99 Souls

  Despite the bad examples that surrounded him, his blood ran blue.

  He had joined the academy after high school. By the time he knocked on Trevor’s door, he had been carrying a badge for just over two years and was anxious for the opportunity to show he could be more than just a foot soldier.

  The hour and a half he spent in the gym every day, combined with a strict diet, had kept him in peek physical condition. Relying on his massive strength and hubris only the young dare summon, he saw his opportunity when the scanned image of Trevor Borin appeared on the computer monitor built into his dashboard.

  After returning to Trevor’s house and calling in the address, he decided to take on the old man alone. He tried to tell himself he was doing it for the boy, but he couldn’t help but imagine the praise that would be bestowed upon him when he exited the house with Trevor in cuffs and Brandon safe.

  He parked in front of the two-story Victorian and approached the front door with the same easy stride he had earlier. His plan was to take the suspect off-guard. He rang the bell and waited with his thumbs latched under his gun belt. When no one answered, he followed the ring with a hard knock.

  The house remained silent.

  Not to be deterred, he turned the handle to the right, the left. He didn’t actually expect the door to be unlocked—but then, with a soft click, it silently swung open.

  TREVOR HAD RETURNED FROM the church barely fifteen minutes before Noah arrived. When he heard the doorbell, he checked the peephole and recognized the officer.

  He couldn’t say with certainty that the cop’s presence meant he thought Trevor a suspect, but it was a chance he couldn’t take. With only hours before he left Atlanta for good, Trevor would have to make this man disappear.

  Not that he minded. Killing the officer would just be wiping one more parasite from the earth. They were all going to go, anyway, and the sooner the better.

  He stretched the fabric of space to wrap the light in the foyer around his body, making him invisible. Then he unlatched the deadbolt while the cop turned the knob and waited.

  The door opened. Barely a few inches at first.

  The cop looked surprised. “Hello?” When nobody answered, he pressed his hand flat against the door and pushed it farther.

  Then he cautiously stepped inside, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. “Hello? Is anybody here?” When no one answered, he added, “This is the Atlanta Police Department. If you can hear me, come out now with your hands up.”

  Silence.

  He moved a few steps into the foyer, scanning his flashlight over every dark corner.

  From behind, visible as only the faintest twinkle of light, Trevor followed.

  STEPPING DEEPER INTO The massive house, Noah grew anxious. Sweat beaded under his arms. His uniform stuck to his back. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  Aiming his flashlight everywhere his eyes landed, he studied the stairwell that led to the second floor, the library to his left, the living room straight ahead. He sensed his suspect must be near, since most homeowners wouldn’t leave the house both unlocked and unattended—especially not one who had kidnapped a child.

  “Police! Show yourself!”

  Opting to clear the first floor before searching upstairs, Noah proceeded into the living room, swinging the gun and flashlight as one. The large windows along the far wall were unobstructed by curtains and a fire burned in the stone fireplace. The flashlight added little illumination.

  Two leather chairs of an indiscernible era sat in front of the fireplace. Between them, a small wooden table offered up a reading lamp and a folded newspaper. Behind the chairs, a pair of plush leather couches faced each other, separated by a coffee table that complemented its smaller counterpart.

  The decor, the antique Oriental rug, and the large paintings hanging on the walls told Noah that the owner of this house was a fastidious man of means. While a home’s exterior doesn’t necessarily say anything about its occupants, the rooms behind it always revealed the resident’s true psychological state. This level of order suggested a high degree of control and intelligence, which was more unnerving than the ramshackle residences of most criminals he encountered.

  When he stepped from the foyer to the living room, the front door closed with a thud. As he spun around, he heard another unexpected sound—the deadbolt engaging.

  Noah didn’t believe in ghosts or anything else so intangible, but he began to question everything he held true when he saw a twinkling of light from the corner of his eye.

  Terrified, he swept his flashlight toward it, hoping for a logical explanation. However, it was gone by the time he’d turned to face it. There was nothing he could see that could have either generated or reflected that light, which only made him more afraid.

  Memories of horror films leapt into his mind. Crazed demons, cursed children... They were scenes he’d laughed off before as unrealistic, movies he’d only seen because his girlfriend liked the genre. Now he wondered how much truth might be behind those films.

  He decided he’d spent enough time in the house without backup and was just about to run to the door when he felt a hand grab the back of his neck, yanking him off his feet.

  He fell to the ground, dropping his gun. As he did, he saw the man he’d questioned earlier materialize before him. It happened with a ripple of light, as the air around him visibly shivered.

  A lump caught in Noah’s throat, keeping him from screaming. Pushing himself back with his feet, he retreated from the man who stood before him. “What...”

  He dared not look away, not even long enough to stand up. Who knew what kind of tricks this magician would pull when he was distracted.

  “This is the police,” he suddenly shouted, slipping off one elbow as if his own voice had surprised him. “Back away and put your hands behind your head!”

  His voice trembled and cracked.

