by Spencer Kope
Marco’s hands are already bound behind him, but Angus takes the extra step of fastening his right hand to the back of the chair before he cuts loose the left hand and brings it around to the front. As he begins to fasten it to the arm of the chair, Marco yanks it from the big man’s grip and tries to eye-gouge him with his thumb. Angus backhands him, sending the chair spilling over backward.
“Shouldn’t do that,” Angus says, then lifts the chair upright, lifts it as if it were a piece of toy furniture occupied by a doll or a stuffed panda.
Fastening the offending hand to the chair, he next brings around the other, but instead of fastening it to the right arm of the chair, he brings it across and zip-ties it to Marco’s left hand, once again binding the hands together.
Then he cuts the tie holding the left hand down.
“You’ll want to take this like a man,” Angus says, and without warning he jerks the chair out from under Marco, dropping him to the ground with such force that it nearly knocks the wind from his lungs.
He gasps.
When he tries to rise, Angus pushes him down with his foot, holding him in place until he stops squirming. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s done. Accept it.”
Walking away several feet, Angus fusses with the rope attached to Marco’s feet, securing it to a second rope extending from the pulley system he’d rigged. Once satisfied that everything is secure, he begins ratcheting. Inch by inch, the rope and pulley drag the congressman across the ground, feetfirst.
Toward the beam.
Soon, his feet rise into the air, then his hips and lower back. In less than a minute, Marco feels his shoulders lifting, and finally his head. He finds himself suspended upside down with the beam and its crossbeam at his back.
Wrapping a heavy leather weight-lifting belt around Marco’s waist, Angus pulls it until it’s uncomfortably tight and fastens it. What Marco can’t see is that the belt has been modified with a large eyelet punched through the back.
Angus turns Marco’s swaying body slightly to the left and then gives an upward jerk on the belt. The eyelet catches something on the upright beam and hooks into place. Angus could release Marco’s feet at this point and the man would just hang there, hooked to the slice of timber by some unseen mechanism.
Angus could do this, but he doesn’t.
Using a Velcro strap, he runs it around Marco’s neck and pulls the slack out, not enough to restrict breathing, just movement. This accomplished, Angus cuts the vinyl ties holding the congressman’s hands together.
Dragging his right hand to the right side of the crossbeam, Angus fastens it in place with another length of Velcro and repeats the process on the left.
“I suppose you know what comes next,” the giant says.
From a pouch, he extracts two five-inch spikes and shows them to Marco, letting him feel the points against his skin. With a carpenter’s hammer, he delivers a carpenter’s fate. Shrieks of agony tumble over the hills as the first nail drives through Marco’s right palm, and a second nail pierces his left.
Angus had heard that the Romans might have done it through the wrist, but he also knows the hands are more sensitive, capable of delivering unbelievable pain, so through the palms it is.
The upside-down cross is almost complete now.
With the nails in place and Marco drifting toward shock, Angus walks slowly to the van and rummages around a moment, moving things aside as he retrieves an eight-foot stepladder.
“Gotta do your feet,” he explains to Marco. The congressman’s body shudders and convulses from the pain, and for a moment Angus worries that Marco might die too soon. All great things come with risks, Angus tells himself, then he climbs the ladder.
With great care, Angus lines up the feet so that the heels are stacked one on top of the other. Using a small maul, he drives the single nail through both heel bones with three strong whacks.
A brief, eerie silence follows, then a startled intake of oxygen fills Marco’s lungs and he vomits forth a calamitous wail that seems to shake the very cross upon which he hangs.
Angus drops the maul and covers both ears against the sound.
Even the nearby leaves seem to cower and shudder, not from the noise but from the presence of the hammer-wielding man. It’s as if he were Death incarnate and the van his pale horse.
Marco’s cries shake heaven itself.
And if angels exist, they surely wept.
