Death Prophets (Strange Gravities Book 3)

by Steve Armstrong

  As people around her click-clacked their keyboards and spoke on the phone, Felicia entered the archival database of the Journal. The paper’s efforts over the previous years to consolidate their old editions into electronic form saved her a trip to the bowels of the paper’s headquarters. Now, instead of hunting down boxes of old papers and leafing through pages (like in the really old days) or scrolling through microfiche (like in the not quite so old days), Felicia simply typed the name ‘George Oliver’ into the search engine and pressed enter. As always, there were more ‘George Olivers’ than she expected. But only one such hit was from an obituary from 1989.

  Felicia clicked on the link and scanned through the obituary. It was your garden variety obit: no cause of death listed, Oliver impacted many with his life, plus a list of survivors, including a wife, two children, his mother, a sister, and a few other assorted relatives. Oliver died at 53—certainly young in a relative sense, but a little past the threshold when you assumed a variety of threatening conditions lurked right around the corner. Patricia Oliver was his widow.

  The reporter whipped out her phone so she could pass the baton of information to the next runner. Matt Harrison answered her call.

  “What do you got for me?”

  “George Oliver’s wife is Patricia Oliver. Maiden name is Henry. Think you can track her down?”

  “Please. Give me some kind of challenge.”

  “Okay, let me know if you need any more information.”

  Felicia placed her phone back on her desk and toggled the print command so she could have a physical copy of the obituary.

  “Hey Felicia!” a peppy voice announced from behind her, making her jump in her seat a bit. She turned to see a man her height with a receding hairline and insipid smile.

  “Hi, Mike,” Felicia said, not even attempting to force a smile. She should’ve known Mike Gaines would pay her a visit at some point during the day. He either carried some sort of undeclared affection for her or lacked the appropriate social protocols to avoid grating on her nerves; the end result of each possibility was the same.

  “What are you working on?” he asked.

  “Just doing a little research.” She turned back to her computer, hoping that Gaines would take the hint.

  “Well, if you need any help, you know where to find me,” he said.

  “Okay, thanks.” Felicia didn’t bother to make sure he left, trusting that if she ignored him long enough, he’d depart on his own. From the corner of her eye, she saw a hand rest on top of her cubicle.

  “I’m kind of busy here-” Once Felicia rotated enough to see who was standing there, she stopped. Gloria Rinaldi, another reporter and friend of Felicia’s, stood leaning against the opening of Felicia’s cubicle. Gloria flashed a smile.

  “Sorry; thought you were someone else,” Felicia said.

  Gloria chuckled. “No, he just left.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Poor baby. It’s the curse of being beautiful. All that unwanted attention. Now if you were like me, no guy would pay attention to you,” Gloria said, despite the fact her face was very pleasant and her curves definitely appealed to some men.

  “Would you like me to put in a good word for you with him?” Felicia asked.

  Gloria giggled. “No, that’s okay. Hey, you wanna get drinks after work tonight? I feel like it’s been forever since we hung out.”

  Felicia massaged the back of her neck, even though she had only been sitting at her desk for a few minutes. After work, she planned to shoot at a nearby firing range. Felicia’s visits to the range had increased exponentially since she clutched her gun while Josh Williams stared her down.

  “Sorry. I’m kind of swamped now. Maybe next week?”

  “Okay. I’ll take a rain check. But you know, you haven’t been yourself, lately.” Although Rinaldi didn’t invoke the Mike Sullivan shooting, most people at the Journal knew Felicia had been there. But no one was aware of the extent of her involvement or what Josh Williams had done to her in a seedy motel room.

  “Sorry. I’ve just been busy with work. Next week, I promise, we’ll go out and have a great time.” Felicia even engineered a smile this time. Gloria reached down and smoothed over Felicia’s hair.

  “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I will.”

  After Gloria left, Felicia worked in peace again. This time, she typed ‘Doctor Jerry Banks’ into the search engine, which produced a number of hits from the pertinent era. She found an obituary for him and a more recent death notice for his widow, Claudia. But Felicia bypassed these records for the time being and chose to focus her attention on the feature article that detailed the initial assault on Stevenson Industries.

  Felicia sped through the article. Besides Banks’ death, some security guards were wounded in the break-in. No one else died. Banks was working on a cure for a rare genetic disorder—Chapman Bowers Disease, or CBD for short—that one of his children suffered from. According to some of his coworkers, Banks was making progress before his untimely death. A much younger Robert Stevenson was quoted, but he said little more than the typical, generic remarks executives issued in such circumstances: Banks’ death was a tragedy, he was a brilliant man with an unbridled future, the company would do everything they could to see Banks’ killer brought to justice, and would continue Banks’ legacy for the sake of his sick child, and everyone else who suffered from CBD. A quick perusal of Barret Banks’ obituary from only a year later indicated that either Stevenson Industries reneged on its promise or couldn’t deliver on the potential of Banks’ research.

