by Ethan Cross
“Why?”
“Don’t let him send anyone inside the house and make sure that she doesn’t mess around with those cameras.”
“She may have already.”
“Or she may have freaked out and called the cops first.”
“You think he’ll still show up there?”
“He may not have watched the news or seen her calling the cops. It’s worth a shot.”
Vasques hit redial as she dismounted Marcus and looked around for her shirt. He knew that he should have felt disappointed that the call had interrupted them. But instead he was strangely relieved.
69
Ackerman stood back and admired his handiwork. As a general rule of thumb, he preferred to keep his games simple, but as he stared at the device he had built he knew it would prove to be worth the extra effort. Everything was now in place, and it was time to begin the evening’s entertainment.
He waved the smelling salts beneath Crowley’s nose, and the man came slowly awake. “What? Where am I? What is this!”
Ackerman reveled in the fear on Crowley’s face. It had been too long since he had truly indulged himself, and Crowley was the perfect playmate. Marcus might even thank him for this one.
The man sat naked atop the device with his hands bound behind his back. Leather shackles adorned with hooks dangled from both his ankles. Ackerman had built the torture device from specifications used during the Spanish Inquisition. He had been unable to procure an original, but his version would work just as well. The apparatus consisted of a tall vertical board topped with a sharp V-shaped wedge. While Crowley had been unconscious Ackerman had carefully positioned him with his legs straddling the wedge.
Crowley’s eyes jerked from side to side, taking in his surroundings. Since the device required tall ceilings, Ackerman had originally planned to conduct the interrogation within an abandoned school building near the repurposed crack house he had been staying in. He had even driven to Crowley’s shop with the device loaded into the back of a stolen delivery truck with that purpose in mind. But after a quick search of the back room of Crowley’s store, his plans had quickly changed. It was so thoughtful of Mr. Crowley to have provided his very own soundproof torture chamber. The ceilings in the consumer end of Crowley’s shop were around twenty feet high. The ceilings within the torture chamber matched those of the bookstore, except that noise-absorbent foam blocks lined ceilings and walls alike. Cameras hung around the room at different angles. Some high, some low. There had also been a small bed, a child’s bed, that Ackerman had pushed into the corner.
“You’re a bad man, Mr. Crowley.”
“Screw you. Who do you think you are? Get me down from here!” Crowley was trying to keep up his bravado, but Ackerman could see it quickly crumbling.
“What could you have possibly used this room for? Did you bring little boys here, Mr. Crowley? You are a registered sex offender. I hear that’s how your tastes run. The charge for which you were sent to prison.”
The high-speed rhythm of Crowley’s breathing reminded Ackerman of a washing machine spinning on high. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not here to judge you. Personally, I think that anyone who molests a child should have their lungs cut out. But I live in a glass house, so I won’t be throwing stones at you for your sins. I’m not here to seek revenge or force atonement. I just need answers.”
“Fine. Get me down. I’ll tell you anything.”
“I’m sure a man like yourself, someone who dabbles in the darker side of life and is somewhat a student of history, would be familiar with the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Whatever, mate! Please, just let me down.”
“This device was used by the Church’s Inquisitors during that time period and also by the Spanish and British armies. My father made me read about several methods of torture when I was a boy, but this one in particular has always fascinated me. The Spaniards had such vivid and twisted imaginations. I’ve been dying to try it out. Bring back an oldie but a goodie, so to speak. It’s called the Spanish Donkey.”
Apparently deciding to change his tactics from pleading to ordering, Crowley screamed, “I said get me down, you freak!”
Ackerman’s father’s words filled the killer’s ears—You’re a monster … We’re going to play a little game, Francis—but he ignored both voices, the one from the present and the one from the past. “The Spanish Donkey is widely regarded as one of the most brutal and painful forms of torture that the wicked mind of man has ever devised. When it was employed, there were many instances of men and women being torn completely in half. Can you imagine how intense the agony must have been? Feeling yourself being slowly eviscerated, knowing that the more you fought, the deeper the wedge would penetrate. Even if the accused survived the interrogation, almost without fail they died from infection. Of course, back then, they performed these actions one right after another. Little concern was paid to cleaning the apparatus before each new rider.”
“You don’t have to do this. I get the point, mate. I’m sufficiently freaked. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Please shut up now. You’re spoiling the moment. Where was I? Oh yes, the way the Donkey works is that I’ll ask you questions, and if I don’t like the answers, I’ll add weight to your feet. The sharp edge of the Donkey will cut into you. And I’m afraid that, by the very nature of the device, the initial consequence will be a slow castration.”
“Please! Let me down!”
