by Ethan Cross
He was tired and felt useless, but there was more than just the case weighing on his mind. Ackerman’s words from earlier that morning kept repeating in his head. Could the killer have been telling the truth? Was there a reason why Ackerman had been chosen for his recruitment? It wouldn’t be the first time that the Director had lied to him or deliberately withheld things from him.
Grabbing for his phone, Marcus dialed Emily Morgan. It took six rings for her to answer, and when she did, she sounded groggy. “Hello?” The word was punctuated with a yawn.
“I’m sorry for waking you.”
“Don’t be, it’s what I’m here for. What’s going on?”
“Do you know anything that you haven’t told me?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Have you ever seen my file?”
She was silent for a moment but then said, “I don’t have access. Only the Director is allowed to view personnel files. I’ve requested to see them, but he won’t allow it.”
Ackerman’s words came back to him again. I’ve never lied to you, Marcus. Unlike everyone else in your life.
“How are you supposed to treat us from a psychiatric standpoint if you’re kept in the dark about our pasts?”
“I’ve asked the same thing, but the Director feels that I should only know what you want me to know.”
“What about the things that we don’t even know ourselves?” he said.
“Like what?”
“Ackerman told me that he and I were connected and that there’s a reason why he was chosen for my recruitment. Something that the Director’s keeping from me.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“In the sessions where you were helping me remember the night my parents died, I kept hearing that voice in the darkness that comforted me while they were screaming downstairs.”
Emily yawned again over the phone, and Marcus remembered that it was actually an hour later in DC. “We had talked about that. Many researchers refer to it as the Angel Effect and believe that when people have a traumatic or near-death experience, their subconscious minds manifest a comforting voice or figure to help their brains deal with the situation.” She hesitated for a moment. “Then again, I do believe in God and angels. So it wouldn’t surprise me if you did have a guardian angel watching over you that night.”
“Yeah, maybe I did.”
Emily started to say something more, but Marcus’s phone showed another call coming through. It was Maggie. “Emily, I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He clicked over to Maggie and said, “What’s happening?”
A hint of fear permeated Maggie’s voice, evident in the tremor of her speech and the shallowness of her breathing. “I just got a call from Ackerman.”
Marcus jerked up in his seat. The killer had never involved another member of the team in such a way. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. He wanted me to give you a message immediately. He said that he has important information for you about the case and that I should tell you to answer your damn phone.”
As if on cue, the unknown number appeared on the screen. Speak of the devil. “He’s calling now.”
“Call me back.”
This time, Marcus accepted the call and said, “I don’t need your help.”
Ackerman laughed. “That’s highly debatable. Does this mean that you don’t want to hear what I learned from your friend Crowley?”
Marcus’s fingers clenched around the phone, and his teeth ground against each other. He didn’t want Ackerman’s help, but innocent people’s lives were on the line. He wondered if, by accepting the information, he was condoning the methods used to obtain it.
“Are you still there, Marcus?”
“What did you do with Crowley?”
“I wouldn’t worry about him. Did you know he was a pedophile?”
Marcus noted Ackerman’s use of the past tense. “Is he dead?”
“If I were you, I would worry more about the Anarchist and saving those poor, innocent women. Leave Crowley to rot.”
Marcus closed his eyes and thought of the monster he could feel himself becoming. There had been a time when he would have taken the moral high road, a time when there were values that he held above all else. The world had once seemed so black and white, good and evil. But now everything was cold and gray. The lines between right and wrong had blurred to the point that he no longer understood on which side he stood.
“Tell me what you’ve learned.”
77
Schofield pulled over along the road on an overpass crossing above I-80. His tires bumped over the rumble strips until the vehicle came to rest. The coppery taste of blood was still fresh in his mouth. It collided in his mind with the scent of the Fraser Fir in Liz Hamilton’s living room and combined into some strange metallic amalgam that made him feel queasy. He looked over at the plastic bag sitting on the passenger seat, and the nauseous swirl in the pit of his stomach could no longer be contained. He threw open the door and vomited alongside the roadway.
He looked over the edge at the cars zooming past on the interstate and considered jumping. Even if the fall didn’t kill him, surely an unsuspecting motorist would. In that moment, he knew that the life he had wanted could never be his. The analysis and calculation of variables had always come easy to him. He supposed that he should have predicted this inevitable outcome, but he had never wanted to believe that it would all crumble down. He just wanted to be a whole person for his family, but now his actions had placed them in grave danger. He needed to be strong for them.
Making his decision, one that would change everything forever, he dialed his wife’s number. She answered after several rings. “Hello?”
“Eleanor, listen to me very carefully.”
“Harrison?”
“Yes, honey. I need you to trust me right now and not question me. Just do exactly as I say.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared. Get the kids and get out of the house right now. Just throw on some clothes and go. Go to a motel.”
“What? Where?”
