably assume the salaries of all my technical and logistical support. I believe by that, they mean the salaries of my entire staff.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Before I forget—the BASICS study, how is it coming along?” asked Dickerson, letting out a mild-mannered cough to deflect attention from aggra
ndizing.

  “Oh, we’re almost finished with all the preparations. Chicago has been chosen as the central hub for the study. However, we have to share the spotlight with London, Singapore, and Brazil.”

  “Why include Singapore?”

  “Why not, since they have that billion-dollar research complex?” Abramhoff said.

  “Oh, yes, I know,” Dickerson agreed.

  Within weeks, the Illinois House passed legislation requiring mandatory testing, becoming the second state to do so. The bill was sent to the governor. Illinois was followed almost simultaneously by Texas, Pennsylvania, Florida, Alabama, North Dakota, Wyoming, Georgia, and North Carolina.

  Illinois, as expected, picked Abramhoff as their chief medical officer, while the rest of the states, on a recommendation from Dickerson, chose their respective state health commissioners as coordinators.

  3

  BRIGHAM AND WOMEN’S HOSPITAL of Boston, Massachusetts, the oldest teaching hospital of Harvard Medical School, located on Huntington Avenue along the T-line, had always attracted pioneers in medical research and therapeutic innovations.

  Dr. Dominic St. John, chairman, Department of Hematology Oncology, who specialized in newer and more innovative therapies for leukemia, was one of those pioneers. An intelligent and highly educated professor, he prided himself on being neatly dressed at all times. The trendier the fashion in men’s suits, the more likely that suit would be found on Dr. St. John’s body.

  His laboratory coats had his name beautifully monogrammed over his left chest. He spoke fluent French and English with such ease that one would think he was a French citizen, educated in Europe, even though he was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and educated at Harvard. A soft-spoken gentleman when he lectured, he had a temper that was memorable throughout the hospital.

  Dr. St. John had been working on acute lymphoblast leukemia, a very difficult blood cancer, especially difficult when detected in children, that was not easily curable, unlike most of the other blood cancers. One of Dr. St. John’s patients, a seventeen-year-old girl, Ramona, who had lymphoblast leukemia, was recently suffering from recurrent anemia. She had required multiple blood transfusions for the anemia.