45
Sergeant Joe Mingo blasts his Humvee out of the driveway on Old Stage Road and wheels it to the north, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Detective Ross Feng, his only passenger, clamors for a handhold as the rugged ex-military vehicle quickly accelerates away from the sad farm that was once Foothill Orchards.
Jimmy’s at the wheel of the Mustang and wastes no time catching up to the Humvee, putting the car into a powerslide as he hits the pavement. I’m sure my screaming doesn’t help, but some things are unavoidable. Meanwhile, Kip is in the backseat, taking it all in stride. Behind us, twenty feet off our bumper is a Tulare County patrol car occupied by two deputies that Joe pulled off the crime scene.
He introduced them, but I already forgot their names.
That’s it. That’s our team.
For the first twenty miles we run lights and sirens and keep the speedometer pegged at over a hundred miles an hour—the full-meal deal. As we get closer, however, the lights flicker off and the sirens go quiet. Per department policy, this also forces us to reduce speed. It can’t be helped. Lights and sirens are meant to draw attention, put people on alert. That’s the last thing we want right now.
* * *
“It was a Bible camp for three different churches between the late forties and the late nineties,” Diane’s voice grumbles through the speaker. “It’s mostly a ghost town now. The property was passed back to the National Forest Service in 2008, but all they did was secure the buildings and set up NO TRESPASSING signs.”
“The picture we saw in Barbara Mills’s living room wasn’t dated,” Jimmy says, “but from their ages, I’m guessing Angus and his brother attended in the early 1990s.”
“Mmm. I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“Why?”
“You’ve heard of the Danielites, I assume?”
“Yeah, the group that keeps predicting the Second Coming—”
“And keeps getting it wrong,” I interrupt in my snarkiest tone. I jab a finger at Jimmy. “You wonder why some people have a problem with religion? It’s because of people like that.”
“Don’t lump everyone who goes to church—including me—into the same camp,” Jimmy replies disappointedly. “I’m pretty sure God’s not happy about it either.”
“Yeah, well … he should turn them into brimstone or something.”
“Salt,” Jimmy says, his disappointment growing.
“Boys!” Diane’s voice pleads.
“Sorry, Diane,” Jimmy says, leaning closer to the phone. “Theological disagreement.”
“Yeah, well, can you take it up later?”
“Sure.”
“As I was saying, the Danielites owned the property from 1984 until it closed in 1998. The road leading to the camp is gated, but there’s enough room to drive around. I wouldn’t advise it, though.”
“Too exposed?” Jimmy guesses.
“Too exposed. It leads from Route 190 right up to the camp and there’s not a lot of cover. Your better option is to circle around behind. There’s an access road that’ll take you to a ridge just a hundred yards beyond the outermost building. Probably not an easy hike, but you’ll have a view of the whole camp. I’m sending an overhead image … now.”
With nothing else to add, Diane says, “Be careful,” and then, “Hurry.”
The call disconnects.
Jimmy hands me his phone and I forward the image to Joe and Ross.
In the brooding quiet of the car, the last miles unwind before us. The silent solemnity is broken only by the rush of air around the Mustang. Jimm
y gives my shoulder a light shove.
“Heathen,” he says, never taking his eyes from the road.
“Zealot.”
He smiles.
* * *
Diane was right about the ridge.
The view from the top takes in the whole camp, though great parts of it are obscured by the buildings themselves. Still, the front corner of an unrecognizable white vehicle peeks out from the edge of a building near what looks to be a stable, and the occasional murmur of voices—or perhaps just one voice—rises up now and then, caught on the scant wind, yet indiscernible.
As we lie prone at the peak, Jimmy breaks out his Steiner 10x42 tactical binoculars and studies the various buildings, the access gate farther down the driveway, the stables, and the woods and trails beyond. At last, he focuses on the vehicle, studying it for long seconds.
“Does that look like the front of a 2005 Ford Econoline van to you?” he whispers, handing me the binoculars—like I’m going to know the difference.
