by M. Z. Kelly
He walks over and stops, inches from the glass. His breath causes the cage to fog over as his large eyes fixate on the swarming wasps. He then moves even closer, placing his fleshy cheek against the pane of glass.
In this moment, power surges through his body almost like the orgasm he has just experienced. He is transformed, no longer a mortal man. He is now someone chosen for glory.
“Soon,” he says, turning back to the glass and watching the wings of the giant wasps flutter in the bright lights. “Soon the transformation will begin. You will have a host.”
TWENTY FIVE
I was in a state of shock after I left Lucas Caufield. He had closed down, refusing to talk to me, after his chilling statement about me being chosen as The Prophet’s adversary. I had no idea what he meant, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. All I did know was that Caufield appeared to be losing his mind, along with his life.
When I got back to the car, I’d explained what happened to Joe Dawson in detail. The big FBI agent had listened attentively and said that he’d be in touch in the morning after meeting with his boss, John Greer, about how to proceed.
On my way home I got a call from Lindsay and pulled over at Plummer Park to talk. I let Bernie sniff along a flowerbed as I asked her how things were going in Boston.
“It’s nice,” Lindsay said, “My friend Melissa is showing me the sights around the city but it’s so cold.” She giggled. “I think maybe I’ve got orange juice in my bloodstream from living in California.”
I laughed. “We’ve had a little rain here but, otherwise, the weather’s been good.” I then changed the subject and began treading into murky waters. “Natalie and Mo are still working for Jimmy Sweets. They’ve been following around that guy who’s been cheating on his wife, Marty Harris.” I waited. When she didn’t respond I went on, “According to Natalie and…” I heard sobbing on the line and didn’t continue. “Lindsay…are you okay?”
There was more crying before I heard her watery voice again. “They told you…didn’t they?”
I tugged on Bernie’s leash as he started to pull away before answering. “They thought you might…” I lowered my voice. “…that maybe you’re pregnant.”
There was more sobbing. Finally, she said, “It was a stupid mistake. I was lonely and he was so nice to me, at first. I knew it was wrong.” I waited for her to go on. “My period’s late…I’m not sure...”
I searched for the right words to respond with, but wasn’t sure what to say. I finally said, “Maybe you should get one of those home pregnancy tests.”
I heard her sigh. “I know…I’m just…I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m pregnant. I can barely deal with my own life, let alone a baby.”
My voice firmed. “Listen to me, Lindsay. Whatever the circumstances, we’ll deal with what happens together. That’s a promise.”
After more tears she ended the call, telling me that she’d be in touch with me tomorrow—after she took a pregnancy test. I put my phone away and walked Bernie through the park for another half hour.
As I walked, it felt as though everyone and everything around me was in crisis—and then there was The Prophet. I didn’t know if there was any truth to what Lucas Caufield had said about me being chosen as an adversary, but I found myself looking over my shoulder, wondering if the madman would eventually be coming for me. It felt like I’d spent most of my life dealing with deranged suspects and I didn’t know if I was up to this challenge.
I was about to leave the park when Bernie pulled away, his leash slipping from my hands.
“Bernie, BLEIB,” I yelled, giving him the German command to stay. It was useless. In seconds he’d disappeared behind a stand of trees.
When I finally caught up to him, I saw that he was doing a nose-tail bob with a golden retriever. The dog’s owner turned to me, his meaty features twisting up into a half-smile. I snatched Bernie’s leash off the ground and got him back under control.
“Sorry about that,” the man said. “Ginger seems to have that effect on other dogs lately.”
The dog’s owner was about five six and pudgy, with thick glasses and shoulder length brown hair. Even though the evening was cool, I saw there was a sheen of perspiration on his face.
“No worries,” I said. “Bernie sometimes has a mind of his own.”
“Is he a police dog?” the man asked, seeing the badge on my dog’s collar.
“Yes, but we’re off duty.”
