Beyond Belief

by Roy Johansen

Deception?” Joe held the plastic evidence bag at eye level and squinted at the carved ivory square.

  Raymond Fisher stared at him in surprise from the other side of the police conference room. He was flanked by two other FBI agents, who had been hastily introduced as Muñiz and Hill. Howe, Lieutenant Gerald, and Detectives Powell and Kessler, who were spearheading the abduction case, joined Joe in representing the Atlanta P.D.

  “Very good,” Fisher said to Joe. “It means lies or deception. Didn't anyone tell you that Latin is a dead language?”

  “If they had, I wouldn't have wasted two years in high school studying it. So where did you guys find this?”

  “Actually, one of your officers found it on the roof of the church schoolroom. It was clean, so it couldn't have been there long. At first, we thought it might be a piece from a language learning set.”

  “It's not,” Joe said as he studied it. “It's called a reason square.”

  “You're familiar with it?” Fisher asked.

  “One of the millennial cults uses them. They use these little squares like some people might use tarot cards—to predict the future, make sense of the past, give guidance, that sort of thing.”

  Muñiz, a bespectacled man in his early forties, stepped forward. “That's right. I'm a specialist in cults. I'm surprised you even know about this.”

  Joe shrugged. “I occasionally deal with cults in my work. A lot of them are fond of using tricks to convince people to join them and hand over their worldly possessions. I don't remember hearing anything negative about this one though.”

  “They call themselves the Millennial Prophets, and they're very secretive,” Muñiz said. “Most millennial cults started springing up in the early nineties, and many have already disbanded. Their numbers peaked with the turn of the millennium, but it will probably take another decade or so for most of them to dwindle out. The Millennial Prophets go further back though. The religion was founded by an excommunicated Presbyterian minister, Alessandro Garr, in England, around the end of the nineteenth century.” Muñiz took back the reason square. “There are one hundred words represented by the squares, and vivida is one of them.”

  “Is this cult dangerous?” Gerald asked.

  “They're not reputed to be, but other than what I just told you, there's not a lot known about them. It's been a very secretive organization, even since Alessandro's time. They've never caused any problems we're aware of, and as a result, the bureau hasn't made it a priority to study their activities. We don't even know how many members they have.”

  Fisher stepped forward. “We know that there were two men on that rooftop: the sniper and the man who killed him. We're assuming the square was dropped by one of those two. A card-carrying Millennial Prophet.”

  Joe nodded. “Would I be wrong to assume that your agency is now compiling a phone book-size dossier on this group?”

  Muñiz smiled. “Several phone books.”

  “Your tax dollars at work,” Fisher said. “But would you gentlemen like to join us for a little more hands-on research?”

  “Doing what?” Gerald asked.

  “There's a former Millennial Prophet within fifty miles of here. His name is David Maxie. We're heading out to talk to him now.”

  “Are you sure he's home?” Howe asked.

  “Positive. He resides in the state mental institution in Milledgeville.”

  Gino Lockwood crouched on the floor of his apartment, holding his sides and coughing up blood.

  Lyles stood over him. “It'll heal. You won't even need to see a doctor for that. The next one won't be so gentle.”

  Lockwood stared up at him, trying to catch his breath. “Jesus,” he wheezed. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I'll ask the questions, unless you'd like another punch in the stomach.”

  “If you're looking for Sanchez, I don't know where he is. I don't work for him anymore.”

  “Who's Sanchez?”

  Lockwood rolled over onto his side. He was a small man, around thirty, with a large mane of dirty blond hair. He'd opened his apartment door after Lyles knocked, and the flimsy security chain had been no match for a good solid shoulder blow. Lock-wood wiped the blood from his mouth. “What do you want?”

  “Tell me about the Banshee you took in for repairs a few weeks ago.”

  “The Banshee?”

  “You took it to a mechanic at Charlie Brown airport. Your chopper?”

  “No. I took it in, but it wasn't mine.”

