Brethren

by Shawn Ryan

Beams of golden light began to flow downward, between the planks. Motes of dust danced in it Swirls of color swam around it, rising and falling in rainbows. Webster was mesmerized, thrilled, hypnotized.

  Where's it comin' from?

  He looked upward, following the golden light back to its source, back to… Medlocke! The golden light surrounded that bastard! It covered his whole body, weaved in and out of his skin. Webster squinted from the brightness, his eyes watered. He felt his jaw going slack in awe, but didn't think to close it.

  A wrenching noise to his right drew his eyes from Medlocke. His jaw dropped another inch. The golden light was wrapped around the granite boulder. As he watched, the rock tugged and jerked and slowly rose from the ground, clods of dirt and grass falling away as it climbed—one foot, two, three, five. At eight feet off the ground, it stopped, hovering in mid-air.

  "Now smash it," Webster heard the old man say.

  Medlocke grunted once and the boulder exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. Yet there were no shrapnel-like shards flying about. All of the remains hung near each other inside the golden glow, floating, swaying.

  "Holy fuckin' shit."

  Webster was horrified when he realized the words came from him.

  The golden aura vanished and the chunks of rock fell to the ground with a rainfall of thuds.

  Christ, what a dumbass! Webster thought. He turned to flee as fast as his spindly legs would carry him, but as he took one step, he felt his limbs freeze. Nothing moved, nothing worked. He couldn't even turn his head.

  What's the matter with me?

  Although he couldn't budge his limbs, his eyes still moved and he glanced down at his hands. He gasped. A blue glow enveloped both of them and extended back up his arms.

  With a jolt, he felt himself moving. But I'm not walking, his mind screamed. I'm not even moving my legs.

  He floated from under the sun deck, moving to the front, then slowly rose until he was on the same level as the deck itself. Medlocke and his father stood there staring at him. Once again he gasped, this time at the sight of the blue glow emanating from the old man.

  "What have we here?" Stephen asked.

  "Shit, that's Frog Webster, a fence down in Gwinnett," Jason said. "What's he doing here?"

  "I'd say spying on us," Stephen said. "Weren't you?"

  Webster said nothing.

  "Oh, that's right. You probably can't talk, can you?" Stephen said. "Here, I'll fix that."

  He snapped his fingers.

  "Now, what are you doing here?" he asked again.

  "Nothin'. Nothin' at all," Webster jabbered. "I was just walkin' around. I'm just up here relaxin' at the lake. Like ya'll."

  "Relaxing under our sun deck?" Jason asked.

  "Yeah, I… I… was takin' a shortcut back to my car."

  "I think you'd better tell us the truth, my good man," Stephen said.

  "That is the truth, I swear on my mother's grave," Webster said. "I ain't ly—"

  He was cut short. like a bear hug, the blue glow contracted around him. He tried to breathe, but could only get short gasps. In a few seconds, flashes of light erupted in front of his eyes. His ribs began to quiver with the pressure. They felt as if they were going to break.

  "Now, are you going to tell us the truth?" Stephen asked.

  Webster nodded. The blue glow retreated.

  "Very good," Stephen said. "Now again. What are you doing here?"

  "I'm up here for Quintard," Webster said. "He's had me followin' Medlocke the past few weeks. He wants me to try and get somethin' on you, somethin' he can use against you. He don't like you much."

  "No kidding," Jason said.

  "Well, I don't think it'd be a good idea to let Mr. Webster take what he's seen back to town and tell Quintard," Stephen said. "But I think I can prevent that."

  "Don't kill me! Don't kill me!" Webster pleaded frantically. "I don't know what you are, but I promise I won't say nothin' to him. This shit never happened. I never saw nothin'. Please let me go."

  "What're you going to do, Dad?" Jason asked.

  "I'm just going to talk to this man a little while, try to convince him of the error of his ways, of how he's lost the path of God and—"

  The phone inside the cabin began ringing. Jason's eyes widened.

