by Meg Gardiner
Inside the front window, Sadie stood on an easy chair, watching the street. When she saw Caitlin she waved, put her face to the window, and blew a raspberry. In reply, Caitlin crossed her eyes.
As she climbed the steps to the door, a Subaru Outback pulled to the curb. Inside, Sadie jumped up and down and banged on the window.
“Mommy!”
Caitlin paused on the porch. Michele Ferreira parked the Subaru and got out.
She came around the car and climbed the steps. “You in the eye of the hurricane?”
“Dead center.”
Sean opened the door. The look on his face when he saw them speaking was fleeting but blatant: Are you talking about me?
Michele and Caitlin both looked at him.
“No,” Caitlin said.
“Never,” Michele said.
Caitlin didn’t talk to Michele about Sean Rawlins. Michele knew all she wanted to about him. She’d flushed him from her system, willingly, after their brief marriage. She had a rare ability to forgive and forget, a skill Caitlin longed to learn. How she and Sean’s ex-wife ended up running together with the Rockridge Ragers, and became friends, was a mystery none of them wanted to explore.
Sadie zoomed out the door past Sean and leaped into Michele’s arms. “Mommy.”
“How’s my girl?” Michele kissed her, and asked Sean, “Everything go okay?”
“All good,” he said.
She set Sadie down. “Get your things.”
The little girl dashed back into the hall. Michele lowered her voice.
“Sunday runs are canceled until further notice. Nobody wants to go off trail in the hills.”
“Yeah.”
Sadie returned, lugging her backpack. Sean pulled her into his arms, let her plant a soft kiss on his lips, and set her down to take Michele’s hand.
Michele pecked him on the cheek, then did the same to Caitlin. “You take care.”
“You too,” Caitlin said.
Michele walked Sadie down the steps to the car. As always, Sean had to will himself to smile while he waved good-bye. He had Sadie half the time, but that didn’t matter at moments like this.
Michele beeped the horn as she pulled away, with Sadie waving from the backseat. Sean watched them go and draped an arm over Caitlin’s shoulder.
She continued looking up the street, watching Michele’s taillights recede to red pinpricks.
“What?” Sean said.
“Everybody needs to have eyes in the back of their heads right now.”
He followed her gaze. After a second he said, “Michele’s town-house complex has a secure garage, and a second, locked gate to get to their building.” His hand tightened on her shoulder. “But I’ll text her to keep a heads-up.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at the darkening sky, the lights sparkling on the distant Berkeley Hills. There were seven million lives around her. And a ghost was loose among them, hunting.
26
Good Friday
Crowded roads, clattering radio, flawless blue sky—the morning looked and sounded like a thousand others, but Caitlin kept her eyes open for signs that its normality was a lie. Public schools from San Jose to Santa Rosa were holding their final day of class before spring break. Parochial schools were already closed for the Easter weekend. A chill ocean wind blew through the Golden Gate. A few churches, mostly Catholic, had open doors in preparation for afternoon services. Others, mostly Protestant, had banners welcoming all comers to Easter sunrise services on Sunday. The early commuter traffic was as sluggish as always.
Police patrols were noticeable to Caitlin’s eye, but not overwhelming. How could the sheriff’s office power up overnight? Not easily, and not without authorizing massive overtime.
Threat advisories were an easier call. But they had to be backed up by at least some show of presence on the street.
At Northside Joe, a neighborhood coffeehouse in Berkeley, Caitlin stood at the counter. Outside, Sean waited in his truck, talking on the phone with a fellow agent about stolen blasting materials. Acoustic jazz played on the coffeehouse speakers. A television showed the morning news, a San Francisco station. The sound was muted but the closed captioning expressed alarm.
. . . ISSUED A THREAT ADVISORY LAST NIGHT, BASED ON EVIDENCE THAT THE PROPHET HAS MENTIONED GOOD FRIDAY IN HIS MESSAGES TO POLICE . . .