“There’s a place called the Belmont Motel in Brookfield. Check in under the name Patricia Raymond, and pay cash. Leave your cell phones at the house. I’ll call you tomorrow at the motel.”
“Tell me what’s going on.” The fear and doubt in her voice broke his heart.
“There’s no time. Just do exactly as I said. I’m going to get enough money for us to get away from the city.”
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“You have to trust me. We’re all in very serious danger.”
“Okay.”
“I love you all so much … and I’m sorry.” He hung up without waiting for her reply, for fear that she would not reciprocate his feelings.
His gaze traveled back to the plastic bag on the passenger seat. He needed to find a place to dispose of the fingers.
78
Keisha Schuyler should have been the next Jackie Joyner-Kersee. Her face should have appeared on Wheaties boxes and Nike ads. She had been able to run the fifty-meter hurdles in 6.69 seconds, nearly beating the US record. And she was getting better and better. Although she had been born pigeon-toed to the point of it being a handicap, when she ran the crookedness of her body corrected itself. In fact, on the track was the only time anything felt natural to her.
A knee injury and a bout with prescription-drug and alcohol addiction had stolen all her hopes and dreams, leaving her an empty shell of a human being. Her continued addictions cost her another good career and landed her in rehab. But that was also where she had met Greg, her sponsor and future husband.
Now, with Greg’s help, her life was finally getting back on track.
Keisha checked the time. With a yawn, she said, “Come on, baby. It’s really late. We need to get to bed.”
Greg grumbled and said, “We’re on vacation, remember.”
“That’s right. And I don’t want to
sleep the whole time. We need to be on the road by four at the latest.”
“Okay, you win,” Greg said as he shut off the movie.
They had both taken the next week off from work and were leaving the following afternoon after Keisha’s stepdaughter, Rhaelyn, came home from school. They were headed to Seattle. Keisha’s parents had moved there three years ago, and she had yet to see their new house. So they had decided to head out for a visit.
She stood up from the couch, her knee protesting at the movement. The pain was always worse during the winter. She smiled at her husband and gave him a little wink. He leaned in and kissed her. Greg was such a caring and handsome man with his large frame, dark black hair, and big brown eyes. And he could even cook.
Life had finally settled into a comfortable and secure rhythm. And for the first time in a long time, everything seemed to be going Keisha’s way.
79
The Prophet’s anger was a bright red. He could see the pulses of color radiating from his hands and arms as he gripped the steering wheel of the white Ford Taurus. He had just left the Schofield residence. It sat empty and in shambles. The family had been warned. Another betrayal at the hands of the former Chosen, but he would find them. With the Father on his side, he was invincible.
But while he worked out a way to track down Eleanor and the children, he also knew that he needed to acquire another of the slaves for use in the ritual. He needed five. One for each point of the pentagram.
Unlike Schofield, whose eccentricities when choosing the sacrifice had always been an annoyance but one that he had indulged, the Prophet didn’t care to know the ignorant piece of meat before abducting her. He didn’t feel the need for any type of dramatics beyond the ritual. No Circle A signatures scrawled on the walls. Just another meaningless slave to be sacrificed to the Father. Nothing more, nothing less. The dark ones would lead him to the next sacrifice, as it should have been all along.
He popped another piece of blotter paper treated with LSD into his mouth, to ensure that he could see the world as it truly was without the hindrance of the mortal coil. He sat there for a few moments. The snow falling all around him was lit from within like the small bioluminescent creatures living in the darkest parts of the ocean. The air was heavy as if it had become a liquid, and it smelled like rage. The suburban street swelled and contracted around him. It wasn’t that the houses had necessarily changed. It was more that they were alive, that they were breathing.
Then a section of the shadows coalesced into an oily amorphous figure. The figured moved away from him leaving tracer lines of black behind. The Prophet placed the Taurus into drive and then tried his best to keep the vehicle between the glowing and undulating lines on the road as he pursued the dark one down the street.
80
Keisha Schuyler padded across the dark burgundy carpet and flipped down the lock for the sliding glass door that led to the patio at the side of their home. Her hand stretched up beneath the dark brown curtain on the door’s left-hand side to flip off the patio light, but she froze in place. She hesitated for a second, and then she screamed.
There was a man approaching her back door. He was dressed all in black, and the look on his face told her all she needed to know. His eyes were wide and angry, and his face was haggard.
She stumbled back from the door and tripped over the cedar coffee table. The sound of her husband’s footfalls pounded down the stairs. “Greg!” she yelled. But the words had barely left her throat when the man in black grabbed a chair from their patio set and threw it through the glass. Shards exploded into the living room, and the chair twisted in the air and slammed into the cedar table near where she had fallen.
The man kicked out the remaining glass and stepped inside. Keisha back-pedaled on her hands and rear. Her bad knee shot pains down her leg, but the adrenaline overpowered the discomfort.
Greg ran through the archway into the living room. He held up a baseball bat, ready to swing on the intruder.
