March Into Hell

by M. P. McDonald

  It was all Jim could to do not to shrug off Kern's hands and lay him out, but he stayed in his role. "I'm tellin' ya, I saw it with my own two eyes. I think Mark Taylor pulled me there with his prayers."

  Eyes narrowed, Kern released him. "Prove it."

  "Satanus, non sum dignus... sed tantum dic verbo." Jim plucked Kern's hands from his shirt. "Yer followers, they couldn't hear you whisper it over the fire, but I could. I was right there and I saw your doubt." Jim used his fingertips to push Kern away as he said in a low, mocking voice, "Satan, I am not worthy, but only say the word."

  Kern stepped back, his arms dropping to his sides in surprise.

  Jim smirked. "Yep. I'm the only one who heard you voice your fears, and it just so happens I know just enough Latin to understand the phrase." He'd kept Kern's utterance a secret, not even telling Taylor, holding it back as an ace in the hole if he ever needed it.

  He rubbed his hands together and paced in front of Kern. "So, at the little shindig I'm holding, I am planning on recounting the whole thing, but of course," he paused his pacing, and held a hand on his chest, "I can omit that last bit...if you co-operate."

  With a stiff nod, Kern said, "I'll pass along my recommendation to our leader, but I can't promise anything."

  "Here's the deal. I want lots of folks at the meeting so I need your help to spread the word. I plan to collect boatloads of money from the people who turn up. I've already printed up hundreds of flyers, t-shirts and even—get this—we have small crosses that we can sell for a fortune after Taylor blesses them." Jim grinned.

  "Where does the Guild of the Rose come into this picture?"

  "I want your people at the revival. They are experienced at this sort of thing. They are disciplined. My people, well, they get to shouting and feeling the spirit. They aren't much good for what I have in mind."

  Kern regarded him with hooded eyes, having regained control of his emotions and giving nothing away. "And what do you have in mind?"

  "I thought the crucifixion was outstanding. Just outsanding, and wish I could re-enact it, but I don't think we'd get away with it. So, what I want is to force Taylor to reveal his magic. There must be a way to persuade him. I'm not any good at that kind of thing. Hell, look at me? I can't carry it off like you could." Jim chuckled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Adrian studied the flyer. Tomorrow night. It wasn't much time to plan something, but he couldn't let a golden opportunity like this pass. Taylor could identify him and despite the aliases, he didn't intend to spend the time in prison, or worse, hiding. With Taylor dead, there would be no witness. No one in his guild would dare point a finger at him, he was sure of that.

  He sat on the edge of his desk and stared out the window, absently missing the inspiring view from his previous office. Why did things have to be so difficult? So messy. Why did it take so much effort to achieve what he deserved? Half way down the street was a shabby church that had seen better days. It reminded him of the one where his father used to preach. When he was a child, he'd watch his father give his sermon to his small congregation. Part of him had been awed how the church members had hung on every word his father said. Like his father was God. The other part of him would look around at the hundred or so people and wonder why they wasted their time with a loser like his dad.

  Couldn't they see that his father had nothing? The house provided for the pastor and his family was one step up from a shack. Adrian once asked why they didn't get a nice house. Didn't he deserve it for running around town helping all the church members every time one of them had a problem? Why did they have to bring meals every time someone was sick, died or had a baby? Nobody brought meals to them when his mom had yet another child. Adrian never understood the answer his father had given him— that the reward wasn't money or a fine house. It was the satisfaction of helping someone.

  As far as Adrian could tell, there was no satisfaction to be had in helping anyone. All helping ever achieved was the helper got burned. Adrian remembered the time his dad had made him shovel snow for old Mr. Timmons. It wasn't Adrian's fault if the guy had later slipped on the ice coating the sidewalk. Timmon's could have tossed salt on the pavement as easily as he after the shoveling was done.

  His father saw it differently, and had grounded him for a month and made him help Timmons after the old man had come home from the hospital. His dad said it would teach Adrian compassion.

