by Ethan Cross
61
The corporate headquarters of Schofield Security Associates sat on a corner lot nestled among shopping plazas, chain stores, and fast-food restaurants just across the Indiana border in a town named Highland. It was only forty minutes from downtown Chicago, fifteen from the Gary/Chicago International Airport, and ten from Briar Ridge Country Club where Schofield’s grandfather liked to play golf. When the site was chosen, they had been one of only a few companies in the area, but the urban landscape had expanded around them. It was a massive slate-gray metal-and-glass-covered structure. One end of the building was rounded like a sports stadium and had always vaguely reminded Harrison Schofield of the ancient Roman Colosseum. His grandfather, Raymond Schofield, had paid an architectural firm from Los Angeles an exorbitant amount of money to design the monstrosity. As Chief Financial Officer, Harrison had been opposed to the project from the start, but it had been his grandfather’s dream.
Raymond Schofield had founded SSA in the 1970s and had built it into a world-renowned consulting organization with operations covering ninety cities in thirty states and employing over seventeen thousand workers. They provided security for every type of industry and situation including financial, manufacturing and industrial, retail, and residential.
Schofield pulled the Camry up to the security gate and swiped his ID card. The white automated reinforced fencing slid open to allow him to pass. The parking garage occupied two underground levels below the rounded side of the building and was used only by SSA personnel.
He parked in his designated spot and shut off the car’s engine. The company had its own motor pool and a fleet of vans used by on-the-ground installation teams. A man named Rick Mortimer was in charge of the maintenance and assignment of the company vehicles. Mortimer’s office, positioned next to the elevator, had an open window where employees could drop off or pick up keys for their assigned vehicles. As Schofield stepped from the Camry, he could feel Mortimer’s stare drilling into his back.
Heading toward the elevator, he passed the window to Mortimer’s office. Mortimer was handsome with a full head of perfectly coifed salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled features. If someone had replaced the blue and white coveralls and name tag with a tailored suit and a power tie, Mortimer could have passed for a Presidential candidate. But that morning, he wore a scowl.
Schofield smiled in at the older man and said, “Is everything okay?” But he tried not to make eye contact.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Umm, I’m … not sure what you mean?” Schofield felt himself shrinking away and fought the urge to run.
“I guess I’ve just been wondering why you’ve been using one of my vans. And someone stole a set of our coveralls and a name tag. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
He was on the verge of hyperventilation now. The concrete walls of the garage were caving in around him. “I haven’t … I just … Well, maybe once.”
Schofield had once watched a Discovery Channel program with his kids on the fight-or-flight instinct. He had identified most with the opossum. When it saw danger, it played dead, ignoring the threat and hoping for it to go away.
Choosing flight rather than fight, he shuffled away from the window and tapped furiously on the button for the elevator. It dinged, and the doors slid open. In a sharp and quick rhythm, his finger pressed against the button inside to close the doors. From the garage, he was fairly certain that he heard Mortimer’s voice say, “Freak.” He agreed. He was a freak. But maybe he wouldn’t always be one.
He got off on the third floor and walked past rows of cubicles and along corridors lined with glass-fronted offices. This was always the worst part of his day. He had tried to convince his grandfather to allow him to work remotely from home, but Raymond had felt that social interaction would do Schofield some good. His grandfather didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Trying not to make eye contact with anyone and hoping he could avoid drawing attention to himself, he made it to his office after having had to give only a few nods to various co-workers and his secretary.
Closing the door behind him and dropping his black leather briefcase on the floor, he released a deep breath and bent forward with his hands on his knees. Luckily, his grandfather had agreed to give him a private office and his own bathroom. Work started at nine, but he usually arrived at least an hour late in the mornings to avoid the foot traffic and make sure that everyone else was already pounding away at their desks. The evening was easier. He could wait until the others had gone and avoid them entirely.
As he tried to calm his heart rate and breathing, he walked around the spacious office. It was all white and chrome and glass in what the interior designers had called modern art deco. The only items that he had supplied were the photos and awards that lined the shelves along one wall. The photographs were mostly recent pictures of his family. Only two were from his childhood. One was of his mother. The other was a nature shot taken from a bluff near the cult’s compound in Wisconsin. It was filled mostly with trees. Maples, ashes, junipers, balsam firs. But it also showed a rocky slope and a small creek. It had been his special place.
Sneaking away from the compound as a curious child, he had spent a lot of time at that spot. He had imagined the woods as his own little kingdom where he could escape from people, their stares, their mumbled words behind his back. It was the site of his first kill. The place where he had taken his first soul and discovered the strength that it gave him.
Another boy who had always been especially cruel to and jealous of him had followed Schofield into the woods. The boy teased him and pushed him down. They struggled and rolled around in the dirt of the forest floor. Then the boy’s struggling ceased. His head had struck a rock and the back of his skull had caved in. Schofield sat atop the boy, staring into his eyes as his life drained away.
The Prophet had been proud of him.