The man’s face showed no change, just the same wide-eyed stare. His eyes seemed distant. Then he raised his arm, and Keisha noticed the large revolver for the first time.
She opened her mouth to yell for Greg to run, but before she could utter the words the big pistol spat fire. Greg’s left leg flew out from beneath him, and he slammed down face-first onto the burgundy carpet.
The noise of the gunshot left her ears ringing even from several feet away. Everything felt so surreal, like something happening to someone else in a movie.
Greg’s screams echoed off the walls, and he tried to crawl away. But the man in black stepped casually over to him and fired again. Greg’s body jerked violently from the bullet’s massive impact, but then he lay perfectly still.
Keisha bolted for the stairs and her stepdaughter’s second-floor bedroom, but another blast into the wall in front of her made her stumble back from the steps.
“Don’t move. Get down on your knees.” The man’s slow Southern drawl surprised her. It was the type of voice she might have expected from a plantation owner living two hundred years ago. Not a country accent, but more that of a Southern aristocrat or professor.
“Please! Take whatever you—”
“Be quiet. I want you alive, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t put a hole in you. Maybe somewhere especially painful and debilitating. Like the kneecap. With a cannon like this, it’s liable to blow your leg clean off.”
The tears ran down Keisha’s cheeks, and she stifled a whimper as she fell to her knees. The man in black stepped forward and placed the barrel of the big gun against her forehead. It was still hot from his past three shots and burned her skin. But she dared not flinch. Her whole body trembled, and she closed her eyes, certain that her life was now over. Her only hope was that her stepdaughter had heard the noises and would find a hiding place rather than coming to help.
She heard a muffled thump in front of her and opened her eyes. A pair of handcuffs and a syringe rested on the carpet. “Inject that into your arm and then put on the handcuffs. Arms behind your back.”
“Please, I—”
The man cocked back the revolver’s hammer. It was a sharp sound that grated across her eardrum. “You have three seconds to decide whether you want that needle in your arm or a bullet in your brain.”
As she picked up and plunged the needle, she thought of her stepdaughter. She had complied more for the girl’s sake than her own. If Greg’s killer had Keisha, he wouldn’t need to search the rest of the house, and Rhaelyn might have a chance.
She locked the handcuffs around her wrists. The man in black pulled her up from the ground and shoved her past the dead body of the only man she had ever loved and toward the door.
81
After Ackerman’s call, Marcus had contacted Maggie and asked her to pick him up in the Yukon. They needed to take a little trip up north, and he wanted some time alone with her to talk about what had been going on between them. Then he had called Stan and relayed to him what Ackerman had learned from Crowley. They needed a possible location for the cult’s former compound and more information on the man called Conlan, who apparently went by the name of The Prophet.
He had also sent Andrew and Vasques over to investigate Crowley’s shop and see if the man could still be alive. The call had come back quickly that Crowley was dead. But he hadn’t been simply murdered, he had been nearly cut in half. Andrew had seemed extremely shaken by what he had seen, and that was saying something coming from a man who worked around the macabre on a daily basis. Marcus couldn’t help but feel responsible for Crowley’s death, but he couldn’t quite make himself feel sorry about it. Crowley had been found in a torture room of his own design, and they had also found tapes of the man abusing young boys. If anyone had deserved such an encounter with Ackerman, it was Vassago Crowley. And in some deep animal part of Marcus’s mind, he wished that he could have extracted the information himself.
Knowing that the compound was somewhere in Wisconsin’s Jefferson Co
unty, he had taken I-290 up to Route 53 and then across to Route 12. Along the way, they had passed through all manner of terrain, from suburban to rural to forest. They would be in Jefferson County within a couple of hours, just before sunrise. With luck, Stan would have a location for them by then.
Maggie had been silent for most of the drive, and Marcus couldn’t quite find the words to express his feelings. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and said the first thing that came to mind. “What’s the deal with you and this Rowland guy?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
“We’re not teenagers, Maggie.”
“Only teenagers can be jealous?”
“I’m just saying that he doesn’t seem like a good fit for you.”
“You haven’t even met the guy.”
“I know the type. Rowland shouldn’t even call himself a satanist. People like that should just be honest and say that they’re selfish. How could you be interested in a guy who thinks that people should be their own god and only be concerned with their own desires and what makes them happy?”
She turned in the passenger seat to face him. The leather squeaked beneath her, and the movement stirred the scent of her perfume into the air. It was both sweet and fragrant, like orchids mixed with honey.
“Explain this to me,” Maggie said, “because I’m a bit confused. You’re not jealous because another guy asked me out: you’re simply worried about my soul.”
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from.”
Marcus said nothing, and the silence stretched out.
After a few moments, she said, “Do you love me or not?”
The bluntness of the question shocked Marcus and made him hesitate. He wasn’t sure how to respond to something like that.
Apparently taking his silence as a negative, Maggie said, “I guess that’s my answer.”