  Lyles crouched near him. “Now, why would you have it repaired if it wasn't yours?”

  “I'm a pilot, and I was up for a job. I did it as kind of a favor.”

  “A favor to who?”

  “I don't know.”

  Lyles's gloved right fist flew underneath Lock-wood's chin, pummeling his jaw. Lockwood covered his mouth and moaned.

  “If the chopper wasn't yours, then whose was it?”

  “Christ.” He winced as he stroked his jaw. “Two guys wanted to hire me for a job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “A pickup.” Lockwood suddenly sounded as if he had marbles in his mouth. “They weren't too clear.”

  “Picking up a person?”

  “Look, they paid me a lot of money to keep my mouth shut about this.”

  “I'm offering you your life.”

  Lockwood nodded. “Yeah, I figured that out for myself. Could you get me some ice or something?”

  “That depends on how helpful you are. What was the job?”

  “Picking a guy up with a drop ladder. We practiced at an old rifle range in Cherokee County, out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “They didn't tell you what it was all about?”

  “No. In my business, people usually operate on a need-to-know basis. I figured maybe they were looking to rip off one of the crystal meth labs in Florida. Look, I don't know who you work for, but—”

  “I don't work for anybody. Who were these people?”

  “Two men. They called themselves Smith and Johnson. They never slipped up and called each other anything else. I was listening.”

  “Describe them.”

  “Johnson was kind of a plump guy, brown hair, with a beard.”

  Lyles nodded, remembering the man who had injected Jesse with a hypodermic needle in the helicopter cockpit. “And the other one?”

  “He was a smaller guy. He was the one climbing the ladder.”

  The sniper, Lyles thought. “So why didn't you do the job for them?”

  He shrugged. “They said their first choice had become available again. Plus I don't think they were too happy with our practice runs. They thought I was too cautious. I'm not going to take stupid chances for anybody, even for twenty-five grand.”

  “That's good money.”

  “I only get five for border jumps, so, yeah, it wasn't bad. They gave me the whole amount even though they didn't want me for the main event.”

  “You run coke from Mexico or South America?”

  “You're fucking DEA, aren't you?”

  “No. Where were you last night?”

  “You sound like a cop.”

  “I'm no cop. Where were you?”

  “Flying back from Guadalajara in my Cessna.”

  Lyles spied a black travel bag on the floor. He unzipped it, thinking he might find a time-stamped receipt that would either confirm or refute Lockwood's story. Instead, he found a copy of that morning's Plano Times.

  “I refueled in Texas,” Lockwood said.

  Lyles tossed aside the newspaper. “Do you have a phone number for them?”

  “No. They always called me.”

  Lyles shot him a skeptical glance.

  “Honest. I'm not bullshitting you.”

  “How did they find you? Who put them in touch?”

  “I have no idea. They just called me one day. I usually talked to Johnson. Or whatever his name really was.”

  “Any idea who they got to fly it?”

  “I don't know. The
y kept saying that Nathan Schroeder or Michael Kahn wouldn't be afraid to do the moves they wanted. They fly for the big dealers here and the ones in Nashville and Birmingham.”

  “Good.”

  Lockwood swallowed hard. “You're gonna kill me, aren't you?”

  Lyles thought for a moment. He'd assumed that the conversation would end with his murdering Lock-wood, but there was really no need. Although he'd earned a reputation as a monster, he killed only when it was absolutely necessary. Lockwood, unlike the mechanic from that morning, represented no danger to him. This guy wasn't about to run to the cops.

  Lyles shook his head. “You get to live. You're scum, but you're telling me the truth. And I know that you're not going to tell anyone about our little conversation. You don't know it yet, but you're an accessory to a very high-profile crime.”

  “What crime?”

  “You'll know soon enough. Watch the eleven o'clock news. The fewer people who know about your involvement, the better off you'll be.”

  “Believe me, I won't say a word.”