The woman standing beside Caitlin shook her head at the TV. “Crazy times.”
A man in a suit, armored with aftershave, said, “Think it’s real?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” the woman said.
“This feels like the weeks after 9/11. Everybody jumping at their own shadows, thinking a sprinkle of powdered sugar on a tabletop was anthrax. It seems like fearmongering.”
Behind the counter, the cappuccino maker hissed and the barista banged the espresso filter against the sink to empty the grounds.
“I’d rather get fearmongered than get killed,” the woman said. “This shit is for real. There wasn’t an anthrax killer around here, but the Prophet sure is.”
The barista handed the woman her espresso. “I didn’t even take the dog out last night. The sun goes down, I dead bolt the door. I’m asking the landlord to install bars on the windows.”
The man said, “This guy isn’t a vampire. He can’t flit in like a bat. And what are the odds? The cops are covering their butts in the remote event that something happens. They don’t want to look slow on the uptick, like last time.”
The barista gave the woman her change and turned to Caitlin.
Caitlin raised two fingers. “Two brews of the day. Large. To go.”
The barista grabbed cups and continued talking to the man. “You’re not a woman living alone. It doesn’t feel so remote when you’re lying in bed at two A.M., and you hear strange sounds in the dark outside, and you know he’s out there. Because he is. And he’s waiting, and looking. It doesn’t feel remote in the least.”
Caitlin felt it. The atmosphere was beyond jittery. People weren’t just nervous. They were full of dread.
So was she. But nothing had happened overnight. No calls, no emergencies. The barista poured two large coffees in takeout cups. On the TV, the morning hosts had moved on to the weekend weather. The forecast for Easter sunrise services looked good.
The barista set down Caitlin’s order. “Five seventy-five.”
As Caitlin got her wallet, a horn honked outside. The barista frowned. The honk sounded again. And didn’t stop.
Caitlin turned. Sean was standing on the horn hard, his left arm out the window, waving at her.
She threw bills on the counter, grabbed her coffees, and ran out. As she approached the pickup, she heard the radio. It was the drive-time show they’d been listening to on the way over, Chaz and T-Bone.
Sean propped his sunglasses on top of his head. His expression mixed incredulity and alarm. Caitlin leaned in.
One of the deejays said, “Yes, you’re on the air. You’re live. We’re listening.”
“No. You hear, but you don’t listen. You ignore my message. This city, feeding on its selfish panic. Eating itself alive.”
The voice belonged to a phone-in caller. But that wasn’t why it sounded so strange. It was a mechanical drone. The caller was using an electronic voice changer.
“You challenge me. The police dare to goad me. But it’s futile. You can’t stop me.”
Caitlin said, “Jesus Christ.”
It was the Prophet.
27
Caitlin stood rigid in the parking lot outside Northside Joe, coffees hot in her hands, sunlight spearing through the leaves of the maples. The radio blared from Sean’s Tundra. The deejay was tripping over his words.
Sean said, “The show’s doing a segment on the Prophet, and this guy called in. He gave out details of one of the murders
that the police haven’t released.”
She eyed him.
“Nails driven into the victims’ chests at the cornfield.” Sean was grim. “Chaz and T-Bone are just keeping him on the line. They believe he’s the real thing.”
“He is,” she said.
On the air, Chaz said, “But I don’t want to goad you, man. I want to talk. I want to understand what’s going on.” His voice sounded strained. He cleared his throat. “Can you tell me what you want?”
Caitlin said, “Don’t ask him that—he will tell you.”
She shoved Sean’s coffee through the open window at him and grabbed her phone. She called the war room as she ran around to the passenger side.
Nearby, a Subaru pulled into the parking lot with its windows down. The radio was playing Chaz and T-Bone. The driver looked at her, openmouthed.
“Are you listening to this?”
