by David Beers
Yet, he hadn’t watched the video more than once?
“Why?”
“Why what?” Christian said.
“Why haven’t you seen it more?”
“Because I didn’t want to.”
“That’s not enough,” Tommy said. “You’re here because of your abilities, and if you’re blatantly not using them, that’s a dereliction of duty. Why didn’t you watch it?”
“BECAUSE I KILLED HIM!” Christian shouted. “HE DIED BECAUSE OF ME, JUST LIKE BRADLEY’S MOM!”
Tears rested in the kid’s eyes.
After about a minute, filled with only silence and Christian wiping his face, Tommy said, “Okay. Pull your chair over here and let’s watch it.”
It took a few seconds for Tommy to pull up the video and start playing it. He kept it moving at five times the original pace, speeding through the time where the man only hung alone.
“Slow it down.”
They both watched the killer crack Goleen’s kneecaps. His screams filled the metal room, as well as Tommy’s office.
Tommy sped it up again.
“Now. Stop.”
Tommy went to normal speed and they watched Ryan Goleen die. His last gasp, a short sucking of air as he tried to pull himself upward using his dislocated shoulders, and then his head sagged against his chest. His eyes were still open, staring down at a floor that he no longer saw.
“Send me the file.”
“Okay,” Tommy whispered.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Christian said.
“You going home?”
“Yes.”
And with that, Christian stood from the chair and left the building. Tommy looked back to his computer screen and watched Ryan Goleen hanging, his torture finally finished.
Christian went straight home, speedily tipping his Uber driver as he jumped out of the car and rushed inside.
He lay down on his bed at two in the morning, propped his laptop on his stomach, and watched the video again. He did it at twice the speed, a bit slower than the pace Tommy set.
He went through the video five times before the sun came up.
His phone rang an hour later, as he was putting his clothes on for work.
Carla? he thought. He had her number programmed, though he didn’t need it. He had known Carla since he was a child—his mother’s best friend. Christian had no idea why she’d be calling him, though.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Christian. It’s Carla. I’m at your mother’s house, but no one is answering. We were supposed to go on our morning walk, but I don’t think anyone’s home.”
“Is her car there?”
“Yes. It’s in the driveway. Did she tell you she was going somewhere recently?”
No. No. No. No.
Christian hung up the phone. He found Tommy’s number.
“Hel—“
“Hush,” Christian said. “Get a pen and paper. Now.” He listened as Tommy rustled for the instruments.
“Okay.”
“2987 DePalm Lane. That’s my mother’s address. Get there now and bring whoever the hell you can. You’re still at the office, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re closer. Get there. I’m on my way.”
“What’s going on?” Tommy said.
“The Priest has her.”
Chapter 17
Tommy pulled up to the house a few minutes before the local police. The next door neighbor, an elderly woman with red hair, was walking across her lawn heading for Tommy the moment he exited his car.
“Hi, my name is Carla Britherson. I’m the one who called Christian.”
“Ms. Britherson,” Tommy said, barely slowing down as he made his way up the driveway, “I need you to go back in your house right now. This may be a crime scene, and it’s not safe for you to be here.”
“Oh my God,” the woman whispered. She stopped walking, but didn’t turn around. Tommy kept going, not bothering to ensure she left. The police could deal with it.
He went to the front door and banged on it.
“Mrs. Windsor, this is Special Agent Tommy Phillips. Your son sent me over. I need you to open the door right now.”
The house spoke with a crypt’s voice.
What Tommy needed to do would be a felony if Mrs. Windsor pressed charges. Christian better make sure she didn’t if this all turned out to be bullshit.
He took a step back, and then kicked just above the door knob. The wood splintered, then shattered; the door banged open, slamming against the opposite wall.
“Hey!” someone shouted behind him. He didn’t know if it was the neighbor or the police, and didn’t care. He unholstered his weapon and moved through the house, clearing it room by room.
No one was here. No blood that he could see. No struggle. Just an empty house without a single light turned on, only the sun shining through the windows.
He heard police moving in through the front door.
“Hello?”
Tommy walked from the back bedroom, pulling out his cell phone. “Put out an APB for Patricia Windsor,” he said to one of the officers, passing by and stepping outside onto the yard.
“Is she there?” Christian answered the phone.
“No. No one’s here. There’s been no struggle. I started an APB. Where are you?”
“This goddamn Uber driver is FUCKING REFUSING TO SPEED!” Christian screamed into the phone. A few seconds passed as the kid regained some composure. “Should be two minutes.”
“Alright. I’ll be here.”
The phone went dead and Tommy turned back to the house. This could all be for nothing. The woman might have simply had a date and stayed over, though Christian surely wouldn’t want to consider that. Yet, it didn’t feel right to Tommy … or maybe Christian’s panic was influencing his thinking. Christian’s relationship with his mother was borderline unhealthy—she was his most powerful connection to the world. If he even thought she was in danger, he’d lose it.
It’s your job to keep him sane, then, Tommy thought.