Peering down at the abbreviated white fender and black bumper, my first impression is that it reminds me of a boxer, as if the vehicle had taken one too many hard smacks to the nose. My second impression is that it looks like a white fender and black bumper. I adjust the binoculars, hoping that this will magically bestow the power to discern between vehicle makes and model.
It doesn’t.
Handing the Steiner field glasses back to Jimmy, I whisper, “It could be a Ford van.” He looks at me for a little more confirmation. “It could be a Subaru,” I add, a resigned shrug sloughing off my shoulders. “I’m not a car guy.”
“It’s an Econoline,” Joe confirms, peering through his own set of binoculars. “The amber blinker at the front of the fender is the giveaway.”
Jimmy and I share a surprised glance.
Joe gives a slight tip of his head. “I was a plumber before I was a cop. That’s pretty much what we drove.”
Ross—binoculars now pressed to his eyes—suddenly flails his hand wildly, smacking me on the shoulder and then pointing.
As every eye turns and follows his gesture, a large man looms at the front of the van. He pauses and stretches out his back, the way a weight lifter might between sets.
“His lips are moving,” Ross narrates. “He’s talking to someone.”
We don’t hear the words from our concealment on the ridge, but when the big man lifts a hand in gesture, we all see it. No binoculars required. It’s the type of grand gesture one might make when driving a point home, or when explaining the intricacies and majesty of dark energy to an eager pupil.
“Marco’s still alive,” Jimmy murmurs. “He’s talking to him.”
“Or it’s an accomplice,” I offer.
Jimmy squints at this. “We’ve seen no evidence of a partner. It’s got to be Marco.”
“Just a concern,” I say. “Can’t be too careful.”
Kip shifts his body closer. “What’s the plan?”
Jimmy eyes the 5.11 urban sniper bag lying on the ground next to the special agent. It contains a fully automatic M4 assault rifle with a 6920 upper, an aftermarket quad rail and forward grip, a Streamlight laser-light combo, a collapsible stock, and a sixteen-inch barrel. It’s some serious hardware.
“How good are you?” Jimmy asks, gesturing at the bag and the gun within.
“Better than most; not as good as some.”
“How are you at a hundred yards?”
“Tight. I’m running a holographic sight with an EOTech magnifier.”
“What’s your load?”
“Standard FMJs,” Kip replies, indicating full metal jacket rounds.
Jimmy turns to Joe and asks, “What about them?”—indicating the two deputies just now working their way up the slope, having paused at the patrol car to add round-trapping trauma plates to their body armor.
The term bulletproof is a misnomer when it comes to body armor. Bullet-resistant is more accurate, especially when the offending round is fired from a handgun. That’s why standard body armor is fine when responding to normal day-to-day calls.
This is far from normal.
The deputies have heard the stories—tales of the butcher who kidnapped a congressman and slowly killed off—or tried to kill off—his friends in horrifying ways. There’s no telling if Angus is armed, but no one’s taking any chances. A round from a hard-hitting rifle like an AK-47 would punch right through both sides of a standard law enforcement vest. The plates help but aren’t a guarantee.
You won’t hear anyone complaining about the extra weight, though.
Joe glances at the deputies as they approach at a low crawl. “I imagine they’re set up similar to Kip,” he says, referring to the M4s they each carry.
Jimmy seems satisfied. Turning to Kip, he says, “I want you on overwatch.”
Kip glances along the line of the ridge until his eyes settle on a spot. “That looks like a good perch. I’ll adjust if needed.”
“Do we have a green light on this guy?” Joe asks.
Jimmy nods. “Follow your department policy, but I’d say any aggressive move, drop him.” Waving the deputies close, he says, “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
* * *
It takes Deputy Pete Eagan ten minutes to descend to the patrol car, backtrack to Route 190, and return to the gated entrance to Rancho Colina Bible Camp. When he arrives, it’s with lights flashing and sirens blaring; the full show. A regular Broadway production.
