The Indwelling: The Beast Takes Possession

by Tim LaHaye

  “Come on!”

  “If you insist. This is fascinating.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  But David had. Three techies in the corner were hunched over the remains of the wood lectern. They had magnifying lamps and large tweezers, similar to what the technician had in the middle of the drape. He wore a helmet with a light on it and hand held his magnifier.

  “Look at this, David,” Hickman said, motioning to him. “Got your shoes off?”

  “I can come right out there where you are?”

  “If I say you can, and I do! Now come on, time’s a-wastin’.”

  David got to within about ten feet of Hickman and the techie when Jim said, “Stop and look down. Whoever was shootin’ at this thing had to know what he was doin’. Looks like it went right through the middle. I mean, I never even knew Steele was a shooter, but to get a round, one round, to go through that pulpit dealie and then through the center of this curtain, well . . .”

  “What am I looking at here, Jim?” David said, staring at a strange configuration about ten feet in diameter.

  Hickman rose and limped over, joining David at the edge of the pattern. “Gettin’ old,” he said, grunting. “Now look here. The bullet coming from a weapon like that creates a mini tornado. If a real Kansas twister had the same relative strength, it would mix Florida and Maine with California and Washington. This one popped an eight-inch hole through the curtain there—you can see it from here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But what you see at your feet is the effect it had on fibers this far from the center.”

  The force of the spinning disk had ripped the individual threads out of place and yanked them uniformly to create the huge twisted image.

  “Now, c’mere and look at this.”

  Hickman led David to the top of the curtain, where brass eyeholes were set six inches apart along the whole one-hundred-foot edge. “Hooks went through these holes to suspend the whole thing from the iron piping.”

  “Wow,” David said, astounded at the damage. The eight holes on either side of the center had been ripped clean, brass casings and all. The next several dozen were split apart, then more on each side had mangled hooks still attached, all the way to the ends, where the eyeholes were intact but the hooks were missing.

  “Just ripped this thing away and sent it flying into the distance.”

  “Director!” the techie called.

  Hickman started toward the middle again, but David hung back until Hickman motioned him to follow.

  “Bullet residue,” the techie said, holding a tiny shard of lead between slender forceps.

  “Bag that up. Ten’ll get you twenty we can trace it to the Saber we found.”

  The technician began dropping pieces into a plastic bag. “I hate to say it, sir, but fragments like this will be almost impossible to positively match with—”

  “Come on now, Junior. We’ve got eyewitnesses who say a guy in a raghead getup took the shot. We found the gun, got a match on the prints, and we know who the guy is. We found his disguise in a trash can a few blocks away. The fragments’ll match all right, even if the lab work is inconclusive. This guy’s definitely part of the conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy?” David said, as they moved to the corner where the lectern pieces lay.

  “We think the gunshot was diversionary,” Hickman whispered.

  “But this Steele guy is being accused—”

  “Is a suspect, sure. But we’re not sure the bullet even came close to Carpathia.”

  “What? But—”

  “Carpathia didn’t die from a gunshot wound, David. At least not solely.”

  “What then?”

  “Autopsy’s going on right now. We ought to know soon. But let me tell you somethin’ just between you, me, and the whatever: Fortunato’s no dummy.”

  David could have argued. “Yeah?”

  “If it turns out the kill wound came from the platform, wouldn’t that be highly embarrassing?”

  “If one of his—our own did it, you mean.”

  “’xactly. But the public doesn’t know that. The only recording that’s been shown so far only shows the victim hittin’ the deck. People think he got shot. Leon sees that we blame this on the disgruntled former employee, and then he has us deal with the insurrection privately. And by dealin’ with it, well, you get my drift.”

  The technicians digging through the remains of the lectern produced several bullet fragments, some big as a fingernail.

  “This sure is fascinating stuff, Jim.”

  “Well,” Hickman said, slowly running his hand through his hair, “it helps if you’re a trained observer.”

  “You’re nothing if not that.”

  “Right as rain, Hassid.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Leah sat fitfully at what was left of the tiny airport in Kankakee. When her phone rang and she saw it was Rayford calling, she was speechless. “I have so much to talk to you about,” he said, “so much to apologize for.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” she said flatly. In truth she was more eager to get to the safe house and see Tsion than she was to talk to Rayford. “Thanks for leaving me stranded, but I guess I can see why. Did you kill Carpathia?”

  “I just got a call from David Hassid, who seems pretty sure I didn’t. I wanted to. Planned to. But then I couldn’t do it.”

  “So what about the gun with your prints? You weren’t the shooter?”

  “I was, but it was an accident. I was bumped.”

  “Be glad I’m not on your jury.”

  “Leah, where are you?”

  She told him and filled him in on her plan to fly to Palwaukee and perhaps get a ride with T to near the safe house, where they would try to determine if anyone was casing it. “Problem is, nothing is going that way tonight, and in the morning it’s exorbitant. I may hitchhike.”

  “See if T will come get you. If it’s too far to drive, he can fly.”