Caitlin hopped into the truck. From inside the coffeehouse, people pushed through the door to the parking lot, curious. Chaz and T-Bone was the biggest drive-time show in the Bay Area, broadcasting out of San Francisco. A couple of hundred thousand people were listening to this.
The war room phone was picked up. Martinez. Caitlin said, “Turn on the FM radio.”
Traffic was congested on the main road. Caitlin knew that many of those drivers were listening.
Which was just what the Prophet loved: an audience. What the hell was he doing? Was this his Good Friday act—a live call-in performance?
No. He never called just to talk. Her stomach knotted.
* * *
At the Berkeley Police Department, Detective Keith Warnaker approached the middle-aged woman and the young man who were waiting anxiously in the lobby. Ana Maria Garcia and Daniel Wilcox introduced themselves.
Daniel said, “I know we were here last night, but Mom and Gaia didn’t come home.”
Daniel tossed his heavy black bangs from his face. Above the devil tattoo on his neck, he had the face of a scared kid.
“They haven’t responded to any of our messages, and the coffeehouse is still locked up. Something is way wrong.”
Warnaker was heavyset and highly experienced. “I just got in. The report you filed is on my desk, but I haven’t had a chance to look at it in detail.”
“Something happened yesterday morning at their place. Coffee, Tea and Tarot—it’s two blocks from here. It’s like they were getting ready to open and just vanished.”
Daniel told him in a rush of words about the half-prepped café, the coffeepots with the lights on, the pastries on the countertop. And about the fresh paint in the alley.
The detective’s radar warmed up.
“Fresh paint? What kind of wall?” he said.
Daniel looked baffled. “Redbrick.”
The detective inhaled. He thought of the alert regarding the graffiti the Prophet had painted.
“Daniel, do you know if your mom saw the televised request for information about some graffiti painted on a brick wall the other day?”
Daniel shook his head. “Televised? She and Gaia don’t own a TV.” He looked like he was about to cry, or to throttle somebody. “We have to do something. Go to the café. I’ll break down the door or you bring a crowbar. We need to find out what’s happened to them.”
Warnaker nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
* * *
Around the Bay Area, in bumper-to-bumper traffic, drivers turned up their radios. On air, the deejays worked to keep the Prophet talking.
“You called me, man,” Chaz said. “I want to know what’s on your mind. This is—I mean, this is your chance. You have the air. Talk to me.”
“‘Talk to me.’ Do you think you’re my confessor?”
“Not at all. Of course not.” Chaz’s voice rose in pitch, half an octave. He sounded like he was sweating. “I just . . .”
“Stop babbling.”
Caitlin and Sean stared at the radio. She knew that at the radio station, a dozen frantic people would be in contact with the police and the phone company, trying to trace the caller’s number and location. The Prophet wouldn’t make it easy for them.
On the street behind her, a horn blared. A moment later came the crunch of a collision. She and Sean swiveled to look out the back window. At the stop sign, a car had been rear-ended. When the driver got out, they heard the radio show. The driver who hit her opened his door. The same voices poured from his car radio.
The Prophet was everywhere.
* * *
In the alley behind Coffee, Tea & Tarot, Detective Warnaker followed Daniel Wilcox and Ana Maria Garcia to the parking spot where white paint covered a stretch of brick wall. Warnaker’s radar was pinging louder. Returning to his car, he pulled up the bulletin issued by the Alameda Sheriff’s Office about the graffiti painted by the Prophet.
He saw the photo. “Damn.”
He grabbed the radio. “Dispatch. Request backup at my location.” He rattled off the address and jogged to the front door of the café. Daniel followed, his face fraught.
“I have reason to believe this is an emergent situation,” the detective said. “So I’m going to effect entry into the premises.”
Ana Maria said, “Oh, my God.”
Daniel said, “Do it.”
Detective Warnaker looked at the glass in the door, and at the lock, and at the alarm company sign beneath the roofline.
Daniel said, “If something happened to them and the alarm hasn’t rung yet, it isn’t going to.”