  "It's either Alex or Badger," he said. "I hope it's Alex; Badger would call for only one reason."

  He ran back inside and the ringing stopped.

  Outside, Stephen gazed directly into Webster's eyes. "Now listen very carefully, Mr. Webster. I want to make sure you hear everything I'm saying. You don't remember anything about this. This never happened. It's all disappearing inside your mind…"

  In a quiet, insistent monotone, Stephen continued. The blue glow intensified around Webster's floating body, and the little man nodded periodically at Stephen's commands.

  About a minute later, the screen door swung open again and Jason stepped out. Webster was no longer in front of the sun deck. Jason looked around and saw him walking back toward the woods, his gait stiff and uncoordinated.

  "He'll be all right in a couple of minutes," Stephen said. He looked at the wan expression on Jason's face.

  "It was Badger, right?" he said.

  "Yeah. We've got another one."

  Chapter 27

  « ^ »

  The body of twelve-year-old Kenny Ortega dangled eighty feet up, perched on the apex of the clock tower in the old red-brick courthouse in downtown Lawrenceville. A piece of nylon clothesline held the body to the four-pronged iron weathervane that topped the tower. Once again, duct tape held the boy's head to his body.

  While several officers clambered up the inside ladders that led to the tower, none was willing to risk the vertical climb it would take to reach the body once one exited a window near the top. And even after struggling to the top, there was the eighty-degree pitch of the tower's shingled roof as a deterrent. The fire department's hook-and-ladder truck had to be called in.

  "How the fuck did he get up there with a body on his back?" Badger asked no one in particular as he stared at the tower in disbelief.

  With the death of the boy, the volcano blew its top.

  Stories about the Mercy Killer investigation became front-page stories and lead items on the evening newcasts nationwide. Newspaper editorials brought up the Atlanta Child Murders of 1981 in which twenty-eight children turned up dead, the writers asking whether the same thing was happening again.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," Badger raged. "Give me a break. Four killings are bad, but we're nowhere near twenty-eight."

  The fact that the killer could get away so easily made him look a great deal smarter than the police, something neither the cops nor their critics had any problems picking up on.

  And Jason was in turmoil beyond the new murder. His mind was torn between finding the Mercy Killer and dealing with his newfound powers which ultimately led to dealing with Moloch. The threat of death permeated everything in his life it seemed.

  He learned much in the three days at the cabin, secrets that would blast the minds of lesser people. He was stronger, much stronger than he ever hoped.

  "It's frightening," his father told him. "You've picked up on things that took me years to learn. And the scope of your abilities doesn't seem to have any limits."

  "What are we going to do, Dad?" Jason asked as he and Stephen drove back from the lake cabin. "I'm going to be wrapped up in this case for a while. I don't know if I'll have much time for lessons."

  "Yeah, I figured that," Stephen said. "But I thought I might hang around for a couple more days. Maybe at night we can get in a few things, teach you how to use the power correctly. If that's okay with you."

  But Jason was doubtful that he could use the power correctly. Schoolwork was fine, but on-the-job training was the key. He knew he needed more training, a chance to build his confidence, but the murder of Kenny Ortega made that impossible, at least for now. He could only focus on the new murder.

  He an
d his father never got a chance for another lesson. Things proceeded to go downhill at a spectacular rate.

  Police were becoming increasingly embarrassed to admit they had nothing to go on. The scene at Kenny Ortega's murder was as clean as the others. Since the second murder, forensics had perfected the scouring of the crime scene into an art form. Whereas even the most complicated crime scene usually took no longer than eight hours to search, they now spent sixteen to twenty-four hours, dusting everything, making ESDA searches in ever-widening circles. Dozens of rolls of film were taken, technicians in surgical masks and scrub suits padded around on their hands and knees, tweezers in their hands, as they looked for something—fingernail scrapings, a print, a chip of paint or metal—anything that might link the scene to the killer.