  “I hardly know him, Rayford. When will you be here?”

  “I should hit Palwaukee about nine in the morning.”

  “I’ll wait for you then, I guess.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Leah sighed. “Don’t get pleasant on me all of a sudden. I can’t pretend I’m not irritated with you. And getting yourself in even deeper trouble with the GC, what was that all about?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said. “But I would like the chance to talk to everyone face-to-face.”

  “Thanks to you, that’s looking more and more remote. You know Tsion and Chloe and the baby are underground now?”

  “I heard.”

  “And nobody knows where Hattie is.”

  “But someone told you she was in the States?”

  “It’s a big place, Rayford.”

  “Yeah, but I still can’t see her giving us up.”

  “You have more faith than I.”

  “I agree we need to be careful.”

  “Careful? If I do get T to take me to Mount Prospect, or if I wait for you, who knows we’re not walking into a trap at the safe house? It’s a miracle it wasn’t found out long before I joined you.”

  Rayford ignored that, and Leah felt mean. She meant every word, but why couldn’t she cut him some slack?

  David checked in with Annie—who said she was headed back to bed—then invited Mac to join him in his office to see what was happening in the morgue. They settled close to the computer, and David started by listening live. Dr. Eikenberry was into a routine of announcing for the record the height and weight of the body and her plans for embalming and repair.

  “There was some kind of a hassle right at the start,” Mac said. “People say she was yelling, demanding the doctor. Can you go back without messing up the recording you’re doing now?”

  David pinpointed when the microphones in the morgue first detected sound. The time showed just after eight o’clock in the morning, and the recording began with a key in the door and the door
opening. It was clear the mortician had two assistants with her, a man and a woman, and both sounded young. She called the young man Pietr and the young woman Kiersten.

  The first spoken words were Dr. Eikenberry’s. She was swearing. Then, “What is this? They leave the crate in here? Get someone to get it out of here. I’m going to work on this table and I want room. I’m assuming there are no more bodies in storage?”

  “I’m here with you, Doc,” Pietr said. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Check, would you? Kiersten, call someone to get rid of the crate.”

  In the background Kiersten could be heard talking tentatively to the palace switchboard operator. In the foreground, Pietr could be heard slamming a door. “You’re not gonna be happy, ma’am.”

  “What?”

  “There are no bodies in here.”

  “None?”

  “None.”

  “You’re telling me Carpathia is not in there either?”

  “None means none, ma’am.”

  She swore again. “Kiersten! Get somebody in here with a crowbar. They left the body in this crate all night? I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t stink.”

  After several minutes of muttering, a male voice: “You asked for a crowbar, ma’am?”

  “Yes, and someone who knows how to use it.”

  “I can do it.”

  “You’re a guard!”

  “Crowbars are nothing. You want the box opened?”

  “Put your weapon down, soldier. Why do they send you to do this?”

  “Security. They don’t want anybody in here but you and your staff.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, but . . .”

  David and Mac heard the crate being torn open.

  “No casket?” the doctor said. “Get him into the fridge.”

  “In the bag or out?” Pietr said.

  “In,” she said. “I don’t even want to think how much blood he’s lost in there. I’m not starting till ten, per instructions, but let’s get ready.”

  Several minutes passed with minimal conversation, much of it related to their finding the plastic amalgam and her instructing her assistants how and where and when to have it ready. “You think this winch can handle a man his size?”

  “Never saw a portable one before,” Pietr said. “We’ll make it work.”

  David fast-forwarded until he heard conversation and stopped only when it seemed meaningful. Finally he was at the ten o’clock point, and the cooler was opened again. Dr. Eikenberry switched on a recorder and spoke into a microphone David had seen hanging from the ceiling when he helped deliver her supplies.

  “This is Madeline Eikenberry, M.D. and forensic pathologist, here in the morgue at Global Community Palace in New Babylon with assistants Pietr Berger and Kiersten Scholten. They are bringing to the table the body of Nicolae Jetty Carpathia, age thirty-six. We will remove the corpse from the body bag into which it was placed following his death approximately fourteen hours ago in Jerusalem, cause to be determined.”

  David and Mac heard the transfer of the bag from gurney to examining table. “I don’t like the sound of that,” Dr. Eikenberry muttered. “It feels as if he may have nearly bled out.”

  “Yuck,” Kiersten said.

  “Could you spell that for the transcriptionist, dear?” the doctor said. Then, “Oh, no! Oh, my! Agh! Keep it off the floor! Pietr, make sure it drains through the table. What a botch! OK, transcriptionist, you know what to leave out. Pick up here. The body was not properly prepared for transfer or storage, and several liters of blood have collected in the bag. The body remains dressed in suit and tie and shoes, but a massive wound about the posterior head and neck, which will be examined once the deceased is disrobed, appears to be the exit area for the blood.”

  It sounded to David as if Carpathia’s clothes were being cut off. “No apparent anterior wounds,” Dr. Eikenberry said, as the sound of spraying water came through. “Let’s turn him over. Oh! Be careful of that!” She swore again and again. “Get his doctor in here now! And I mean now! What in the world is this? I was told nothing of this!”