  Adrian scowled at the photo of Taylor on the flyer. He was a sucker just like Adrian's father. A do-gooder who probably thought he would be rewarded. Ha! Only a fool believed that nonsense. In fact, wasn't it said that God helped those who helped themselves?

  He clenched the flyer, wanting to crumple Taylor's face in his fist and watch him burn in the garbage can, but he took a deep breath and flattened the flyer on his desk. As much as he wanted to crush the man, he could wait one more day and then do it in person.

  What would be the best way? Another crucifixion would have sent a powerful message, but there wasn't time for something so elaborate. Still, it should be memorable. An assassination might be fitting. It would be quick and clean. Adrian stood and paced the small room. He wanted some time to talk to Taylor first though - to see the fear in the other man's eyes again. This time, he would discover Taylor's secret. Then he would kill the man.

  Taylor cared about other people. That was his weakness. Adrian circled his desk and settled into the chair. How could he take advantage of this weakness? He closed his eyes in concentration. Medea might be the key.

  He tilted the chair back, sinking into the fragrant leather.

  Four men dragged Mark Taylor through a doorway. He looked frightened, but also angry, his hands were bound behind him. Three of the men physically pushed him to a podium on the makeshift stage. The fourth man stood in front of the microphone. His long greasy hair and scraggly beard were flecked with gray while his robe looked like it had once been white. Reverend Jim. He gripped Taylor's arm, his fingers digging into Taylor's flesh.

  "Welcome to our gathering, gentle people. I'm Reverend Jim, and as I promised we have Mark Taylor here as our special guest." He yanked at the struggling prisoner. "He was feeling a little shy, so we had to persuade him to come." Reverend Jim smiled. "Don't worry though, we didn't have to use extreme measures, not like what happened to him last time."

  Adrian shifted in the chair. A part of his mind was still lodged in the dream, while the other part realized he was sitting in his office. An uncomfortable feeling pulled at him as he tried to awaken. The pull was too strong and he sank back into the dream.

  Reverend Jim spoke about his dream. How Taylor had called out to him. "One minute, I was sleeping in my recliner, the next, I was awake and listening to Mark's prayers. I don't know how he did it, but he drew me there with his mind."

  Taylor shook his head, but any protests he might have uttered were lost in the swell of noise from the audience.

  Reverend Jim grabbed the microphone. "Folks, quiet down. We're gonna hear from the man himself in just a few minutes, but let me tell ya about a special treat we have planned. We have a representative of the Guild of the Rose here with us tonight. He has promised to show us how he was able to entice Taylor to use his incredible powers to reach out to me. In fact, he reached out to Mr. Kern as well, didn't he?" Reverend Jim grinned at Adrian. "He contacted you through a dream too, didn't he?"

  Adrian woke up with a start and almost fell out of his leather chair. He blinked as a ray of sunlight stabbed into the office. He rubbed his hand down his face. It had been just a dream, but so real. He recalled every bit of it, more like he'd been there and walked through a door from the revival to his office -one minute he was there, the next, here. Even as he thought of it, it began to dim. Something about the dream was important. Could it finally be that he'd been given power by Satan?

  Although he'd always preached about how powerful he was, he knew his gift was in persuasion, not anything truly otherworldly. This had felt different. While he'd b
een in the dream, he had felt like he'd been directed by someone else. He yanked open his desk drawer and grabbed a yellow legal pad. He needed to write it before he forgot. Perhaps Satan had shown him the way to seize Mark Taylor's power. It was a better plan than he had, and he just knew it would work. It was as if Satan had planted the scene in his head, it was so vivid. What was even better was that it had worked.

  * * *

  Mark jolted awake and rolled over on to his side, wincing as phantom pain jabbed his chest, a holdover from the dream. He glanced down, half-expecting to find himself covered in blood. Relief coursed through him as the reality sank in that it really had been one of his dreams. He'd expected the dream after viewing the photos, but this one had felt different. It seemed filtered, as though he wasn't quite part of it, but merely watching from the sidelines. It didn't make sense.