“What would be the fun in that? Consider it a science experiment. You’re a tough guy, Crowley. Let’s measure what it takes to transform a real tough guy into a little girl.”
Crowley screamed and tried to struggle off the wedge. The sharp edge dug into him as he fought. He threw all his weight to the side, apparently trying to tip himself over. But Ackerman’s hand shot out and wrapped around Crowley’s ankle, holding him in place.
“Afraid it’s not that easy. But that does remind me: this was usually at least a two-man operation, but I’ll be making do with one. So when I add weight to one side, I’ll have to move quickly to the other to distribute the weights equally. I’m worried that the extra fluctuations and discrepancies will speed the process, but I guess we’ll just see what happens. So let’s play.”
Ackerman had purchased two 255-pound sets of rubberized Olympic weights and several yards of black nylon rope. While Crowley had been unconscious, he had threaded the rope through the holes in the weights in order to connect them to the hooks dangling from Crowley’s ankles. The original Inquisitors had used cannonballs, but this would work just as well. He hoped that he had acquired enough weights. After all, he hadn’t the foggiest idea of how many pounds of pressure would be required to split a man in half.
Crowley continued to struggle but only succeeded in causing himself additional pain. Ackerman started off slow, adding only five pounds to each ankle. He continued until the wedge began to draw blood. Crowley howled in agony, but Ackerman knew that very little permanent damage had been done so far.
“What do you know about the Anarchist, Mr. Crowley?”
“Get me down!” Crowley said, sobbing.
“Out of curiosity, does a satanist such as yourself ask God for help in moments such as this or do you believe your dark prince will save you?”
“Please!”
Ackerman added more weight. “The Anarchist?”
When Crowley spoke, his frenzied words came in a breathless flurry. “I don’t know who he is, but he was a member of a cult founded by a guy who went by the name Prophet. Said the devil spoke to him. His name was Conlan. They had some hidden compound up in Wisconsin. Thought they were going to kick-start the apocalypse with a kid they claimed was the Antichrist.”
“What was the kid’s name?”
“I don’t know!”
“Where’s Conlan now?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone underground. When he had the compound, he was actively recruiting. But t
here was some incident there, and he dropped off the map.”
“Did he try to recruit you?”
“Yes! Please!”
“Where’s the compound?”
“I only went once. It was on some guy’s farm—up in Wisconsin, like I said. Jefferson County.”
“What was the guy’s name?”
“I don’t know!”
Ackerman added more weight, and Crowley shrieked as the wedge sliced into his body. Tears and sweat made his skin glisten, and the fluids rained down on Ackerman as Crowley writhed and whipped his head around in pain.
“Please,” Crowley cried. “I think it had Bowman or Beaman on the mailbox, something like that.”
The killer considered this. It was a good lead. Marcus could check the property records in Jefferson County. Maybe find the compound. Maybe find Conlan. It was enough to get Marcus moving in the right direction, and Ackerman didn’t want to do all the work for him.
“Very good, Mr. Crowley. I believe you.” He retrieved a small notepad with a blood-red cover from his back pocket. After flipping to the first page, he wrote something down and tore out the sheet. Scribbled on the next and tore it out as well. He placed the notebook back into his pocket and stuck out his hands like a magician preparing for a trick. Each hand contained one of the torn sheets of paper. “Since you’ve answered my questions, I’ll give you a fifty-fifty chance of escaping with your life. One of these papers contains the word Life. On the other, I’ve written Death. Pick one.”
Crowley sobbed and mumbled something unintelligible.
“It’s not complicated. Every day we make decisions that influence our life and the lives of others. People choose to have one more drink, stray across the center line, and collide with another vehicle. They choose to abuse their children, do drugs, go to prison for tax fraud. But even simple and seemingly insignificant choices can change everything. Think of a man who called in sick for work or missed his train on September 11, 2001. All I’m doing here is pulling back the curtain and showing you how fragile life truly is. Now choose.”
“No, I can’t!”
“That in itself is a choice, but you won’t like the outcome.”
Crowley continued to sob for a long moment, but then got himself under control just long enough to say, “Right.”
Ackerman opened his right fist and read what was on the small piece of paper. “Too bad. It’s not your lucky day, Crowley.”
“No! Please!”
“I’ve seen a lot of things in my life. Had many fascinating and beautiful experiences and also felt a thousand years’ worth of pain. But I’ve never seen a man torn in half. Since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll return the favor. There’s no need to second guess yourself or your choice. I cheated and wrote Death on both papers.”
Crowley screamed. And Ackerman added more weight.