“I’m Ty,” the man said, holding out a hand.
I hesitated, not wanting to take it, but felt compelled. “Kate.” His hand was wet and soft. I brushed my hand against my skirt when he released it.
“Would you like to walk with us?” he asked. “Ginger and me just got here.” His bulging eyes, made even larger by his thick glasses, swept over the park. “It’s our favorite place to come in the evening.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got to be going.” I tugged on Bernie’s leash. “Nice meeting you.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
***
I got home a half hour later and took a shower. I then went outside where I found what looked like several dead bodies in the courtyard of our apartment complex. The bodies were near the swimming pool, which looked more like a green swamp than a pool. I then found Mo with Carly Hogg and a TV production crew, including several cameras. My friends looked like they’d fallen into the swamp.
“What’s going on?” I asked Mo. My large friend had on a green wig that matched the color of her face. It looked like she’d been caught in a tornado.
“Hollywood Girlz just got the green light to shoot three pilots. To save money, Bub is allowing us to shoot some scenes right here.”
“The first show is about a zombie apocalypse coming to Hollywood,” Carly explained. The star of Hollywood Girlz was also covered with green slime and her clothes were ripped. “I’m the head zombie.”
Bub Barkley, our Munchkin-like landlord and a former actor, appeared to have Natalie cornered at the far end of the swamp. Because of their height difference, Bub was eyeball to breast with my beautiful friend, who tonight looked like she belonged in a morgue. She managed to pull herself away from him without putting his eyes out and came over to us.
“The script calls for me and Mo to battle a group of Walkers,” Natalie explained. She was covered in green slime. “Since the apartment is already full of zombies, it’s a natural fit.”
She had a point. I’d seen the cast of extras from the TV show Hollywood Walkers, coming and going, during the short period of time we’d been in the apartment complex.
“We got us a bit of a problem that we could use your help with,” Mo explained.
I looked around at the courtyard full of dead bodies. “I’m not dressing up like a zombie and killing anyone if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”
“We just need a head splitter,” Carly said. “We’ll only film the back of you as you raise an axe and whack one of them.” She motioned to a couple of the Walkers.
“Come on, Kate,” Natalie begged. “You’re already a homicide expert. Whacking somebody will be natural for you.”
I was about to say no again, when Carly added, “You’ll get paid the union scale that extras make.”
I asked her about the pay rate, at the same time thinking about my upcoming rent. When she told me how much I’d be paid, it took me less than five seconds to agree to what they were proposing. I then remembered my other recent performances and gave them the conditions of my participation. “I’ll do it, providing my face isn’t on camera and there’s no nudity involved.”
Natalie gave me her opinion. “It might add to the interest if we had Kate crushing somebody’s skull in the nude.”
“Not a bad idea,” Mo agreed.
I started to walk away. “I’m not doing it.”
“Okay, no nudity,” Carly called out to me.
Twenty minutes later, after a makeup artist had teased my hair until I looked like I’d been in an expl
osion, I took my place with my back to the camera and began my performance. After a half hour and nearly a dozen retakes, the director said he was satisfied with my skull punching performance.
I raked a hand through my messy air and went back over to my zombie friends. “This is one zombie hunter who’s had enough head bashing. I’m going to call it a day.”
“Before you go, I just need your signature on some release forms,” a production assistant said, coming over to me.
I scribbled my name on half a dozen pieces of paper and was told that my check for the night’s performance would be in the mail.
As I was walking to my apartment, I heard Natalie saying to the others, “I think Kate’s a natural performer. Maybe we should see ‘bout making her a regular on our show.”
I turned back to her and said, “Sorry, I only do one head-bashing performance a year. See you all tomorrow.”
TWENTY SIX
The next day Oz called in some favors and made arrangements for the taskforce to meet at Hollywood Station. My boss wanted a firsthand account of my meeting with Lucas Caufield. The same group of agents and detectives as before gathered in the station’s largest conference room, with the exception of Janice Taylor, who we were told had gone back to Quantico.