A knock on his office door drew his attention back to the present. His grandfather came in. Raymond was tall and muscular with white hair and a thick beard. He cast a powerful shadow. His voice was deep and commanding. “Hello, my boy,” Raymond said warmly as he stepped inside and slapped Harrison on the back. His grandfather had always been good to him. After all, his mother was Raymond’s only child, and Harrison his only grandchild.
Raymond stood next to Schofield in front of the wall of photos. Picking up one of the shooting trophies displayed there, he said, “We should go to the range sometime, maybe at lunch. I’ve got a new Remington twelve-gauge that I’ve barely touched. Or maybe just cut out and do a full-blown hunting trip. We could take Benjamin with us.”
His boy’s dark dreams of death filled his head. “I’m sure he’d love that.”
“Good. I’ll start checking into it. We could do Wyoming this time, or would you rather head back to Canada?”
“Either way.”
A pregnant silence filled the room. Schofield could sense a question on Raymond’s mind. Finally, his grandfather said, “Where were you yesterday?”
Schofield said nothing, and Raymond added, “How is she?” His voice was soft, and sadness filled his eyes.
“About the same.”
“I think it’s wonderful the way that you still care for her and visit, despite all she’s put you through. I can’t imagine. You have a good heart, Harrison. I should go more myself, but it’s just …”
“Difficult.”
“Yes. I’m so sorry for all that happened to you when you were a boy. If I …” Raymond placed a hand on Schofield’s shoulder and looked down at the black and white photo of his mother hidden among the others. She wasn’t smiling. Her eyes were distant and sad. “Your mother was always unstable as a girl. Still, it was the darkest period of my life when she ran away. But it was also the happiest day of my life when you came back to live with me.”
Raymond cleared his throat and checked his watch. “I’m late for a meeting, but I’d rather be going on a hunting trip. I’ll make the arrangemen
ts. Maybe we could take Ben to the range this weekend to get him ready.”
“That would be great.”
As Schofield watched his grandfather leave, he knew that he should have felt great joy at Raymond’s words. But he felt nothing, just an anxious, hollow pain. He looked out the window and thought of his past—his mother, the compound, the Prophet—and his future—Eleanor, Alison, Melanie, and Benjamin. His grandfather’s words came back to him. You have a good heart, Harrison. But he didn’t. The evil twisted and clawed through his heart like a cancer, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t deny it. He had betrayed everything and everyone he loved.
In a sudden fit of anger, he swept all the papers from the top of his desk. Annual reports, earnings statements, stock profiles. They all struck the floor and scattered everywhere. He stared down at the mess and sighed. Feeling foolish, he started to re-organize the documents back into neat stacks.
Day Five – December 19 Afternoon
62
Crowley’s Occult Books was on Chicago’s north side, not far from I-94. Across the street was a tall white apartment building and a small, fenced-in park with no playground equipment and three gnarled trees. The bookstore shared the street with a liquor store, nail salon, and a pastry and coffee shop. Brightly colored awnings, names and numbers scrawled in three-foot letters, and neon signs marked each. All except for the bookstore. Only a small sign hung in the front window of the red brick building. It read Rare and Antique Artifacts—Serious inquiries by active spiritualists, occultists, and shamans only.
Marcus rolled his eyes. “What kind of a name is Vassago Crowley?”
“The made-up kind,” Andrew said. “Stan told me that Vassago is the name of some demon and Crowley probably came from Aleister Crowley.”
“The guy from the Ozzy Osbourne song?”
It was Andrew’s turn to roll his eyes. “Fake IDs?”
“Yeah. I think we’ll be from the FBI today.”
They pushed through the front door of the shop, and the ding of a doorbell announced their presence. The interior smelled of incense. The sound of a string quartet came from speakers mounted in the ceiling. The store was filled with rows of books but also contained a myriad of candles, jars filled with strange substances, skulls, talismans, and symbols. The sales counter rested along the back wall. A blond-haired man in his early fifties stood behind it. He was leaning forward with his elbows on the glass and thumbing through an old leather-bound tome. Without raising his eyes from the book, he said, “What do you want?” Judging by his accent, he was from Australia or maybe New Zealand.
Marcus hated him from the first second he laid eyes on him. “Vassago Crowley?”
Crowley stared at them over his glasses and then returned to his book. “Sod off.”
“Sir, we’re from the FBI.”
“You here to arrest me?”
“No.”
“You have a warrant?”
“We don’t need a warrant. We’re just here to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh well, in that case, sod off, like I said. I don’t know anything. If you come back tomorrow, I’ll know even less then.”
“We’re trying to catch a killer and have reason to believe that you have information to help with the investigation. We won’t take up much of your time.”
The front door dinged again, and a heavyset old man with a thick reddish brown beard stepped inside. He was stooped and limping. He had a bulbous nose that looked like it had been broken a few times, and long brown hair hung down over half of his wrinkled face. The man barely acknowledged them as he headed off toward a stack of books along one wall.
“I’ve got a customer. And I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”
Andrew said, “Come on. Let’s just go.”
But Marcus could feel his anger bubbling to the surface. He cracked his neck and slammed a hand down on the counter. “People’s lives are at stake here. We just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay, you can ask me one question. Ask me if I give a squirt of piss about those people’s lives. Go ahead. Ask me.”