  With Banks’ widow deceased, Felicia needed someone else who could give some insight into Banks’ life and work. Then she found him: Doctor Emmet Crane. Crane went to medical school with Banks and the two apparently remained friends long their college days since Crane was quoted in the article: “Jerry was a great friend and trusted collaborator.” If the two worked together, then Crane might have some inside information on Banks’ research.

  Since Matt Harrison was already engaged in one search, and John was trying to pick up Josh Williams’ trail in Windfall, NY, Felicia decided to track down Emmet Crane herself. Maybe she wasn’t a cop or Private Investigator, but she was a reporter and a resourceful one at that. Beginning this real-life scavenger hunt infused just the tiniest bit of life in her. Not enough to forget what happened in the motel room little more than two weeks ago or to make people stop saying, ‘You haven’t been yourself lately’, but enough to inch her forward in the direction of being authentically fine.

  33

  “Did you follow my advice?” Parker asked Josh. They were meeting in the park again, standing ten feet or so off the path that marked the park’s perimeter. It was daylight, which meant they had to exercise a bit more caution. At the moment, no one else was in the park.

  Josh slid his hands into his pocket and stood next to Parker. “No, I didn’t.”

  Parker’s smile evaporated, but it was replaced by a curious look, not anger. “Why not?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t really know how to,” Josh admitted.

  He had considered procuring marijuana somehow but didn’t know where to look. Williams didn’t know who to even speak to about buying pot. He’d never bought drugs in college and despite repeated warnings from D.A.R.E., no one in high school ever offered him any.

  “You could’ve asked me. I would’ve pointed you in the right direction.” Parked wagged his finger at Josh. “See, it’s more because you didn’t want to. Maybe you’re afraid of losing your inhibition, but if you had really wanted to score some pot, you could’ve found a way.”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.” Josh looked away from him.

  “And what about the other thing I mentioned? Do you know where to look for that?” Parker asked, almost winking at him.

  Again, the honest answer was, not really. Josh had picked up enough information about sex from health education, popular culture, and his own perusal of the internet to at lea
st understand the basic mechanics but actually finding someone to perform the act with terrified him.

  Parker stepped forward, shaking his head. “Look into the woods. Do you see that rock between those trees?” Josh followed Parker’s gaze to the medium-sized stone that sat about ten feet from them. “Lift it up.”

  Josh breathed in deep and focused all his thought on the rock. He imagined it rising from the ground. The rock shook gently but remained in its place. Josh closed his eyes, relying on the mental picture he had taken of the rock and its environment. But the rock didn’t budge. He opened his eyes and sighed.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not there yet. It can take a little time. But this isn’t like bodybuilding. It’s about epiphany. And once you have yours, you’ll never look back.” Parker’s tone remained upbeat.

  “What epiphany?”

  “That you can do whatever you want and that nothing can hold you back, except for you.”

  Parker started walking so Josh followed suit. Dead leaves crunched beneath their feet as they abandoned the path and headed into the grove of bare maples.

  “That’s why I prescribed to you what I did. Here’s how I like to think of it: you need to act on your core desires. Sex might be the ultimate core desire that we try to repress as humans. So when you act on it, it has the effect of evening you out. Your powers move from the realm of the subconscious to the conscious. There are other core desires, too, of course, but sex is the big one.”

  Despite Parker’s instructions, Josh still found the deepest things he wanted to know involved his origin and purpose. How could he simply move past these essential metaphysical concepts without satisfying answers?

  “Why are we like we are?” Josh asked. He’d asked this question to Parker several days earlier and hoped his new acquaintance would now be willing to answer him. “Where do we come from?”

  “Those questions don’t matter, Josh. Why does it matter why you’re like you are? You just are. Accept that. Where do you come from? Doesn’t matter, you’re here. People spend so long thinking about these questions because they’re trying to hide something: they don’t really do what they want. And that’s the one question you should be asking yourself: what do you want?” Parker stopped and looked right at Josh as he asked his last question.

  Jessie. Her name and image formed so quickly in his mind that Josh knew she was the answer to that question. He wanted Jessie. But that desire was problematic. She had pushed him away, afraid of the manifestation of his abilities and how they affected his soul. She balked at his willingness to extinguish life—even a despicable life like Mike Sullivan that had tormented her. Josh wanted to ask how he should navigate this desire, but Parker moved onto his next subject.

  “I’ll be honest, Josh; my interest in you is not purely altruistic. I need your help on something. You have your crusade, and I have mine. But I can’t finish my crusade without someone else.”

  “But you can do whatever you want,” Josh said. He’d seen Parker levitate the rock and toss the car without hesitation or any kind of build-up.

  “I told you we’re not bulletproof. But between the two of us, we should be pretty unstoppable.”

  “What do you want to do?” Josh asked.

  “All in good time. For now, let’s focus on getting you your epiphany.” Parker sat down on a large boulder in the woods, probably swept there thousands of years ago by a glacier. “That last guy you killed, how’d you do it?”

  “I caused a sign to fall on him.” Josh leaned against the nearest tree, a medium sized Oak.

  “Ha. Love the creativity. But what’d you have to make it happen?”

  “I had to listen to the way he abused women. It’s like I had to be angry enough to pull the trigger.”

