by Ethan Cross
She had just left the foyer and was walking down a long hallway whose walls were covered with family photos when the doorbell rang. From instinct, she pressed her body against the wall. Hugging the side of the hall but careful not to knock down the photos, she crept back toward the foyer and peeked around the corner. There was a shadowy figure barely visible through the glazed glass of the front door. She could see little else other than that the man was dressed in dark blue or black.
The doorbell rang out again. It was loud and resonated down the hall from all angles. She waited, refused to move. Then the figure knocked, paused again, and called out. “Mrs. Schofield? It’s an urgent matter about your husband.”
She stood there like a statue and waited for him to leave. The police in Indiana must have asked the local PD to send someone out to collect Schofield’s wife. But they wouldn’t be able to come into the house, even if they suspected that someone was inside. They would need a warrant for that. In one way, this new development hindered Maggie and in another it was a help. It would make leaving the house a challenge, but she figured that she could still sneak out through the back and make her way to her car through the neighbor’s backyard. But this also meant that she had someone out front watching her back. If the Prophet or Schofield’s family showed up, the officer would intervene.
After the cop had gone, Maggie walked back down the hall. At the end, she found a set of carpeted stairs just off the kitchen that led down into the home’s basement.
99
The headquarters of Schofield Security Associates looked to Marcus more like a hospital than an office building. It had that same large and ambitious glass feel that most new hospital boards seemed to prefer. A shopping plaza surrounded the building and made the police’s job of containment more difficult. They had erected barricades and had uniformed officers holding back the onlookers, but a news crew was already on the scene and a crowd had formed. Local black and white squad cars mixed in with bronze and dark brown cruisers from the Lake County Sheriff’s Department had the building surrounded, and Marcus noticed a large white truck and trailer marked with red and blue stripes and blue letters reading Mobile Command Center – Indiana District One. It was quite a set-up. He knew the command center was evidence of the estimated seventy-five billion dollars a year spent by federal and state governments for homeland security in response to the September 11th attacks of 2001.
They parked across the street in front of an IHOP, showed their IDs at the barricade, and walked to the command center. Marcus noticed a man that seemed to be in charge standing in front of another large truck labeled Lake County Sheriff Tactical Unit. The man wore a black BDU and a bulletproof vest with SHERIFF printed across the front in white block letters. He had a black mustache, thick eyebrows, and a boxer’s nose with a wide and crooked bridge that looked as if it had been broken and not allowed to heal properly.
Flashing his ID, Marcus said, “It was my office that called you in to apprehend this guy, but judging by the circus here, I’m guessing that it didn’t go down as planned.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed, and his boxer’s nose flared and looked even more crooked.
Andrew immediately stepped in, trying to defuse the situation. “My partner didn’t mean to imply that your men are somehow responsible for the current situation. He was just commenting on the crowd. We have no intentions of trying to assume command here or question your decisions. We’d just like to know what’s happening and what you’re planning.”
The man didn’t seem convinced but said, “Your suspect has barricaded himself in one of the interior offices and has a hostage. He says that if we try to come in, then he’ll kill her. He’s refusing to speak with anyone other than an FBI hostage negotiator.”
Marcus ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Make no mistake. This guy is a killer, and there’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered predator.”
The cop’s mouth scrunched up, and his eyes narrowed again. “Well aware. We know what we’re doing.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Right now, we’re containing the scene and waiting for the negotiator. But I’ve already requested that the Jackson’s Grove PD send some units to the suspect’s house to see if we can get his wife and kids out here to try and talk him down. Other than that, we’re drawing up contingency plans in case negotiations fail and we’re forced to breach.”
“What about the rest of the building’s employees?”
“He pulled the fire alarm to get everyone out.”
“Are we sure he’s armed? Did anyone see him?”
“No, he barricaded the door and forced his hostage to call 911 and give his instructions. If you don’t mind, I need to get on the phone and find out the status of our negotiator. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Andrew said, “We appreciate it.”
But Marcus just walked away. This could take hours, and they still didn’t know the location of the abducted women or the Prophet. For all they knew, Conlan could have them and be making preparations to burn them alive at that very moment.
Flipping up his collar against the cold, he found an out-of-the-way spot at the inner edge of the barricades and stared up at the gray rounded end of the office building. He stamped his feet in an attempt to stay warm. It was an old beat cop’s trick, but he had never been convinced that it actually worked.
To Andrew, he said, “Do you think he actually believes that he’s the Antichrist like Crowley told Ackerman?”
“Don’t know, but obviously Conlan believes it.”
“How could anyone believe that they could start the apocalypse by killing a bunch of women?” Marcus’s words came out in puffs of steam in the cold air.
“That’s kind of a silly question.”
“What do you mean?”
“You believe in God. Right, Marcus?”
“Of course, but the God I know would never want something like this.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m saying that you have faith that there is a God even though you can’t prove it.”