Marcus’s teeth ground hard against one another. He counted backward from five, then he said, “Sir, please, just—”
“If you’re not going to arrest me, then get out. I’m not answering any questions without a lawyer. Is that clear enough for you?”
Marcus smiled. “Crystal.”
Then his open palm shot out and slammed into Crowley’s throat. The man’s glasses flew from his head as his neck whipped back. Marcus grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head forward onto the glass of the counter. It splintered out in a spiderweb of cracks. He continued to press Crowley’s head down against the glass and pulled his Sig Sauer pistol. The barrel twisted against the side of Crowley’s face.
“Tell me about the Anarchist!”
“I don’t know anything!”
He cocked back the hammer on the Sig Sauer. “Tell me!”
Andrew’s fingers curled around Marcus’s left bicep. His voice was calm yet firm and insistent. “Come on, Marcus. We’re done here.”
Marcus’s hand shook, and he dug the pistol harder into Crowley’s cheek. He bit down on his lip.
“Marcus! Enough!”
He wrenched the gun away from Crowley’s head and turned for the door. The guy with the red beard knew when to mind his own business and tried not to make eye contact. Marcus didn’t blame him. As he jerked open the front door, the bell dinged again, and he heard Crowley screaming. “I’m pressing charges, you bloody psychopath!”
Resisting the urge to turn back, he headed straight for the Yukon.
“Give me the keys!” Andrew said. “And get in the damn truck. I’m sure the police will be on their way soon, and you’ve beaten up enough cops today.”
63
Ackerman was worried about Marcus. The little display of violence that he had just witnessed had been completely uncalled for. Not that Ackerman was ever opposed to violence, but Marcus’s reaction was sloppy and lacked calculation. It served no purpose and was out of character. Marcus was slipping up. He needed help. Just a little push in the right direction.
The killer reached up and scratched at his red beard. This was one of his least favorite disguises, but it was also very effective. He had covered the area where his nose, forehead, and eyes intersected with a latex prosthetic and had added wrinkles to his forehead and around his eyes. Then he had applied several coats of stage make-up to ensure that everything blended and looked natural. That was the most time-consuming step, but to be properly effective he needed to do even more. His clothes were padded to make him look heavier. Most simple facial-recognition software would probably have been fooled by the fake nose, but if thermal IR cameras were employed, they would pick out the differences in skin temperature and detect the use of a prosthetic. And the fake beard was completely useless against the software. The solution was simple yet elegant. The majority of recognition software relied heavily on analysis of the eyes and needed symmetry to be effective. The hair of the long brown wig hung over the right half of his face and specifically his right eye. In his tests, there was less than a three percent chance of his being detected.
He scanned through the book in his hand. From what he could gather, it discussed divination and magic in ancient Egypt. Once Marcus and Andrew had pulled away from the curb, he slid the book back onto the shelf where he had found it. Then he approached the counter.
Crowley was still cursing and examining his face in the mirror of a small bathroom marked Employees Only just behind the counter. He caught sight of Ackerman and pointed a finger at him. “What do you want?”
Ackerman smiled as he laid a large revolver on the counter. It was a Taurus Judge loaded with Winchester PDX1 .410 home-defense shotgun shells. Each shell contained three copper-plated defense discs and twelve copper-plated pellets in order to ensure maximum stopping power. The Judge covered the epicenter of the web of cracks and blood where Marcus had slammed Cr
owley’s head only a few moments before.
“I want to play a little game,” he said. “Let’s call this one The Whole Truth.”
64
Andrew jerked the Yukon into a parking lot between a small Mexican restaurant and a dilapidated, graffiti-covered building. It might have once been a convenience or liquor store. Marcus couldn’t tell for sure. There was fire damage on the roof, and the windows were boarded up. As they pulled in, a couple of gangbangers heading for the Mexican restaurant gave them a look as though they were in the wrong place. Carry On Wayward Son by Kansas was on the radio, but Andrew switched it off.
“I like that song,” Marcus said.
Andrew’s breathing was quick and agitated as he seethed in the driver’s seat. After a moment’s silence, he said, “What is going on with you? I can’t keep doing this.”
“What do you want me to say? I just feel like I’m on edge all the time. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. I feel like my head’s going to explode. I’m losing control of everything.”
“Then suck it up and get a grip on yourself. I’m sick of babysitting you.”
Silence stretched in the car. The wind was picking up. It blew the snow from the top of the run-down building and dropped it onto their windshield. Andrew said, “What’s really bothering you? The truth.”
Marcus released a deep breath. “How many people do you think I’ve killed?”
“You know, one time when I was in high school, this veteran came in to speak to our history class. He had fought in Vietnam, and we were doing a unit on the war. He told us about his experiences and then opened it up for questions. Being a stupid kid, I asked him if he had ever killed anyone while he was over there. His answer has stuck with me to this day. He told me that he would rather focus on the people that he had saved. And that’s exactly what you need to do. You can’t let guilt consume you for no good reason.”