“Stand back,” the detective said.
Daniel put an arm around Ana Maria’s shoulder and they pulled back. Warnaker took a telescoping baton from his belt and whacked the safety glass in the door. It cracked. He hit it again and it sagged. A third blow shattered the entire pane. It collapsed with a loud crunch. He covered his hand with a handkerchief, reached inside the frame, and flipped the lock. No alarm sounded.
Daniel pushed forward, but the detective raised an arm. “Stay here.”
“No, I—”
“Son, the situation may be dangerous. And a crime may have been committed. Do not come inside. I’ll let you know if it’s okay.”
Warnaker was stern, but Daniel was like a dog straining at the leash. Ana Maria set a restraining hand against his chest. “Please, Daniel.”
The detective stepped across the threshold, shoes crushing the fallen glass. His jacket lapel was pulled back, his right hand resting against the butt of his gun.
“Police. Is anybody here?”
Daniel pushed against Ana Maria’s hand. “Mom,” he yelled through the door. “Mom!”
The only sound from the café was the detective’s shoes, crunching on broken glass as he cautiously stepped deeper inside. On the street, cars at the traffic light had turned up their radios. Some call-in show, weird voices. Ana Maria kept her hand against Daniel’s chest to calm him, but her own heart was racing like a hummingbird’s.
In the café, shadows fell heavily across the floor. The detective peered over the counter and walked toward the back, hand never leaving the butt of his gun.
“Berkeley Police. Is anyone here?”
Reaching the back hall, he slowed at the door to Gaia’s office. He nudged it open, creaking. Ana Maria held her breath. Daniel’s heart thudded beneath her palm.
The cop stepped into the office and back out. He continued down the hall to the stockroom and pantry. He jogged up the stairs to the apartment. A minute later he returned, shaking his head.
“Nobody’s here.”
“But they were,” Daniel said. “I know it.”
Warnaker stood in the middle of the café, slowly scanning the premises. From the sidewalk, Ana Maria did too.
It was Daniel who said, “What’s that thing?”
He pointed through the door at a white plastic gizmo sitting on a t
able. It was about the size of a credit card.
Warnaker took a quick step toward it, and caught himself. He slowed down, as though it might be dangerous.
He stopped three feet from the table, scowling.
“What is it?” Ana Maria said.
He looked perplexed. “It’s a timer. A cheap digital timer.” He kept his feet planted where they were but leaned forward, squinting. “It’s . . .”
He stopped, lips parted.
“What?” Daniel said. “What’s wrong?”
Abruptly, Warnaker got his handheld radio and put it to his face. “There’s a timer here. And it’s counting down.”
Daniel lunged for the door. The detective raised his hand to straight-arm him like a halfback.
“What’s going on?” Daniel cried.
The detective turned toward the timer and spoke into the handheld radio.
“It’s down to twelve minutes and forty-two seconds.”
28
In Sean’s truck, Caitlin gripped the dashboard with one hand, staring at the radio as if doing so could conjure the Prophet to appear before her.
“Stop staring at the second hand on the wall clock. And at your producer, who’s twirling his hand, signaling you to keep me talking,” the caller said.
Inside Northside Joe, people were looking at their phones. Someone pointed at the television. The barista changed the channel. A fresh newsroom appeared, anchor in a red suit, red headline behind her. BREAKING: PROPHET CALLS LIVE TO KZED RADIO.
“We have to do something,” Caitlin said.
“What? How?” Sean said.
On the air, Chaz said, “All right. Okay. Hey, I’ll chill. Please, go ahead and talk. Talk about whatever you want. The air is yours.”
“I know the police are attempting to trace my location.”
A cold finger ran up Caitlin’s spine. The mechanical voice was creepy beyond belief, but also weirdly seductive. Mechanical smoke.
Chaz coughed and again cleared his throat. “Okay. You called. You talk . . .”
“I’ll save the police the trouble.” The voice paused. “Write this down.”