Marcus thought of a quote from Paul the Apostle. “The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
“Right. You believe because you feel it in your heart. But imagine if you actually had faith in the fact that by killing a handful of people you would be saving the souls of everyone else in the world. Not saying that it’s right or that I believe a word of it, but faith is a powerful thing. And misguided faith is an extremely dangerous thing. Just look at all the terrorist attacks and suicide bombings around the world.”
Marcus said nothing. He just stood there and thought of all the people using God or religion or ideology as a crutch to prop themselves up and achieve their own selfish goals or desires. He had always thought of God as the source of all love in the world. If it involved hatred, then it wasn’t of God. But unlike so many others who sowed the seeds of hate in God’s name, he supposed that at least Conlan had never claimed to be doing God’s work. The Prophet’s master was the author of hatred.
His thoughts turned to Schofield. There was something about this whole situation that bothered him, but he couldn’t quite nail down what it was. If he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t concentrate on much else beyond the pounding in his skull.
“Do we have any Tylenol in the—”
A familiar voice interrupted him from behind. “Marcus, fancy meeting you here.”
He turned to find the Director of the Shepherd Organization walking toward them through the crowd. Their boss wore a gray wool overcoat buttoned to the top and black leather gloves. A gray newsboy cap sat atop his head.
“What are you doing here?”
“Same as you boys, I suspect. Stan told me that you had the Anarchist cornered. I was in town visiting Allen.”
“How is he?”
“Stable. What’s the situation here?”
“He’s in there with a hostage and only wants to speak with a negotiator from the
FBI.”
“We could set you up as the negotiator.”
Andrew laughed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, boss.”
Marcus gave Andrew a dirty look but said, “Hate to admit it, but he’s right. I’m not exactly the voice of calm and reason.”
“That may be, but you’re definitely a good investigator. You’ve done good work on this case.”
Marcus just nodded. He had never been good at giving or accepting praise. But there was something that he needed to do that he was good at. He needed to get to the bottom of a mystery. “Andrew, could you see if we have any painkillers in the Yukon? I need to speak with the Director about a private matter.”
Andrew mumbled something under his breath as he walked off. Marcus thought that he caught the words damn and errand boy. Once Andrew was gone, Marcus said, “Why was Francis Ackerman chosen for my recruitment?”
The Director hesitated. Not for long, but long enough to betray a lie. “We’ve been over that. He was just convenient. The timing worked out.”
“So there’s no connection between the two of us?”
“What did he tell you?”
“That you’re a liar.”
“And you believe him rather than me?”
“I’m going to say it one more time. Is there a connection between me and Francis Ackerman?”
“I think we should discuss it once this situation with the Anarchist is—”
“We’ll discuss it now.”
“Fine. I’m not sure what he told you, but the truth is that Ackerman and his father murdered your parents.”
Marcus suddenly felt dizzy.
“They played a game with them and would’ve killed you too if you hadn’t heard the screams and hid. That’s the reason why I chose him specifically to be part of your recruitment. If things hadn’t gone wrong back then, you would have learned all this and been able to confront your parents’ killer. That had been my plan, anyway.”
Marcus steadied himself against a nearby police cruiser but couldn’t shake the sensation of falling.
“It doesn’t change anything. You’ll catch him, and justice will be served. I would’ve told you, but I didn’t want it to cloud your judgment.”
Marcus closed his eyes and fought back tears. He should’ve been prepared for this. He had expected as much. But somehow it still felt strange and surreal. For most of his life he had wondered about that night. Tried to remember. Dreamed of finding the people responsible. Dreamed of making them pay. And now he finally had someone that he could line up in his sights.
His fists clenched and unclenched. He cracked his neck to the side, getting into fight mode. Without opening his eyes, he said, “Please leave. If I open my eyes and see you standing there, I’m afraid that I may do something that we’ll both regret.”
100
Vasques had taken Marcus’s advice and called in the cavalry, but she hadn’t wanted to involve the Bureau. Luckily, her partner Troy LaPaglia had friends in the Cook County Sheriff’s office and was able to get their tactical unit out to help make the arrests. For obvious reasons, she hadn’t wanted to involve the local police department.
Now she sat inside the same surveillance van that she had four days earlier when she had busted the human-trafficking ring in Elk Grove Village. The block vinyl letters reading MASCONI PLUMBING AND HEATING still clung to its exterior. It was still cramped and uncomfortable, and it still smelled of stale coffee and greasy takeout food. She was certain that Belacourt hadn’t seen it; even if he had, the detective didn’t have Marcus’s memory.
Troy had set up a small electric heater that hummed on the desk beside him near the surveillance monitors. For some reason, he was always cold. Vasques was sweating and ready to throw the little heater out the window.
The parking lot of the Jackson’s Grove mall was packed. Christmas was only a few days away and everyone was scrambling to cross the final names from their lists. The sight of all the cars and people heading toward the mall to purchase gifts for loved ones evoked both sadness and anger in Vasques. She would not be giving any gifts or receiving any that Christmas. Her brother’s gift had been the little dog, and she hadn’t bought him anything. Childhood memories of Christmas morning with her father only fueled her anger at Belacourt.