  “Good. Just know that if you start talking, the authorities will be the least of your problems.”

  Night had fallen by the time Joe, his fellow officers, and the feds arrived at the Georgia state mental institution in Milledgeville. Joe had expected an imposing Gothic structure, but the sprawling one-story complex looked more like a suburban high school. The institution's chief administrator, Dr. Barbara Camille, met them at the main entrance. She led them into an observation room with a large one-way glass, where they could look into a visiting area.

  Joe and Muñiz had been chosen to speak to David Maxie—Muñiz because he was the cult specialist and Joe, presumably, because he was the only cop who'd recognized the reason square. They proceeded into the visiting area, and after a few minutes Maxie walked into the room with an orderly. Maxie was in his early forties. His head was shaved, and his jet-black eyebrows joined as one.

  “Hello, David. How are you?” Muñiz said.

  “Shitty,” Maxie replied.

  “Why's that?”

  Maxie settled into the love seat while the orderly crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “It's cold, and I ain't got no hair. Should've kept my hair.”

  Joe smiled. “We can get you a cap.”

  “Don't want a cap. Want my hair.”

  “It'll grow back.”

  “By then it'll be summer. Don't need hair in the summer.”

  “We need to talk to you, David,” Muñiz said.

  “Is this about the president?”

  Joe had glanced through Maxie's file on the way there. “We know about those letters you wrote the president. We're sure you didn't mean him any harm.”

  “I just wanted him to pay attention. He wasn't paying attention to me.”

  “We know,” Joe said. “You're not in here because of that. Do you know why you're in the hospital?”

  Maxie nodded. “My sisters think I'm sick. They think I might hurt myself.”

  “They obviously care about you very much.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Who do you care about?” Muñiz asked.

  Maxie glanced around the room as if the answer might be written on one of the walls.

  Muñiz leaned forward. “Do you care about the Millennial Prophets?”

  Maxie's eyes widened. “Of course.”

  “Alessandro Garr was a remarkable man, wasn't he?” Joe said.

  “Alessandro,” Maxie whispered reverently.

  “If I want to become a Millennial Prophet, what should I do?”

  “You gotta read the books.”

  “Alessandro's books?”

  “Of course. So you'll be ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “For the Child of Light.”

  “What?” Joe asked.

  Maxie was clearly irritated. “The Child of Light. It's his time. I thought you knew the writings of Alessandro.”

  Joe bowed his head. “I have a tough time understanding them. Can you help me?”

  Maxie straightened, obviously feeling superior. “The Child of Light will rise within a few years of the dawn of the new millennium.”

  “Rise from where?”

  “From among us. He will eventually control all time and matter, then lead mankind into the new age. The age of Alessandro.”

  Joe inhaled sharply. “How will we know him when he arrives?”

  Maxie smiled. “We will know. It's written in Alessandro's prophecy. He will be a darker-skinned boy of uncommon sensitivity. He was born under the ninth moon, on the anniversary of an apocalyptic event in his city's history. As the city rose, so will he. All matter changes to his will.”

  Joe shot a quick glance toward the observation window. It all made sense now.

  “I'd like to know more about this,” Muñiz said. “Can you put me in touch with other Prophets?”

  “I belonged to the congregation in Honolulu. That was years ago. I don't know any others.”

  “Please think. It may be important.”

  “There's no one. I don't need a congregation to affirm my faith. My faith is in my heart and my head.” He felt his bare scalp. “It's cold. I sure wish I had my hair.”

  Joe pushed open the door to the parking lot and walked with Howe, Muñiz, and Fisher. Muñiz was on his portable phone, relaying their findings.

  “The Millennial Prophets think Jesse Randall is their goddamned messiah,” Joe said. “We need to find out his birthday.”

  Muñiz covered his phone's mouthpiece. “I have someone on it. It's September first. He's running a check on the date now.”

  “That would explain that guy in the church, the one who shot one of the abductors,” Fisher said. “He was protecting Jesse. A zealot playing bodyguard.”