  The suspect did not obey. Instead, nearly on top of Noah, he reached down to grab the officer’s throat.

  Noah was certain the magician intended to strangle him. Desperate, he kicked one leg into the assailant’s chest, knocking him off balance. Then, in a window of opportunity no wider than a heartbeat, Noah turned onto his knees, picked up his Glock 22, and aimed it at the bastard’s chest.

  But it was too late. While he couldn’t have known he was a dead man walking from the moment he stepped inside, he knew his life was over when the magician ripped the gun out of his hands and threw it across the room. As the gun slid under the sofa, the magician flipped him onto his back, sat on his torso, and grabbed his head with both hands.

  In the second before the suspect broke his neck—a second that seemed to swell into minutes—Noah started a silent prayer for his parents that he was unable to finish.

  Chapter 44

  NOAH BRAMSTON’S SOUL FLOATED up from his body. While passing through the guest bedroom, it saw Brandon and the ghosts of ghosts, but it did not care. When it passed through floors, it saw wiring and wood and pipes and insulation, but it did not care about those, either. These things were all meaningless now. Then it passed through the roof, into the sky, through clouds and blueness and a flock of birds. And from there, the blue turned from denim to duke to navy to black.

  But it wasn’t the blackness of outer space. It was something else. A warm, safe blackness that Noah was in for an eternity as much as he was a blink. And when he came out of that blackness, he floated farther still, now heading to that place all souls go when they die, a place he thought of as simply The Beyond.

  At the same time, half-a-dozen creatures with gray-and-gold eyes passed him going the opposite direction. They landed outside Trevor’s house. Weaving their bodies together from the fabric of light and space, they looked identical to the two guests Trevor had killed. Unlike those two, these beings, invisible to mankind, had come only to witness the events which would soon unfold. It was not their place to take up arms in this battle. Nor had it been the place of their fallen brothers. But their
kind did not always follow orders well.

  TREVOR STARED DOWN at the cop’s lifeless body splayed out between the foyer and the living room. He knew he needed to get out of his house as soon as possible. Other cops would get here soon. Nightfall would be too late.

  He scurried down to the basement and grabbed Brandon’s doll, fully painted but for the hair, from the workbench where he’d left it. Then he darted back up the steps, two at a time.

  ANOTHER THREE CREATURES with gray-and-gold eyes descended upon Trevor’s house, taking up positions among their brethren...

  AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, Trevor unlocked the door to the guest bedroom. He left the key in the lock as he rushed inside.

  Brandon was lying unconscious on the bed. Trevor could tell he was sleeping again. Amazing. He was sure when he’d returned the boy to the room he still had questions. He was sure the boy was still afraid. But here he was asleep. Maybe the things he’d told Brandon in the basement had given him the peace Trevor so wanted for him.

  Well, no time to think about that now. Whether it had or it hadn’t, whether he suffered behind the painted eyes or he didn’t, his temporary home would be exactly that—temporary, and that would have to be comfort enough. There was no time to wake him up for another discussion. Besides, he’d already shared with this child more than he had his others.

  Holding the ceramic doll, Trevor kneeled beside him and put his hand on the boy’s cheek. A pale, yellow glow appeared from the darkness between Trevor’s hand and his child’s cheek. Throbbing, expanding, growing brighter, it swelled until it overtook the room... and then it was gone.

  Trevor opened his eyes.

  No pulse. Brandon’s soul had been liberated from its human vessel, transferred to its temporary home of plaster and paint.

  A half-smile parted Trevor’s lips. His most important child, the only one who had the ability to keep mankind from destroying itself, was finally among his collection.

  There was no saving the human race now. The weather would get worse. The ice caps would melt. Cities would flood. Lakes would dry out. Mankind would get what it deserved.

  He ran his fingers along the curves of the plaster. There were still thousands of children to find. He hoped to collect them all before The End came, but now, no matter what, at least The End would come.

  Momentarily overwhelmed by joy, Trevor hadn’t heard the growing sound of police sirens coming his way. When he did, he bolted downstairs, attempting to disappear into a ripple of twinkling light before crossing in front of the windows.

  Strangely, the universe refused to bow to his will. It was as if the space around him had been pulled tight. There could be only one reason for that...

  Trevor moved through the foyer, hoping not to be seen by anyone looking in, to a window in the kitchen at the back of the house.

  As he looked out at the gray-eyed army that had surrounded his property, the sparkling white kitchen—normally a culinary oasis—felt like a prison cell. The creatures stood three deep, without an inch of space between them.

  Trevor had seen them gather in groups of four of five before when historically significant events had taken place, but he had never seen this many. A gathering of this size could only mean an event of global significance was about to unfold. And why would he expect any less? He had finally captured Brandon’s soul.

  Chapter 45

  DETECTIVE MARK HAMMOND DROVE UP To Trevor’s house with his partner in the passenger seat. Sarah sat behind him, squeezing Jim’s hand. In the time it had taken the four of them to get here from HQ, the stakes of the confrontation ahead had risen significantly.