She reached up inside her Level III-A body armor and scratched at her chest. It would stop a .44 magnum round traveling at fourteen hundred feet per second, but it was also bulky and added to her discomfort in the stuffy interior of the van. She popped in a third piece of Juicy Fruit gum. At her side, Troy said, “I just bought a new pack of Marlboros if you want one.”
“Thanks, Satan, but I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like one of those junkies on that TV show where the person’s family confronts them about their addiction.”
Vasques shook her head, but she did it with a smile. “Shut up and watch the monitors.”
They had a spotter posted on each of the entrances to the mall and five officers waiting in unmarked SUVs ready to converge on Belacourt and Jansen once they both arrived. Belacourt had probably chosen the mall as a meeting place because he wanted to blend in with the crowds, but it also made it easier for their team to intermingle. She had called Stan, and he would notify them as soon as Belacourt’s signal approached the shopping center. Belacourt had told Jansen on the phone that he’d be driving a green Honda Civic and would park along the back edge of the parking lot’s far corner.
In her mind, Vasques ran through everything one more time. The team would converge with overwhelming force, blitzkrieg-style. With luck, that would ensure that they’d meet no resistance. The very back corner of the lot had only a sporadic dotting of cars, so they should be a safe distance from any civilians. And she had parked the van close enough to where she could rush up to Belacourt’s car with the tactical team and be the one to make the arrest.
They were ready. Now all they had to do was wait.
101
When Andrew returned, he dropped two white extra-strength Tylenol tablets into Marcus’s outstretched palm and said, “Where’s the Director?”
“I don’t care,” Marcus said as he looked down at the tablets in his palm. “You only brought me two pills.”
“They’re extra-strength. You’re not supposed to take more than two at a time.”
“You’re not supposed to shoot people or drive over the speed limit, either. But that’s never stopped me.”
“How many do you usually take?”
“I don’t know. Four or five.”
“That’ll destroy your liver.”
He popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. “If I live that long, I’ll consider myself lucky. You think they have a coffee pot in that big command center?”
“Don’t get any ideas. If you want coffee, you can get it your damn self.”
Marcus chuckled. “You’re getting cranky. Is it that time of the month already?”
“Hilarious. If you had coffee right now, I’d dump it all over you.”
“Might feel pretty good in this weather.”
Andrew’s gaze traveled over the onlookers and police, and he said, “Does anything about this whole situation bother you?”
“Something doesn’t fit. That’s for sure.”
“The Anarchist is so meticulous and likes to assess every situation and be prepared. So why wouldn’t he be prepared for this? He had to have a plan in case the cops ever caught up with him.”
Looking back up at the building, Marcus wondered what he would do if he were in a similar situation. He considered the facts, analyzed what he knew. The secretary had called in with instructions. They were barricaded in an interior office. Schofield had pulled the fire alarm. People were everywhere. They were right next to a strip mall, and it was the holiday shopping season. The police didn’t know for sure if Schofield was even armed. They hadn’t seen him. No one had seen him. No one had even talked to him.
Marcus’s eyes went wide
. He looked at Andrew and could tell from the look on his partner’s face that he had followed the same line of thinking. “We need to go.”
Andrew said, “Schofield’s not in there.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
“This is all just a distraction to cover his escape.”
“He couldn’t have taken his car. He must have walked out the back or through the underground garage and just blended with the crowd. But where would he go now?”
Marcus’s head felt like a volcano about ready to erupt. He raised his hands and pressed hard against both sides of his skull. “I have no idea.”
102
Erik Jansen had hated being a Marine. He didn’t mind the actual training, but he had hated just about everything else. He hated the culture. Six-second showers for seventy-five recruits that had been sweating and crawling through salt marshes all day produced some odors that he could still feel clinging to the inside of his nostrils. He had once been punished for being late because he was only fifteen minutes early. The drill instructors treated him like a slave and nitpicked every move that he made. They yelled at him for asking too many questions. They yelled at him for not taking the initiative if he didn’t ask questions and awaited instructions. He hadn’t seen the point in any of it. He had been glad when they kicked him to the curb for knocking out the teeth of one of the drill instructors.
But he had acquired some valuable skills during his brief time in the Marine Corps. He had already been a good fighter, but they had honed his abilities. They had taught him about weapons. They had taught him how to kill, up close and from a distance.
He thought back on those lessons as he sat four hundred yards away from the back corner of the Jackson’s Grove Mall. A wide swath of undeveloped land bordered the mall’s lot and beyond that was a road lined on one side by small suburban homes and apartments. He had parked his maroon Dodge Caravan along that road in front of a little yellow ranch-style prefab. The mini-van didn’t seem out of place in any environment and had plenty of interior room. That was exactly why he had chosen it.