By this time, Jimmy, Ross, Joe, Deputy Jason Bullard, and I have descended the ridge and secreted ourselves among the buildings close to the Ford van—but not too close. We still can’t see Marco, but Angus is seated in a camp chair facing away from us at a slight angle. He has a beer in his hand and he’s talking as if telling tales around a campfire.
Oddly, a long spear rests against the chair.
When the first wail of the distant siren breaks the air, Angus stiffens in his seat. Setting the beer down, he turns his head and follows the noise. Rising, he moves perhaps thirty feet to the north of us and casts his eyes toward Route 190, shielding them against the low sun.
A moment later, he’s running back.
We hear him say, “Cops!” Then he rummages through the van. We hear the van door groan and then slam closed, followed by the sound of running feet.
“He’s entering the stable,” Jimmy whispers to us as Kip feeds him intel from the ridge above. “He’s out the other side now and climbing the water tower.” To Kip, Jimmy says, “He’s going to try and snipe. Tell Pete to take cover behind his vehicle and keep a low profile.”
Turning to the four of us, Jimmy says, “You all know what you have to do.”
Jason peels off to the left, followed by Ross. Jimmy pats me on the shoulder, glances at the borrowed Sig Sauer in my hand, and says, “Make sure the safety’s off.”
Then he’s gone, trailed by Joe.
I’m alone in a ghost town with a psychopath on the loose.
I’ve had better nightmares.
* * *
Working my way up to the rear of the van, I keep the Sig at the low ready. As I clear the interior of the vehicle, I notice the keys in the ignition. Pulling them free, I toss them into the brush. If Angus manages to kill all of us, at least he’ll have a long walk home.
A shot cracks from the water tower.
Another.
Down at the gate, the windshield of Pete’s patrol car spiderwebs from the impact of the first round, while the second shot shatters the window on the open driver’s door, dropping pebbles of safety glass to the ground.
Pete’s at the rear of the vehicle hunkered down low. The angle of the parked car allows him to use the rear passenger wheel for cover. Still, it’s no fun being in the scope of a shooter, especially one who knows what he’s doing.
When a third shot erupts from the water tower, it’s followed almost instantly by a shot from the ridge: Kip returning the courtesy. A barrage of gunfire erupts from the tower, and I see dirt kick up
on the ridge. The rounds are wild, however, impacting along a fifty-yard stretch of the hill.
Angus has no idea where Kip is.
Realizing the clock is ticking, I move past the van, eyes scanning. We’ve yet to see Marco, but he has to be here. Building equipment, sawdust, and scattered chunks of wood tell me that Angus was building something. I barely notice the gallows-like structure, mostly because there’s no corpse hanging on high.
I should have looked lower.
“Help … me.”
The cry is weak, spent.
It’s coming from the direction of … and then I see it: Not a gallows, but a massive upside-down cross. On it, bloody feet pointing to the sky, is Congressman Marco Perez. Alive, but only barely.
More gunfire.
Rushing forward, I kneel beside Marco, hissing words of encouragement to a man I feel I already know. Studying his hands, I quickly realize there’s no way I’m getting the spikes out by pulling them. I don’t even want to think about his feet.
Jimmy’s only instructions were to find him and get him out of here. None of us were counting on crucifixion.
A thought occurs to me.
It’s desperate, but it might work.
Running back to the van, I toss items around in a desperate search. I spot it under a coil of thick rope: a Sawzall in a carry bag. The blade is for woodworking—that much I know—so I swap it out for a metal-cutting blade I find at the bottom of the same bag. Checking the battery, which seems to have enough juice, I run back to Marco.
“I’m sorry if this hurts,” I whisper. “I don’t have any other option.”
Marco nods and sets his jaw. “Do it.”
Slipping the blade between the back of his hand and the wood, I rest the blade on the thick nail and—holding my breath—squeeze the trigger. The racket that issues from the blade and the electric motor driving the Sawzall is enough to wake the dead, but it can’t be helped.