  A janitor from Christ Cathedral had found the body of the priest in the closet. After calling the police to report the murder—and letting the cops know that, yes, they had cameras which monitored the hallways and that, yes, those images were recorded—he went to the nearest worship center to pray for the priest’s soul.

  That’s when he found the body of the young girl.

  A review of the footage showed the police that the man wanted for Brandon’s abduction was indeed also involved in the “God is Blind” murders.

  Upon hearing the news, Mark had requested support from SWAT and a negotiator from the Crisis Negotiation Team. “We don’t know if he’s working alone or how many people he may be holding hostage,” he said into the phone.

  When he hung up, he heard Sarah mumbling, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

  “It’s going to be all right,” Mark said, looking at her in the rearview mirror and feigning confidence.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  Mark didn’t respond.

  Lips squeezed together, Sarah’s eyes welled with tears. If she hadn’t cheated on Matthew, her world would be very different right now, she thought. Maybe they would have eventually conceived. Certainly she wouldn’t be in danger of losing her child to this maniac.

  He should have never looked in her diary—her real diary.

  But he had. They’d had so much trouble conceiving that, when Sarah finally did get pregnant, Matthew worried he wasn’t the father, and he could think of no other way to alleviate his doubts.

  When he confronted her about the betrayal, she begged him to calm down and listen to her side of things, but he said he already knew her side of things—he’d read her diary, after all. Then he stormed out of the house.

  It was the last time Sarah would see him alive.

  She fretted about his safety for the next three hours, chastising herself for her betrayal. She hoped that he would listen to her after he came back, hoped he would forgive her. She repeatedly called his cell phone to find out where he had gone and to convince him to come home, but each call went straight to voicemail.

  When she finally did get word of his whereabouts, it came from the police.

  Matthew was dead. He’d gotten drunk and driven into a pole.

  She should never have kept a diary.

  She should never have cheated.

  BY THE TIME MARK ARRIVED at Trevor’s house with his three passengers, a dozen squad cars were on the scene. Two of them were blocking off the street. The others were parked haphazardly in front of the house and served as shields for the cops hunkered down behind them, watching the residence, guns drawn.

  A black SWAT van was also there, and the highly-trained officers that it had brought were taking up positions around the house.

  Mark parked along the curb, getting as close as he could. “You two stay here,” he said to Sarah and Jim.

  “Okay,” Jim said, as he placed his hand on top of Sarah’s, providing both the support and compassion she needed.

  Mark looked at his partner and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  The detectives stepped out of the car in unison and Mark pulled a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his blazer. By chance alone, he had become the lead detective in a case that had brought the police closer to solving the “God is Blind” murders than they had ever been before. He might be saving hundreds today, not just the one boy.

  He lit the Marlboro, inhaled deeply, and made a beeline for the officer in tactical gear standing by the SWAT van’s open rear doors. The officer was all muscle. No mystery why, though. In the high-pressure combat situations these men faced, a light foot or a heavy fist might be all you had to keep you alive if an operation went south.

  “Who’s in charge?” Mark asked.

  “I am,” said the officer. “Lieutenant Frank Norcross.” He offered a hand and Mark shook it.

  “You know what we’re dealing with here?” Mark asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. This could be a big win for all of us if we handle it right, so I don’t want your guys making a move unless I give the order. As it stands right now, Les and I know more about this guy than anyone else here. So until the negotiator arrives, we’re in charge. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve got at least one hostage in there and I want to get h
im out alive.”

  “I understand.” Frank swung around and grabbed a walkie-talkie from inside the van. He offered it to Mark. “Take this. If we need to act, let me know. We’ll be ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long until the negotiator gets here?” Les asked.

  “Not sure.”

  Mark sighed. “All right, well, where’s the officer who called this in? I’d like to talk to him, see what he knows. He’s spoken to the perp. He might have some insight.”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My job is to manage tactical, sir.”

  Mark swore under his breath, then turned his attention to Les. “See if you can find him.”

  “On it,” she said, and walked away.

  “You at least got a secure line to the house?” Mark asked.

  “We do.” He led Mark into the back of the SWAT van.

  Inside, Mark realized the vehicle was actually a mobile command center. It housed four tiny work stations, each with its own computer, and a host of other electronics he couldn’t name.

  At the workstation closest to the rear wall sat a skeleton-thin man.

  “Hey, E.T.,” said Mark, in his direction.

  The man stopped what he was doing and spun in his chair to face them. His name was Steven Hartwell. He was a Cornell-educated whiz kid who’d earned his Master’s in computer science by the age of nineteen. His peers in SWAT joked that he could speak ones and zeros better than any computer and had started calling him E.T. because of it. The nickname was a respectful nod to his intelligence, even if it came drenched in a kind of frat house wit that disgusted him.

  “What’s up?” he asked Frank.

  “Which one of these phones has a direct line inside?”

  “That one,” Steven said, pointing to the phone cattycorner from where he was sitting. “Just press zero to ring the house.”