The Armageddon Prophecy

by Raymond Finkle

  They started an intraosseous line by drilling into his leg bone to establish a route to give him injections of epinephrine. This is standard procedure and while it sounds like medieval torture, it’s actually safe and effective. It uses a small handheld drill to put a large needle through the bone into the marrow space. It’s typically used on unconscious patients and it has undoubtedly saved many lives.

  The victim’s heart rhythm—or lack of one—was asystole, or flatline, which means his heart had no electrical activity whatsoever. Thus, we could not shock him, because defibrillation would pointless. In the end, we did everything we could, but the patient was deceased and no matter what we did he remained so, despite all the CPR and epinephrine and oxygen we gave him.

  “Time of death one twenty-seven,” I said eventually, and the charge nurse dutifully recorded it into the computerized log of events. Meanwhile, I was just beginning to process the events that were transpiring and admittedly I wasn’t handling it well. Everyone—there were about eight people surrounding the patient’s bed—nurses, respiratory technicians, and medical assistants—stood around him, staring at his bare chest and the words that seemed to taunt us. It was bizarre and everyone in the room knew about the young woman from the night before. The following words were branded on the patient’s front and back:

  For if God spared not the angels that sinned, but cast them down to hell, and delivered them into chains of darkness, to be reserved unto judgment

  And spared not the old world, but saved Noah the eighth person, a preacher of righteousness, bringing in the flood upon the world of the ungodly

  “Nobody touch the patient,” I said, “From here on. I want everyone to step out of the room, please. Now that the patient has died, this will be a murder investigation, so we will have to call the Sheriff’s office—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” came Emily Holland’s voice from behind me. I turned to see her and Sheriff Edwards standing behind me. I had no idea when they had arrived. Apparently, they had been present for some of the resuscitative efforts. I was at a loss for words and fumbled out some kind of greeting. I think it’s safe to say that none of us had really expected to be seeing each other so soon.

  Chapter 5

  I had to finish my shift—I had other patients to care for. I explained that to Emily and the Sheriff. They were fine with it, since I didn’t really have much to add. They went to work interviewing the paramedics. Another deputy had arrived—his name was Cody McDonough. He was lean and chiseled, with a blonde mustache and a bowlegged swagger from years of competing as a rodeo bull rider. At the time I remember being a little jealous he got to work with Emily, but I assumed she hadn’t noticed his rugged good looks.

  He and the other deputies took over custody of the body and took some preliminary statements. The Medical Examiner was called. Despite the hour, the Sheriff called him at home. He told him to put on some coffee because it was time to get to work.

  The Medical Examiner had not been involved up until that point. The first victim was still alive, so the investigation had been officially classified as a possible domestic abuse. Now, however, everything had changed. This was a murder investigation, and it was connected to the first victim by the scripture.

  I went and checked on my other patients and ordered some more medicines and tests, and soon it was three thirty a.m., and everyone had more or less been ‘tucked in’ for the night. I had some free time and I approached Deputy Emily Holland and explained that I was free to give a statement if she wanted to hear what I had to say.

  I told the charge nurse where she could find me and we went back into the break room. Emily took out her little digital audio recorder. She stated the date and time and asked me to say my name and position and explain what had happened. Which is exactly what I did. Of course, there wasn’t a whole lot to say—and it was almost four in the morning, so we weren’t interrupted this time. I told the story again, of the EMS call, and our resuscitative efforts, and the scripture on the victim’s chest, and the death pronouncement. It didn’t take too long and incongruously, I remember wishing that I could make it last longer, because I wanted an excuse to talk to Emily Holland.

  I knew that there was something wrong with me—how can a guy be thinking of romance at a time like this? But it wasn’t like that. I literally just wanted to talk to Emily—I wanted an excuse to be around her—for as long as possible. Which actually does sound kind of creepy, come to think of it. Well, I mean it in the sweetest way possible—I figured that, after that night, I was unlikely to find an excuse to talk to her, so this was my one shot. Which is why I asked for her number. But at least I waited until the recorder was turned off. Wow, when I write it down on paper, I feel pretty gross.

  “Is there anything else?” she asked while the recorder was still running.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “If you think of anything, call the Department—day or night—and ask for me.” She shut off her digital doohickey.

  “There is one thing,” I said, and when she went to turn it back on, I said, “No—not that—I mean, you don’t need to turn it on. I was just wondering. I mean, ahem—well, maybe… you’d like to get some coffee some time?”

  “Oh. Right. I see. Are you asking me out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though this is a murder investigation and you just pronounced a man dead—and he’s in the next room?”

  “Umm…yes?”

  “Sure, we can go out sometime,” she said, “But it will have to wait until this investigation is over. I can’t become involved with a witness in a murder investigation. And I’m probably going to be really busy for a while because of this case. So, if you call and I say I’m busy, I’m really just busy. I have no idea where this investigation is going. But once it’s over, we should go get some coffee.” She handed me a card with her cell written on the back and walked out of the room.