  Jason and Badger spent a couple of hours at the crime scene, talking with Saunders and Bibb, then headed out to do their own work, interviewing parents, friends, schoolteachers. By this time, their hopes of the killer making a mistake were small, but there was always a chance, so they retained just enough hope to be severely disappointed when it was smashed.

  Once again, all efforts came up empty with Kenny Ortega. There were no hairs or fibers on the body; only the smudged glove prints. No telltale evidence was found around the body. Jason's and Badger's interviews revealed nothing of substance.

  The only thing that was different this time was the Mercy Killer's message. Like the others, it was pinned to the little boy's shirt with no prints or hairs left on it. Like the other messages, it was typed on an old IBM with a skewed a and r. But this time its message was slightly different. "Brethren," it said,

  Once again we meet. Or do not meet, as the case may be. I am beginning to enjoy this. Not just the cleansing deaths, not just the washing away of pain in showers of innocent blood, but the cat-and-mouse chase. I find it stimulating; it stokes my fires.

  Poor Jason. You have no idea what you're up against. You think I'm insane; you think I'm deranged. I am neither. I am simply resolute, with a long memory and the patience to wait—for centuries if need be.

  So my friend, we shall meet. And soon. But it will be on my terms, at my discretion. At that point, all will be clear to you.

  And then you will die.

  Still at the office at five the next morning, Jason and Badger went over the message together.

  "Now he's threatening you," Badger said. "He talked directly to you in the last message, but threatening you is a new angle. He obviously knows you. Can you think of anyone who hates you this badly?"

  "Well, sure, there are plenty of people who don't like me, people I've arrested or what-not," Jason said as he toyed with the disappearing ball trick, "but I can't think of any whose feelings reach this level of depravity. You'd have to be an inhuman beast to…"

  Jason stopped. You'd have to be an inhuman beast. A monster. Oh dear God. It couldn't be. Could it? A chill shook his body.

  "Hey, what is it?" Badger said. "Your face looks like a ghoul's. What's the matter?"

  Jason stared at Badger, his brain reeling. How much could he tell him? It all came down to that. How much trust could he place in this man? He'd trusted him with his life. Wasn't that as much trust as you could place on another human being? But this was so much more. So much more.

  Besides, this was only speculation, Jason told himself. Only a wild hunch. Moloch might have nothing to do with the murders. Probably didn't have anything to do with them. But it certainly explained a lot, made the pieces fit neatly—how the murders could be done so cleanly, the mysterious glowing green line at Brookwood High School, the note on the computer. It all clicked. But it was all too much. He needed to talk to his father. Had to talk to him. He reached for the phone. As his hand touched the receiver, it rang.

  "Shit on a stick," Jason said as he jumped. He slowly lifted the receiver.

  "Medlocke."

  "Hi baby," Alex said in a dull monotone voice.

  "Hi," Jason answered. "Jesus, you sound awful. What's wrong?"

  "I feel like hell," she said. "I guess I've caught some sort of virus. I've been throwing up every morning and feeling awful the rest of the day."

  "Have you been to the doctor?" he asked.

  "I'm trying to get an appointment, but it'll probably take a couple of days before they can squeeze me in," she said. "There's something going around down here in Montgomery."

  "Why don't you stay down there a little while longer? It's safer and it'll give you time to get better," he suggested.

  "I've got to be back to work soon," she said. "But you're right, I need a few days to get over this creeping crud. I don't feel hike driving anyway, and besides, if I came back now I'd probably just give it to you."

  "Okay, but call me after your appointment and tell me what the doctor says," he said. "I'll talk to you then. Love you."

  "What's up?" Badger asked as Jason hung up.

  "Alex is sick. Got some sort of virus. She's going to stay in Montgomery for a couple more days."

  "Good idea. No sense her being on the road if she feels bad," Badger said. "Now, back to the issue at hand. You obviously had something on your mind a minute ago, something that looked as if it made you sick to your stomach. What was it?"

  Jason looked at Badger. He couldn't tell him everything. Not until he checked it out first. And even if it was true, he wasn't sure he could tell Badger, wasn't sure he'd believe it. Shit. Just melt a door or something, he'll believe.