  The footsteps must have been Kiersten’s running to the door to have someone look for the doctor, because Pietr could be heard as clearly as the doctor. “I thought you were to look for a bullet entry wound.”

  “So did I! Is someone trying to kill us?”

  More spraying, grumbling, and mumbling. Finally the door opened again. Hurried footsteps. “Doctor,” Eikenberry began, “why wasn’t I told of this?”

  “Well, I, we—”

  “Turning over a man with this kind of a weapon still in him is ten times more dangerous than a cop sticking his bare hands in a perp’s pocket without checking for needles or blades first!”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You’re sorry? You want to help pull this out? Ah, never mind. Just tell me if there’s anything else I should have known.”

  The doctor sounded thoroughly intimidated. “Well, to tell you the truth—”

  “Oh, please, at least do that. I think it’s about time, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh, well, you know you’re to look for bullet—”

  “Damage, wounds, yes. What?”

  “The fact is, the EMTs are of the opinion—”

  “The same ones who prepared, or I should say left unprepared, a body like this?”

  “That wasn’t their fault, ma’am. I understand the supreme commander was pushing everyone to get the body out of there.”

  “Go on.”

  “The EMTs believe you will find no bullet wounds.”

  A pregnant silence.

  “Frankly, Doctor, I don’t care what we find. I’ll give you my expert opinion, and if there are also bullet holes, I’ll include that. But can you answer me one thing? Why does everybody think there was a shooter, and why is that former employee pretty much being charged in the media? Because his prints were found on a weapon that didn’t shoot Carpathia? I don’t get it.”

  “As you said, ma’am, if you’ll pardon me, it isn’t your place to care about the cause of death, but only to assess it.”

  “Well, I’d say about an, oh, say, fifteen- to eighteen-inch, ah, what would you call this, Doctor, a big knife or a small sword?”

  “A handled blade, certainly.”

  “Certainly. I’d hazard a guess that this whatever-it-is entering about two inches below the nape of the neck and exiting about half an inch through the crown of the skull, that certainly didn’t enhance the victim’s health, did it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Doctor, do you really not know why I wasn’t informed of this major, likely lethal wound?”

  “I know we didn’t want to prejudice you.”

  She laughed. “Well, you certainly succeeded there! As for nearly slicing open my assistants and me, what do you say to that?”

  “I guess I thought you’d see the, ah, sword.”

  “Doctor, the man was swimming in his own blood! He was on his back! We transferred him the same way, disrobed him, hosed him down, saw no entry or exit wounds on the anterior and, naturally, flipped him to examine the posterior wounds. What do you think I was expecting? I saw the news. I heard the gunshot and saw the people running and the victim fall. I had heard the scuttlebutt that there may have been a conspiracy, that one of the regional potentates may have had a concealed weapon. But I would have appreciated knowing that the man would look like a cocktail wiener with a sword poking through him.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you see the damage this weapon did to significant tissue?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Well, unless we find bullets in the brain or somewhere else above the neck, it alone killed him.”

  Water was spraying again. “I see no bullet holes, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Pietr?”

  “No.”

  “Kiersten?”

  “Nope.”

  “Doctor?”

  “
I said no.”

  “But this blade, and I’ll be able to tell you for sure when I get in there, appears to have gone through vertebrae, perhaps spinal cord, the membrane, the brain stem, the brain itself, the membrane again, and then come out the top of the skull, all none the worse for wear.”

  “That would be my observation too, ma’am.”

  “It would?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your expert opinion.”

  “I’m no patholog—”

  “But you know enough about the anatomy to know that I should not be surprised if I have guessed the internal damage fairly accurately?”

  “Right.”

  “But more important, that this weapon appears as lethal now as it must have before it was thrust?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You see what I’m driving at?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so. One of us unsuspecting pathologists so much as brushes a finger against that blade, and we’re sliced.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “And while the victim may be one of the most respected men in the history of the world, we don’t know yet, do we, what might be in his blood? Or what might have been on the hands of the perpetrator. Do we?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Do you notice anything unusual about the blade, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one quite like it, if that’s what you m—”

  “Simpler than that, Doctor. The cutting edge is facing out.”

  “You’re sure there’s only one cutting edge?”

  “Yes, and do you know how I know? Because I was fortunate enough to catch my finger there when we turned over the body. Look here, at the top of his head. As we turned him, my hand went behind the head, and hidden there in the hair was the half-inch protrusion of the blade. As soon as it came in contact with my gloved index finger, I flinched and pulled away. Had I done that on the other edge, I dare say it would have cut my finger off.”

  “I see.”

  “You see. Do you also see our challenge in removing the weapon?”

  A pause. “Actually, if it is as strong and sharp as you say, removal should be fairly simple. You just pull it back out the way it entered, and—”

  “Doctor, may I remind you that the cutting edge is facing away from the body.”