  I was pretty happy with that outcome—after all, my patient had died, there were now two victims of some psycho torturer/killer, but—Hey! I had a date! Or at least, not an actual date, but the promise of a date. Well, maybe not an actual promise—but at least the prospect of a date. OK, OK, so I was a lonely guy in a really small town. It’s pretty simple, really. If you are single, don’t move to a tiny rural town—especially not one where the winters are brutal, and the nearest city is hours away.

  I had moved to Hawk Claw after a bad break-up. Janet, my girlfriend at the time, had cheated on me. I know, my back story is pathetically unoriginal, but there it is. We had been dating during residency, and I had thought we had a future together. She had thought that one of the male nurses where we worked was hotter than me. Which, in her defense, he definitely was. I mean the guy was ripped—not an ounce of fat on him. Kind of made you hate his guts. But it was only when he started sleeping with my girlfriend that I really started to despise him.

  Janet had been a doctor-in-training—a resident, like myself, and I had been naïve. Afterwards, I saw all the signs. She had never been serious about our relationship to begin with. And I’m a romantic idiot, when you got right down to it. Or at least, so I’m told. So, when she finally told me about her little ‘side project’, I kind of freaked out…slightly. Which is why I moved across the country to a tiny town I had never even heard of. I guess I have my own way of coping with things. You could call it an overreaction, but it had seemed like a good idea to go into total isolation while grieving the loss of the person who had casually betrayed me. What really shocks me though, is the fact that I had thought we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together in the first place. Janet, in retrospect, isn’t even a likeable person. Life is funny that way—I mean, how hilarious is that?

  Anyway… fast forward a year and a half and you arrive at that moment when Deputy Emily Holland gave me her cell phone number. Not exactly earth shattering to most people, but I had been eating Ben and Jerry’s and watching bad movies for eighteen months, so I was pretty exci
ted. But I’m sure I concealed it well.

  As soon as Emily stepped out of the break room, I started jumping up and down. I got her number! I got her number!

  It was at that moment that the door opened, and the charge nurse came in to find me having some kind of conniption—she probably thought I was doing jumping jacks to try to keep awake. I stopped my celebration and she pretended she hadn’t noticed.

  “Doctor Lancaster is on the phone,” she said, and walked out. I managed to pull myself together. Angela Lancaster was the ICU doctor who worked nights—the same one who had cared for the female victim the night before. The same doctor who was, presumably, caring for that same victim at that very moment. I walked out of the break room and went to the nursing station. The Sheriff was standing nearby, talking to the charge nurse. I picked up the phone.

  “Doctor O’Neill,” I said, because that’s my name.

  “Hi, it’s Angela Lancaster,” she said.

  “What’s up? Did you hear about the second patient?”

  “Second patient? What second patient?”

  “The one that—wait—never mind—nothing for you to worry about—why are you calling?”

  “The young woman from last night. Our deal was, you would call the police, remember? Because they came around briefly yesterday, but at that point, it wasn’t a murder investigation. So, I was wondering if you would mind calling them again. I’ve got a ton of paperwork—and I know I’ll have to talk to them—”

  “Wait—you mean—”

  “She died. I knew it was only a matter of time. There was nothing we could have done. So now, we need to get the Sheriff back down here—”

  “You want me to call the Sheriff?” I asked. And at that, Sheriff Edwards and the charge nurse looked over at me.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind being the point person on this—”

  “That’s fine,” I said into the phone, “I’ll talk to the Sheriff. I have a feeling he’ll be arriving very, very soon.”

  I know it might seem like this was the part where things really got rolling. One might think, wow, this investigation is really heating up, and now it’s going to be non-stop action, because there are two murder victims and a million leads to follow up on, Oh boy, hold on tight! Well, reader, prepare to be disappointed. Here’s what actually happened.

  I finished up my shift while the Sheriff and his two deputies fluttered about the Emergency Department, and then they took the body of the male victim away in a van. I was busy with my patients—a few new ones came in, just like they always do at five a.m. Then… nothing. I think I was expecting some kind of debriefing or maybe we would have a team huddle, and someone would give a speech about how whoever did this wasn’t going to get away with it.

  In reality, I signed out my remaining patients to my partner at seven a.m., just like I always do. I answered a few questions when she asked me what had happened and why were there two cop cars parked outside, but I was exhausted, so she didn’t press me for too many details. I drove home, showered, ate a bowl of rice crispies, and went to bed.

  I remember thinking that I should set an alarm so I could flip back to a normal schedule, but I didn’t have it in me. I just couldn’t stand the thought of having to wake up to an alarm. The sensible thing would have been to get up at one p.m. So, when I finally rolled out of bed at five p.m., I knew that there was no way I would be able to go to sleep that night. Whether I liked it or not, I’d be up all night. I shrugged. I could flip back to normal tomorrow.

  I drank coffee and perused the news sites on my desktop. I went to the local newspaper—The Hawk Claw Reporter—and found… nothing. There was nothing about the two people who had been murdered. Nothing about the two victims who had been internally scorched, as well as externally branded with scripture.