  But that had to come later. For now, he had to tell Badger something. But he couldn't lie to his best friend.

  "It's something I need to check out with my father first," Jason said. "It has to do with those family problems I told you about before we went up to your cabin. There may be something, I mean someone, from my family's past. I'm not saying it has any connection to these murders at all. But it's a possibility I need to investigate."

  "Details, give me details," Badger said.

  "I can't. Not yet," Jason said. "It may all be just a strained, bullshit guess on my part. But I'll let you know."

  "Now this is bullshit!" Badger said, anger in his voice. "I'm your partner. What you know, I should know. There are no secrets, no—"

  The door swung open and Silverman's blanched face peeked in. "Get your shit together. This guy's getting busy."

  "Oh Christ," Badger said. Jason simply closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

  The body of eleven-year-old Nina Bartlett leaned against the front door of J.G. Dyer Elementary School, not one hundred yards from police headquarters. Her head looked behind her through the glass doors that led inside the building; her hands sat neatly on her knees as if she were waiting for her parents to drive by and pick her up.

  "The son of a bitch must've run the whole fucking way between this one and the last," Badger fumed. "It's not humanly possible."

  Jason winced at Badger's choice of words. He's right, Jason thought, it's not humanly possible.

  If the top blew off the volcano over Kenny Ortega, the whole mountain exploded in a fireball over Nina Bartlett.

  Phone calls swamped police headquarters, demanding that something be done. PTA meetings became battlegrounds, the parents who thought the police were doing all they could siding against those who thought the police were sitting on their butts, thumbs firmly implanted in their assholes. The Atlanta Constitution called the latest crime "a slap in the face of the Gwinnett County Police Department, one they cannot ignore."

  After reading the editorial, Badger flung his cup of coffee into a nearby wall.

  In the middle of it all sat Anson Quintard, playing the whole thing like a maestro. He was in the papers almost daily, firing vindictive attacks against the police department and especially against Jason and Badger. Wherever he went, he'd speak about the subject, whether he was at church, at the grocery store, or at the gas station.

  And people were beginning to listen.

  "Five killings in five weeks. What is wrong with our police department?" Quintard said d
uring an aluminum recycling drive at North Gwinnett High School, an event he made sure would be covered by the local news media. A few phone calls did wonders, especially when he told them he'd be making a major announcement about the murders.

  "Why can't they catch the lunatic responsible for these crimes?" he cried as the cameras rolled and the pens scurried. Like a Shakespearean actor, he threw himself into the performance, thrusting his fist into the air and wiping sweat from his brow. He put what he thought was just the right amount of righteous indignation in his voice.

  "Our children, our flesh and blood, are being horribly murdered, yet the police say they have no leads. This monster drops a child's wretched, mutilated body a few feet from police headquarters, yet the police say they have nothing. What are they doing? What are Detectives Medlocke and Franklin, the ones in charge of the investigation, doing about all this? It seems apparent that the one thing they're not doing is their job. If they were, would this horror be happening?

  "In the interest of gathering information that we will then relay to you, the County Commission has requested Detectives Medlocke and Franklin to come to our regularly scheduled meeting next Tuesday. They will face our questions and answer to you. The people of Gwinnett demand it."

  When Quintard got back to his office at the Justice and Administration Complex, he wanted to throw his hands up and whoop with joy. Things just kept getting better and better. The only thing he could hope for would be one more murder before the county commission meeting in three days. But that was just wishful thinking.

  Besides, Webster came through with some very interesting information, tidbits about Medlocke's affair with one Alex Cotton and, even better, his recent trip to the lake. Although Webster said Medlocke and his father didn't do anything but drink Cokes and talk at the cabin, the news was valuable in and of itself.

  Armed with the information, Quintard picked up the phone and dialed a number he hadn't called in about a month. It was answered quickly.

  "Anthony Bradley."

  "Anthony, this is Anson Quintard. I've got another tip for you."