Oz began the meeting by telling everyone that the LAPD brass was upset because they had it on good authority that The Prophet’s latest poem had been leaked to the press and they were expected to publish it soon. There was lots of discussion about the press coverage stirring up public hysteria before Oz turned the meeting over to me.
I’d spent a few minutes earlier that morning trying to fix something that still resembled the zombie apocalypse hairstyle from last night’s TV shooting. I brushed a hand though my bird’s nest, focused my thoughts, and then spent a half hour updating the group on my meeting with Caufield.
As Joe Dawson worked a crossword puzzle, I finished my summary by saying, “Caufield’s manner and questions were odd, to say the least.”
“It sounds like he’s just a horny old man,” Christine Belmont said. “I wouldn’t give any credence to anything he told you.”
“And why would Caufield say that The Prophet wants you as an adversary?” Alex Hardy asked. His tone was dismissive.
Ted spoke up, answering for me. “Maybe you’ve been asleep on the job and haven’t noticed, but your coworker has spent the last couple of years solving some pretty high profile cases.”
“We’ve all handled high profile cases,” Christine Belmont countered. “That’s why we’re in Section One.”
“Sexton’s gotten a lot of press from her cases,” Dawson grumbled, giving them his take on things. “The Prophet probably picked up on that.”
“Yeah, we’ve seen some of her press,” Belmont said. “And not all of it’s good.”
Dawson’s eyes came up from his puzzle and fixed on her. “The bottom line is, Caufield’s taken her under his wing like a student, so we need to use that.”
“I feel more like a victim,” I said, trying to defuse things.
Oz set his eyes on Belmont and Hardy, sending them a message. “Let’s concentrate on what Caufield said and try not to make this personal.”
The room was silent for a moment before Jeremy Spender spoke up. “I’ve got some theories, if anyone cares to listen.” His eyes found Dawson.
“Yeah, let’s have our daily dose of psychobabble,” Dawson said, not look at him and working on his puzzle again. “I could use a little therapy.”
“You’re beyond help,” I said to him and then turned to Spender. “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
“I believe the key to what Mr. Caufield said has to do with his phrase, there’s a change in the world.” He fixed his eyes on me. “Didn’t you also say that he said something about nesting and finding apprentices?”
“Yes, those were his exact words.”
“I think we’re dealing with a spree killer. His phrase about there being a change in the world signals that The Prophet is about to act again. He uses the break between the killings as an emotional cooling off or nesting period. The time out is similar to the latency period following a sexual experience. During that respite The Prophet’s urge to kill again becomes stronger over time as the psychosexual tension builds.”
Special Agent Allison Schwab had been making notes and looked up at Spender. “But we’re dealing with someone who, as far as we know, hasn’t killed in the past four years until now. Why would he wait so long, and then in the recent killings, act within a few days of each other?”
“The nesting period is not uncommon. The BTK killer, Dennis Rader, also waited years between killings. As for there being a change in the time periods related to the recent killings, it has to do with the sexual build up and release of tension. It’s what forms The Prophet’s unique signature.”
“I think he was in the joint,” Christine Belmont said. “Being locked up is the only thing that would explain why he kept his so-called urges under control.”
“Or maybe his psychosexual tension, as you call it, abated for a while,” Dawson told Spender. “He became impotent, a limp-dick little bastard again.”
Spender did an eye roll. “Dehumanizing our suspect isn’t going to solve our case.”
“I’d say he’s already about as dehumanized as you can get,” Dawson barked. “If he was any lower lifeform, he’d crawl on his belly like a reptile or maybe even become a profiler.”
There was lots of shouting back and forth before Oz got us back on track, giving Selfie the opportunity to ask a question.
“What do you think Caufield meant about apprentices?” our crime analyst asked me. “We know that The Prophet used Oliver Gorm and William Monroe in the last two killings. Does that mean that he’s never directly involved in the murders?”