  The warmth of the sun bathed him in a warm circle of light, and Mark settled into the comforter, loathe to get out of bed until he made sense of the dream. Had it been one of his prophetic dreams? Kern had been so prominent in it, which wasn't surprising, but Mark had the sense of seeing the dream from two perspectives--his own and Kern's. It was crazy. Like he'd had parallel trains of thought going at the same time.

  Jim had said Mark should try reaching out to Kern to get him to the revival, and maybe viewing the photos had been enough. Stretching, Mark wondered if it had worked. His head even ached, as though Kern had left a trace of his evilness behind.

  Mark shuddered, hoping like hell that nothing like that could happen. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He needed to call Jim. He glanced at the clock. Seven a.m. Well, maybe he'd shower first. The stale smell of fear still clung to him.

  * * *

  Clouds had taken control of the sky and cast the loft in shadows. Mark drummed his fingers on the breakfast bar, glancing around at Jim, Jessie and Lily. His dream had matched the photos, but only to a degree. He had only sketchy details. When he'd first awakened, he'd had the sense of knowing what Kern had been thinking in the dream, but the longer he was awake, Kern's thoughts slipped away. It was like trying to hold onto a handful of slime. The harder he tried to hang onto the details, the more they squirted out of his mind.

  "That's it? All you remember is that Kern is wearing a dark suit, has gray hair at his temples, and you didn't see him until just before you were shot?" Jim glared at Mark as though he'd done something wrong.

  "I told you reaching out to Kern wouldn't work. All it did was give me a muddled dream." Mark spun off the stool and yanked open the fridge. After staring inside for a few seconds, not sure what he was looking for, he snatched a bottle of water, then kicked the door shut hard enough to make the fridge contents rattle. He shouldered past Jim, and plopped onto the sofa.

  The other three carried on a hushed conversation, but he tried to block them out, focusing on the scenes in his dream. He couldn't help if he wasn't shown everything. He got what he got and there was no way to edit in scenes he missed.

  Lily sounded like she was scolding Jim and Mark almost smiled. She was the only one who seemed to get away with it. One of the stools clanked, followed by footsteps on the hardwood. Jessie stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the television as she sat on the coffee table.

  He tried to ignore what she held, but she pushed the Kevlar vest into his lap. "You have to wear it, Mark. If you refuse, we'll call the whole thing off."

  "But now that we know what he's going to try, we can stop him before it gets to the point where he...he shoots me." His mouth suddenly devoid of moisture, he took a gulp of water.

  "Just put the damn thing on, Taylor. I don't understand why you're arguing about it."

  Mark swiped his arm over his mouth and craned his head to see Jim. "I just think the vest will show. If it does, it could alter what happens. If he sees the vest, he might do something differently than what he did in the dream."

  Jim paced the loft, passing behind the sofa. It was making Mark nervous.

  The pacing stopped. "Okay, so it's not the vest you object to, just that he might see it?"

  Mark nodded. Jessie moved over to the chair beside the sofa, and he knew they both thought he was being pig-headed, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Kern was still there, still inside his head and privy to his thoughts. He tried to keep his uneasiness under wraps and pretend like this was a routine save.

  "Be straight with us. Jessica and I get the feeling you're hiding something."

  Mark sighed and massaged his forehead. "I'm not hiding anything. You saw the photos the same as me and Lily. I told you guys the whole dream, but I can't explain how I feel. It's like there's this..." He circled his hand in front of his face, "this feeling like Kern is here. I keep smelling rotten eggs and burnt popcorn, and for some reason, I think of him when I smell it. It's crazy, I know."

  Lily perched on the other end of the sofa, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "I bet Kern's soul smells more like shit than—"

  The remark was so unexpected, Mark burst into laughter, cutting off whatever Lily said next. Jessie chuckled too, but then turned thoughtful. “Mark, what if you wore a robe like 'Reverend Jim' here plans on doing?"

  Mark smiled at the hint of sarcasm in her Reverend Jim reference. When Jim had first told them his plan to be the Reverend and guide the revival, he and Jessie had almost laughed it off. Jim was the least religious person Mark knew. In fact, if the guy practiced a religion, Mark wasn't even sure what it was.