He heard a car door open behind him and turned around. Christian was jumping out before it even came to a complete stop. He rushed by Tommy at a full sprint and went inside the house.
Tommy jogged to catch up, but by the time he reached the living room, Christian was already there, having moved through the entire house.
“He took her.”
“You don’t know that,” Tommy said. “Calm down.”
Christian closed his eyes. “There’s only one other person. Veronica. Get people at her house now.”
Veronica answered the door after looking through the peephole.
Two uniformed officers stood on her stoop. Police, not FBI.
“Ms. Lopez? We’re with the Atlanta Police Department. May we come in?”
“Sure,” Veronica nodded and opened the door wider.
Christian had called her thirty minutes earlier in an absolute panic. She wasn’t able to get much from him until Tommy took the phone.
Now the police were here, and Christian was on his way. She understood what everyone thought was happening, and it took all her willpower to keep from curling into a ball and crying. Her mind kept going back to Bradley Brown and being locked up in that bedroom for what felt like forever.
“I’m Officer Daniels, and this is Officer Krim,” the policeman said. “We need to check the house. We want to make sure the house is secure.”
“Okay.” Veronica paused, and not sure what to say next, she added, “Can I get either of you something to drink?”
“No, ma’am. We’re fine. Can you talk with me while Officer Krim secures the house?”
Veronica led Daniels to the living room. Daniels was just about to speak, when the front door burst open. Veronica had never seen someone move so quickly; Daniels’s weapon was unholstered and pointing at the foyer before she had a chance to move.
“Veronica?” Christian called as he rounded the corner.
&n
bsp; “Hey! It’s Christian! Put the gun down!”
The cop didn’t lower his weapon, didn’t even glance at Veronica. “Keep your hands where I can see them, sir. I need to see your identification.”
Tommy came around the corner next, the cop’s gun moving quickly to assess the new threat.
“I’m Special Agent Phillips. This is Agent Windsor. Here’s my ID.” He already had it out and his arm extended. The cop approached slowly.
“Okay,” he said as he read it. He lowered his weapon. “Sorry. I need to see yours too, sir.”
Christian fumbled with his wallet for a second, but finally retrieved it. He tossed the entire thing to the cop and then walked by him, straight to Veronica.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Her heart was pounding, but the adrenaline spike was lowering some, sending tingles down her arms.
“Thank God.”
Christian grabbed her and pulled her close, the most aggressive form of affection he’d ever shown on his own volition.
She wrapped herself around him, feeling the pressure his arms put on her back.
“What’s going on?” Her eyes caught Tommy’s, knowing that Christian might not be able to communicate right now.
“We’re not completely sure,” Tommy said. “His mother isn’t at home, but there doesn’t appear to have been a struggle. This is all just a precaution.”
Veronica nodded and slowly forced Christian to take a step back. “Are you okay?”
Tears were in his eyes; no answer was needed.
“The house is secure,” Officer Krim said as he came in from the back hall. “You two are with the FBI?”
“Yes,” Tommy said. “Thank you for getting here so quickly.”
“No problem.”
The five stood in silence for a moment, until Veronica finally said, “So what’s next?”
Lucy stood on the other side of the road from Veronica Lopez’s house. She was next to a neighbor’s home, her arms twitching at her sides. A massive tree hid her—she’d been by it for the past hour. She had watched the police cruiser pull up, and then Christian himself run inside.
It nearly broke her heart to see such fear in him.
He doesn’t understand yet. He will, though. There’s no need for him to fear anything ever again.
The demon had told her this would happen. That if she went for Veronica Lopez now, she’d end up getting caught, because the FBI would soon notice Mrs. Windsor was missing. Lucy hadn’t believed him, knowing the snake spoke lies as easily as it hissed. So she came and stood by this tree—just behind the house’s front plane—so that if anyone walked outside, they wouldn’t see her. Lucy had been patient, intent on watching until her shift at work started.
Her hair blew slightly in the wind. She reached up to move it from her face.
So, the demon had been right. Lopez would be watched now.
Lucy needed to pray. She needed to get away from all of this for a bit, and seek God’s wisdom. She couldn’t make the right choice about what to do next, not until God spoke. She knew the Lord wanted to turn Christian into His vessel, but with all of this happening, she didn’t know how to do it.
If the Lord is for me, who can be against me? she thought, though it didn’t hold its usual power.
Lucy hadn’t listened to Luke regarding Mrs. Windsor, and that was unfortunate. The Priestess took Christian’s mother back to wherever she lived, which could create problems if the woman wasn’t careful. The transportation of kidnapping victims was a dangerous enterprise.
Of everything that happened here, the Priestess could not be caught until Luke was finished.
The light above never went off and Luke sat directly beneath it. He was alone with his thoughts.
A lot of possibilities were in the air, and he wasn’t completely sure the Priestess was up to the challenge. With Bradley Brown, Luke had engineered everything, but now, he could only influence things—and only when the woman returned.
He needed contact with Windsor’s mother. That, and for Ms. Lopez to show up. Luke thought Christian was already changing, had to be, given the events taking place. All of which were necessary, if not sufficient, for Christian’s eventual rebirth.