I was about to answer when Alex Hardy spoke up. “He’s using proxies. When he’s through with them, he turns the wasps loose and kills them. He’s never directly involved in the killings, just like Charlie Manson.”
I had nothing concrete to counter what he’d suggested. I turned back to Selfie. “It could be that’s the way things are done. I don’t think we have enough information to be sure at this point.”
Oz then asked the other members of the taskforce what they had learned from the jurisdictions in Georgia and Florida where The Prophet had previously operated.
“Nothing concrete,” Belmont said. “We’re still waiting on some callbacks but, so far, there’s nothing new.”
Lavern Wallace confirmed what Belmont had said, as did Ted, who told the group that he thought we’d already learned everything we could from the previous cases.
When no one else spoke up I said to Dawson, “So where do we go from here?”
The big FBI pushed his crossword puzzle into a folder and said, “Quantico.”
***
The FBI Academy was located on a Marine Corps base about forty miles south of Washington, DC. Joe Dawson and I got on an FBI jet with his boss, John Greer, later that morning.
The other taskforce members were left behind to deal with the expected fallout and public hysteria generated from The Prophet’s poem being published and to continue to pursue leads on the prior cases. As we flew, Greer gave me some background on the FBI headquarters and explained why we were headed for Quantico.
“The Academy is basically like a large college campus,” Greer said. The FBI supervisor was in his forties, solid and handsome, but a bit on the serious side. “There’s a dining hall, library, classrooms, training centers, and gymnasium. We’ll be dealing with the BAU, or Behavioral Analysis Unit. Their Unit-3 deals with violent crime victims and has a team of experts, including Janice Taylor, that have been assigned to our case.”
“In other words, it’s a psychiatric hospital for white collar idiots who have never worked a crime scene,” Dawson said, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.
Greer’s lips pursed together but he didn’t respond. I knew from my past contacts with
the FBI supervisor that he was extremely tolerant of Dawson, only because the hard-headed agent had a history of big scores on high profile cases.
“Let’s hear what they have to say and take things from there,” Greer finally said, standing up. “We need all the help we can get.” He wandered off, maybe to blow off steam over having to deal with his big-mouth employee.
When Greer was gone, I said to Dawson, “You mentioned yesterday that you and Lucas Caufield had some past issues. What did you mean?”
He glanced up at me. “It’s nothing, just a difference of opinion when we worked together.” He went back to his puzzle.
“About what?”
He took a breath and released it slowly before finding my eyes again. “I thought True Grit was the greatest movie ever made. Caufield disagreed. He’s a big fan of Snow White.”
I shook my head. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
“You’re wrong, Buttercup. I’m better, stronger, faster.” He held up his crossword puzzle. “And smarter.”
I found a magazine on the seat next to me and thumbed through it. “I think there’s something else you forgot. You’re more full of shit than ever.”
He chuckled. “What about you?”
I met his eyes and smiled. “I’m definitely not full of shit.”
His grin widened. “I mean since we last worked together. How are you after…after everything that happened?”
I knew that he was talking about the man who had murdered my father. Before my sister had shot and killed Ryan Cooper while he was stalking me, Cooper had murdered my former boyfriend, Jack Bautista. It had been difficult, but in the months following those events I’d finally found a way to move past what had happened. Time, the support of Natalie and Mo, and counseling had been the keys to my recovery.
I said to Dawson, “The wounds have healed but there are still a few scars at the broken places.”
“As in your soul?”
Dawson had a theory, something that he called blue-eyed soul. If I understood it correctly, his theory involved how all the terrible, negative things you see as a cop sneaks up on you and eventually steals your soul. It leaves you feeling hollow and empty inside. I once believed that the job was doing that to me, but in recent months I’d realized that it was the losses I’d suffered in my personal life that had caused my empty feelings. Thanks to the therapy and the passage of time, I’d begun to get in touch with my true feelings again.