  Joe suddenly made another connection. “He's been following Jesse for days.”

  “How do you know?” Howe asked.

  “A few days ago, a man roughed up a little kid who was bullying Jesse.”

  “I read that in the report.”

  “I'll bet it was the same guy. He didn't just happen to be there. He was following Jesse. Just like he was following him last night. That time, the bullies had guns and a helicopter.”

  “If that is true, he's not exactly a knight in shining armor. He wasted that innocent guard on the Coca-Cola building.”

  “Small price to pay if the survival of your messiah is at stake.”

  Muñiz cut the connection on his phone. “September first is the anniversary of the first burning of Atlanta.”

  “An apocalyptic event in his city's history,” Joe said. “Jesse has enough in common with the prophecy that they think it's him.” Joe's mind raced. “We'll get the raw footage from those news cameras in front of Jesse's house. If this protector was hanging out there, maybe somebody caught him on tape.”

  “Subpoena unaired footage? That opens up some sticky First Amendment issues, Bailey.”

  “Not this time. Believe me, nobody's going to want his station to be known as the one that refused to help save the life of an eight-year-old boy.”

  Joe got home a few minutes before nine, and the first sight that greeted him was Suzanne Morrison sitting on his sofa with Nikki.

  “Hi, Daddy!” Nikki said.

  “Hi.” He couldn't take his eyes off Suzanne. “What are you doing here?”

  She smiled. “I came to see you.”

  “She got here about an hour ago.” Vince came in from the kitchen. “I know you always tell me not to let strangers in, but she said she knew you.”

  “Anybody could say that, Vince.”

  “I know, but she—”

  “She smiled at you, didn't she? And that's all it took.”

  “Well—” He sighed. “Yeah.”

  “Just what I thought. How are you, Suzanne?”

  “Fine. Your daughter was just showing me some of her CDs. We have some of the same musical heroes.”

  Nikki was beaming. “Daddy, she writ
es music that orchestras play. She said she'd give me a CD!”

  “That's great. I'd like to hear it too.”

  “Me too,” Vince said enthusiastically.

  Joe patted his shoulder. “That'll be enough from you tonight. Suzanne, what can I help you with?”

  “Actually, I thought I might be able to help you.”

  “With what?”

  “I've been reading about your psychic attacks.”

  “Don't believe everything you read.”

  “I don't. That's why I'm here. I'd like to take a look at your elevator.”

  “My elevator?”

  “Psychic attack number one, right?”

  Joe glanced at Nikki, but she didn't seem to be bothered by the discussion.

  “Suzanne doesn't think Jesse's powers are real,” Nikki said, perhaps sensing his concern.

  “I've been saying that all along. Now that she says it, you believe it?”

  “I don't know yet,” Nikki said. “And neither will you until you know all the facts.”

  “You sound like me,” Joe said. He turned to Suzanne. “Or is it you?”

  “You have a smart daughter.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I thought we'd take a look at your elevator.” Suzanne patted a black leather satchel. “I brought my examination equipment.”

  Joe cracked a smile. “Your spirit kit?”

  “Yep.”

  Vince stood up. “Joe, if you don't want to check it out, I'll go with her.” He turned to Suzanne. “I've been kind of helping Joe out on this case, watching the Jesse Randall test sessions, and—”

  “Sit down, Vince.”

  Vince sat down.

  “Stay here with Nikki. Suzanne and I are going to take a look at the elevator.”

  If his neighbors didn't think he was nuts already, they certainly would now, Joe thought. He and Suzanne were in the basement, wearing galoshes, latex gloves, and lighted goggles. They directed their flashlights up at the bottom of the elevator car, which was suspended six feet from the bottom of the shaft. They had pulled the emergency stop button and turned off the alarm bell.

  “If this elevator was rigged, whoever did it could have removed all the evidence that night,” Joe said.

  “Why didn't you check it out?”