Luke was in this for the long game, obviously, or else Christian would already be dead. However, the game had now started in earnest.
Lucy did her best to ignore the woman in the back bedroom. It wasn’t that hard, because Mrs. Windsor kept quiet, yet Lucy still wanted to speak with her. There were so many things she could learn from the woman, things about Christian that only a mother would know.
Now wasn’t the time, though. She needed to seek God’s guidance, not worldly messages any longer. Listening to that demon sitting in the storage unit had gotten her in a whole heap of trouble, and she knew God was already displeased. Daddy had taught her that; God was merciful but also vengeful. Perhaps this was His vengeance, the confusion rising inside her.
Lucy double checked the apartment door’s deadbolt and then turned to her living room. It didn’t look as she wanted yet, but she hadn’t lived here long.
A large picture of Christ on the cross hung from the wall, in the spot where most people would have a television. The single piece of furniture, an old rocking chair she’d bought for five bucks, sat in the middle of the room, facing Christ. Daddy taught her that while many people might have happy pictures of Jesus, him feeding children or tending a flock, those people were not true Christians. Jesus suffered, and He did it for the sins of people; those same people should remember that suffering.
The painting was intricate in its detail. Lucy sat in the chair and stared forward, looking at the twisted face full of pain and mourning. She looked at the blood running down His forehead, over His eyebrows, and into His eyes—all stemming from the mocking crown which sat atop His head. King of the Jews. It sickened her, made her feel rage at those Romans long since dead.
“Forgive them father, for they know not what they do,” she mumbled, her lip twitching as she did.
The prayer helped calm her.
She hadn’t done the ritual her father taught her in a long time, not for at least two years. The ritual, or lack of it, was perhaps why God no longer spoke to her.
Lucy stood and went to the kitchen. She reached under the sink and pulled out a rope, a thick one she’d gotten from the Home Depot when she first left Greenbriar. She hadn’t used it because she didn’t want to. It scared her. Always had. Her dad was the one who said it was necessary, and she supposed it was, but she still held a deep fear of it. Before pulling it out, she looked at the whip she’d bought too, knowing that it might come to that … but not yet. Maybe this would be enough.
She brought the rope to the living room and tied a loop over the front door’s knob. This wasn’t how her dad did it, of course—her father had been more prepared than Lucy—but it would work. She tied the noose quickly, with sure hands that came from years of practice. She knelt down in front of the door and slipped the loop over her head, where it fell home on her neck.
Lucy knelt and leaned forward, feeling the rough rope tighten across her skin. She kept leaning and God’s instrument grew tight. She went forward further still, and her vision began graying, the edges turning dark and the room in front of her growing hazy.
Finally, Lucy collapsed on her side, darkness taking over.
God spoke to her then, just like her father had told her He would.
Chapter 18
“The hair has no match. If he was arrested, it had to be with local cops somewhere—nothing federal and nothing to get a DNA print from it,” Agent Bench said.
Tommy nodded, already having figured as much. Tommy, Christian, and Perry Bench sat at the small conference table in Tommy’s office. The speakerphone was in the middle of the table, with Waverly listening.
“We haven’t heard from Windsor’s mother?” the Director asked.
Tommy looked at Christian, who stared at the speakerphone,
though Tommy wasn’t sure he actually saw it.
“No, sir,” Tommy said
“How sure are we that she’s related to the Priest?”
“It’s been twenty-four hours, sir. The killer took Luke then, we believe, Mrs. Windsor. Our best theory is that this is some sort of religious ritual built around Windsor.”
“Do we have any evidence to support this? Outside of the Goleen video?” Waverly asked.
“The cross on the decapitated head, but other than that, no.”
“Okay, let’s go with this for now, though I don’t want any of you singularly focused on that theory.”
They’d spent the past fifteen hours discussing possible theories, as well as sending out directives to field agents. Tommy was completely confident with what he was about to say, and Christian was also on board. Bench, for the most part, concerned himself with the operational aspects, instead of strategy. Now, though, Tommy had to throw this at the wall and see if it stuck—Waverly was the wall.
“Yes, sir. The research we completed last night points toward a backwoods view of Christianity. Things that are still sometimes practiced in the deep south, though it’s been dying off quickly in the past decade. There is a similar strand of Catholicism, Opus Dei, but only in the ritualistic abuse that people put on themselves. Da Vinci Code type stuff. The backwoods version we’re talking about, focuses on Jesus Christ’s suffering—”
“Hold on, Phillips. What makes you think that’s what we’re dealing with here? Some redneck Christianity sect?”
“The way Ryan Goleen was killed,” Christian said, his voice ice that’d been frozen in the arctic tundra for a thousand years. “There’s a history of crucifixion in these sects. Often times they crucify animals as a ritualistic sacrifice, but within the past fifty years, there’s at least two records from South Florida where people were crucified.”
“That’s a weak connection, guys. Goleen was strung up, not put on a cross.”