  Lily had spoken in Jim's defense, saying it was perfect. Jim would be on the stage, or altar, as she'd called it, and would be able to see the crowd. As an added bonus, his robes would hide his gun.

  A robe? Mark couldn't see himself in a robe. It would feel silly, but it could work. He didn't think that what he wore, as long as it wasn't a visible vest, would make much difference to Kern. "Can we find another robe on such short notice?"

  "No problem." Jim had his cell phone out and began arranging it before the words were out of Mark's mouth.

  Jessie moved from the chair to sit beside him on the sofa, resting her hand on his knee. "Listen, I know this whole thing has you spooked, but we won't let anything happen to you."

  "I guess I'm not doing as good a job as I thought of hiding my fear." He chuckled as he twisted and untwisted the cap of his water bottle.

  "Jeez, Mark, you have a good reason to be spooked. I know if I dreamed my own death by the hands of that monster, I'd be a basket-case."

  Mark shrugged. "I just want it over."

  "By tomorrow, it will be." Jim put his phone in his pocket, and grinned. "It's all arranged. Don't worry, Mark. I got my best guys on this. Kern is on a lot of wanted lists, and now we finally know when and where he'll be, thanks to you."

  * * *

  Mark paced the small office of the warehouse. He'd been sequestered since shortly after their meeting in his loft. Jim had wanted to beat the crowd so he wouldn't have to walk a gauntlet to enter the building. The office led out to the back of the altar, so he'd never have to go through the crowd. Mingling with the crowd was his second biggest fear. Kern, at least, was a known danger, but the crowd, even if they meant well, terrified him almost as much as Kern and his gun.

  He'd been wired with a small ear piece. He wouldn't need a microphone hidden on him. With his cell, and a plainclothed cop right outside the door, he was safe enough for now. Now, it was a matter of waiting. He padded from wall to wall, absently rubbing his shoulder. He'd worn the sling for most of the day, but had chosen to remove it for the revival. The tight quarters reminded him of his cell, and the fact that he couldn't leave, added to the impression of being a captive. Rationally, he knew he wasn't, but the feeling wasn't rational.

  Sounds filtered to him from within the warehouse. Jim expected several hundred people to turn out, and had chairs set up for that many. His estimates came from what they could see of the crowd in the photos and from what Mark recalled from the dream, but they had mere snapshots of the event.

>   He paused his pacing long enough to cock his head and listen. It sounded like a lot more than a few hundred people out there. His stomach did a backflip. Why had he agreed to this? Mark pulled out the notes from his speech, but after staring at them, crumpled them and tossed them into a wastebasket. He was a terrible speechwriter. He'd be better off winging it.

  There was a short, hard knock on the door, and Jim entered. "We have standing room only. In fact, we had to turn some folks away at the door, and they weren't too happy about it."

  "How many is 'standing room only'?"

  Jim shrugged. "Our permit allows for only a thousand people, so once the count hit that, we had turn folks away from getting inside, but a bunch decided that just being near the building would be better than nothing. They're hoping to hear your words of wisdom through the open doors."

  Mark groaned. "I feel like such a fraud. I don't get why you can't just arrest him as soon as he shows up."

  "You're not a fraud. Besides, remember the goal. Convicting the bastard. You can claim he was the one, but there's no physcial evidence of Kern being present, and he'll get a dozen people from his group to put him somewhere else the evening you were abducted. Even if we arrest him, it'll get tossed out for lack of evidence. We need some kind of admission. As soon as Kern takes the bait and comes on stage. I'm hoping he'll slip about what happened before."

  "Should I say anything about it? Try to incite him?" As much as he hated the idea of seeing the man again, getting a chance to confront Kern might be just what he needed to do.

  Jim helped himself to a bottle of juice from a table full of refreshments Lily had sent over. She'd wanted to participate, but Jim didn't want any non-law enforcement, and with her red hair, she would be easy to recognize as Mark's business partner. She hadn't been thrilled with being regulated to providing the snacks.