  “I guess this kind of thing must happen all the time around here,” I joked to myself. I was actually a bit astounded. How could they not have run this story? It was going to be national news, presumably—and they hadn’t even picked it up locally yet? How could they have kept it quiet? Everyone in the hospital would have been gossiping about it—and no one called a reporter? I was amazed. I was used to the 24-hour news cycle picking up on any little thing of any interest—and somehow, they had missed this? It didn’t seem possible.

  Just then my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was local, so I picked it up. I was surprised to hear the voice of Dr. Angela Lancaster, the ICU doctor, on the line.

  “Did you see the paper?” she asked.

  “Umm… well, actually, I didn’t see anything in the paper. Did you find something I missed?”

  “No. That’s what I mean. There’s absolutely nothing about either victim.”

  “Yeah, it’s strange.”

  “It’s more than strange. It’s a cover-up.” I felt like it was a little early to make that leap, but on the other hand, I thought she might be right.

  “Well…” I said, not having any idea where she was going with this, or why she had called. I was tired and still trying to wake up, and I think I paused for ten seconds before she realized that I had nothing to say.

  “Can you come over?” she asked.

  “Ahhh…. Sure.” I said. Because, why not? I was going to be up all night anyhow.

  Angela Lancaster lived half an hour outside of town and I arrived at her place forty-five minutes later after taking a wrong turn or two. I drove through an open wooden gate with an overhead arch that had a horseshoe mounted on it. The sign declared it to be Tumbledown Ranch. I kept driving past split rail wood fences behind which a couple of chestnut foals played while half a dozen adult horses grazed nearby. The road wound around for another half mile until it came to a very large circular driveway that abutted the main house and a smaller guest house. I could see a path winding down to some stables and a fenced in circular area for working out the horses. All the buildings, even the stables, were southwest adobe style. It was quite the beautiful escape, even if it did smell strongly like horse manure.

  As I parked my pickup, a man approached. He was about fifty, short and stout, with greying hair and round glasses. I opened up my door and found him waiting to shake my hand. “Doctor O’Neill,” he said, “Welcome to Tumbledown ranch. I’m Gary Lancaster.”

  I had never really spoken with Angela Lancaster outside of discussions of mutual patients, so I hadn’t known what to expect. I was, for some reason, surprised. She was older than me by at least ten years, and I had made certain assumptions about her which turned out to be wrong, as they often do. For some reason the human mind just has to ‘fill in’ all the blank spaces—I had known next to nothing about her, but I had already decided she was a lonely old maid with twenty cats. This was not the case. In fact, she had eight horses, two dogs, one cat, one husband, and two grown sons who lived in Denver.

  All of this I would learn later. At the time, I stepped out of my truck, shook hands with Gary Lancaster, and headed into the main house. We went up some stone steps and through the patio area. There was an outdoor kitchen, and a large pool off to our right. The whole scene was framed by the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains in the distance. There was a cool breeze blowing through the surrounding plains. I couldn’t help but notice that Tumbledown ranch was a serene spot.

  We went inside and found Angela in the living room working away on a laptop computer. She got up and greeted me warmly. Gary went to make us some coffee and we sat down.

  “Do you know why I’ve asked you here?” she asked me with more than a little drama.

  “I’m assuming you need someone to live in your ranch and water the plants while you and Gary go away on vacation for a year. I accept.” She laughed a high pitched, loud shriek, and I remember thinking it was really awkward, but no one else was there to witness it, so I looked around helplessly, wondering if I was being recorded.

  I heard Gary from the other room say, “Angela… laugh.”

  “Sorry,” she said, “I’m told my laugh can be… o
ff-putting.”

  “Not at all,” I lied.

  “Right, so, let me just tell you why you’re here. It’s… complicated. Do you find it odd that there is nothing in the paper about our patient?”

  “Yes. And you know about the second patient?”

  “I heard all about it from Joanie Singer, the ICU charge nurse. It sounded like an exact copycat.”

  “It was the same, except this time it was a man, and the scripture was a different verse.”

  “So, how is this not a serial killer?” she asked me with overt animation. She had a peculiar way of overemphasizing things in a nerdy way. She asked me this as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Actually,” I said, “I think it is a serial killer, by definition—”

  “Right, so, what does that mean, Stephen? May I call you Stephen?”

  I remember thinking, This lady is weird. Not in a bad way—in a geeky, introverted way. There was nothing wrong with it, but I could imagine how her bizarre mannerisms could lead to misunderstandings. “Umm.. sure,” I said, “Of course. And I don’t know what it means... I guess there’s a serial killer in Hawk Claw?”

  “It means there’s a cover up! Right? There’s a cover up!”

  “Umm… well, yeah, I guess so. I don’t know. I just woke up.” As if on cue, Gary reappeared with a tray. He poured coffee and I helped myself to sugar and cream and a raspberry danish.

  “Doesn’t it seem strange to you,” Angela continued, “That there is absolutely nothing in the press about this? No warning for the public. Not one person—out of dozens, maybe a hundred people at the hospital—and no one talked to a reporter? No one sent in a video to CNN? How is that possible?”