  “Now see, that’s just too inefficient. So here’s what you’re going to do. I’m going to send this woman over to your room tonight. You know what she loves? A nice steak. Treat her well, she’ll treat you well, and then maybe you’ll be ready to go pro with your abilities. Pick out another target. You want to find a wife beater, fine. Take them out, and we’ll see how you’ve grown.”

  Josh remembered the way Jessie looked at him when she saw Mike Sullivan’s bloody body. “Maybe I shouldn’t decide who lives and who dies, anymore.”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t give me that.” Parker jumped up and began rambling through the woods again. “Most people know who should live or die. Sure, there’s some gray area. But most people we can figure out. You know, people talk about playing God like it’s a bad thing. But what if you have the powers of God? You and I do.”

  They walked deep enough into the woods to find a small stream, running downhill through a series of curves and drops. At a few points, the rushing water foamed against nearby rocks.

  Parker’s mouth gaped open in a yawn. “Excuse me. I’ve had these crazy dreams at night keeping me awake. I keep seeing this one woman.” He breathed in deep. “You should be happy, Josh. Most people have to do all kinds of exercises when they want to get stronger. You get to have sex with an attractive woman. Enjoy. What time should I send her by?” When Josh didn’t answer, Parker said, “I’ll just send her by at 7 p.m.”

  Josh couldn’t help but think that he wanted something different than Parker did. Once again, he feared the kind of person he was becoming. But there was a way out. Maybe Parker was right—he just had to do what he truly wanted to.

  34

  Windfall, NY was not too different than Woodside. It lacked Stevenson Industries and all of the money and white collar culture that came with having such a large company inside its borders and thus retained a decidedly more rural vibe than Woodside. But the two towns were only a few thousand people and thirty minutes apart from one another.

  John Harrison strolled into Windfall’s police station, which was a little smaller and less updated than Woodside’s. He approached the burly looking uniformed officer at the Sergeant's desk. “Excuse me, can I speak to Detective Franklin?” Franklin was the detective quoted in the journal’s rundown of the strange accident that had killed the alleged domestic abuser, Billy Hunt.

  “What do you need with Detective Franklin?” the sergeant asked, his expression locked in place as he glanced up from his desk.

  Harrison reached into his pocket and flashed his badge. “I’m Detective John Harrison from the Woodside PD. I was hoping Detective Franklin could help me with a case I’m working on right now.”

  The sergeant nodded. “You can head on back. He’s at the third desk from the right.” The sergeant returned to reading the newspaper or whatever else he was looking at on the desktop, hidden from view.

  Harrison didn’t require the sergeant’s directions. There were only a few desks in the station and not many of them occupied. A slender man in a coat and tie with white hair and a wrinkled face typed away at his keyboard. He glanced up as Harrison approached. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, Detective John Harrison from the Woodside PD.” He produced the badge again. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

  Franklin pursed his lips and sat up straight. “Yeah, sure. Have a seat.”

  Harrison pulled up a chair to Franklin’s desk. “I wanted to ask some questions about that guy who died the other day.”

  Franklin chuckled. “Damndest thing, right? Wrong place, wrong time. Of course, considering who it was underneath that sign, you could say it was pure karma.”

  “Yeah, I saw he was arrested on battery charges. Billy Hunt, right? Do you think he was guilty?”

  “Sure looked like it. When officers showed up, the guy was yelling and screaming. Girl had bruises all over.”

  “Who called the cops?”

  “Neighbors did. But the girl said the usual stuff: she fell, ran into a wall, I’m sure you know the drill. She had decided to press charges, but he was released on bail.” Franklin leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk.

  “You worked the case, right?”

 
“I didn’t respond to the call, but I did interrogate him and talk to the girl. Neither conversation went anywhere.”

  “Did you happen to see this guy around at all?” Harrison pulled out his phone and cued up a picture of Josh Williams.

  Franklin put on his glasses and peered at the photo. “Doesn’t look familiar. What does he have to do with this?”

  “Maybe nothing. He’s a guy I ran into in Woodside. He really hates abusers.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “No, he really hates them. Like enough to try to kill them.”

  Franklin stared at Harrison. “Wait a minute, aren’t you that cop who got shot last month in Woodside?”

  Harrison nodded, bracing himself for a bevy of questions about the incident at 13 Prospect Street.

  “Yeah, I read about that. We talked a lot about it here.” Franklin rubbed his chin. “It was a domestic abuse case, right? Was the guy in the photo you just showed me involved?” Franklin asked, putting the pieces together like the veteran detective he was.

  Harrison nodded, again.

  “I thought it was a murder-suicide; the abuser shot himself and his brother, no?”

  “Technically. But the guy I’m showing you, Josh Williams, instigated it.”

  Franklin’s eyebrow shot up. “What do you mean instigated it?”

  Harrison hesitated a bit before answering. “I guess you could say he convinced the shooter to pull the trigger.”

  “Hmm. I’d like to see how that worked. But I don’t think your guy was involved in this one. If he killed someone using a sign falling from a storefront, that would be some Wyle E. Coyote type stuff, right there.”