70
Sitting in Vasques’s gray Crown Victoria twenty-three miles southwest of downtown Chicago, Marcus drummed his fingers against the passenger-side dashboard and sipped a Starbucks coffee. A local classic-rock station was playing Led Zeppelin over the radio—Robert Plant singing When the Levee Breaks. The target’s house had mint-green siding and black shutters. It was perfectly average, not old not new, not poor but not rich. The street was quiet, and they hadn’t seen much traffic. It was the kind of street that Marcus and his friends would have used for stickball when he was a kid back in Brooklyn—suburban, calm, isolated. Small flurries of snow floated lightly through the air and landed on the windshield. The snow would restrict visibility and obstruct their surveillance of the target’s residence if it got any worse.
Fast-food boxes littered the passenger-side floor of the Crown Vic, and Marcus had to shove them back against the seat to make room for his feet. The scent of grease left behind in the empty containers merged with the smell of their coffees, overpowering Vasques’s exotic floral perfume. But Marcus could still taste her on his lips. The car was cold and dark. Both of their coats were pulled up around their necks, but they couldn’t risk showing any signs of life in the vehicle by turning on its lights or heating—the condensation on its windows would be a giveaway.
“Where’s Belacourt?” he said.
Vasques took a swig of her coffee and replied, “Watching the alley up on the next block.”
“Does he know I’m still here?”
“Nope.”
“What’s he going to do if he sees me?”
“Not sure. Smoke will probably come out of his ears. An aneurysm may be involved. But let me worry about that.”
The Led Zeppelin song faded out on the radio, and the DJ ran through a list of news items. He mentioned the predicted snowstorm scheduled to hit the area, and then started talking about the upcoming winter solstice. Marcus grabbed the dial and turned up the volume.
“… and due to the lunar eclipse, this year’s winter solstice will not only be the longest night, but also the darkest. And not just the darkest of this year, it’s predicted to be the longest, darkest night of the past five hundred years.”
Marcus said, “That’s it. Whatever the Anarchist is planning will happen that night.”
“You sure?”
“Darkest night in five hundred years. What better time to perform some kind of apocalyptic ritual?”
“But that’s two days away, and he’s only taken one victim that he hasn’t killed. His pattern was two killed in four days and then five abducted over the next five days.”
“Things change. Maybe he plans to escalate things. Or perhaps he’s already taken three that we don’t know about.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“I can feel it. That’s what he’s working toward, and two days from now he’ll have five sacrifices ready for his ritual. Unless we can stop him.”
Vasques’s police-band radio squawked to life, and Belacourt’s voice came over the airwaves. “We’ve got a dark blue mid-size approaching the house. It could be a Camry. Everyone hold positions until I give the go, but this could be our guy.”
71
While sitting outside the home of the next sacrifice, a woman named Liz Hamilton, Schofield used one of the neighbors’ unsecured wireless networks and accessed the camera feed inside the house. He watched as Liz slept peacefully, the covers rising and falling at slow, consistent intervals. Liz was an early to bed, early to rise kind of person.
Closing the laptop, he observed the falling snow and tried to work up the courage to do what had to be done. He had to know the Prophet’s plans for the final ritual, and he could no longer delay the inevitable. He dialed the number from memory, and after three rings, the Prophet’s slow and soothing Southern voice came over the phone.
“Do you have the girl, Harrison?”
Schofield’s voice failed him. His tongue felt fat and useless in his mouth.
“Harrison? Are you there, boy? Did you get my message from earlier?”
“I’m here, Prophet. And I did receive your message.”
“So you’ve stayed away?”
“Yes, sir. Just as you instructed … Sir, I … I was wondering about the final ritual.”
“Just do as you’re told. Don’t concern yourself beyond that. I’ve made all the arrangements.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I need to know who the final three sacrifices are. I need—”
“How dare you question me! I speak for the Father. By questioning me, you are questioning him. We each have our roles to play. You focus on preparing yourself for the ascension, and let me handle the details.”
Schofield bit down on his lip, and his whole body shook. He could almost feel the whip tearing into his back, ripping the flesh. The Prophet naked and screaming in some strange tongue. But he’d only been a boy then. A boy with a hollow soul. Now he was a man and had taken the strength of others.
He summoned all the strength and courage of his victims and said, “That’s not good enough. Tell me! Who do you plan to use as the sacrifices?”
The
Prophet was quiet. His slow breathing and the hiss of static filled the line. “I think you already know.”
“They’re not part of this. I’ll never let you near them.”
“You’ll do as you’re told.”
“I won’t let you hurt my family!”
“Why do you think I sent you back to live with your grandfather and lead a normal life?” The Prophet laughed. “You’ve honestly never considered it until now, have you? I gave my permission for you to have a family. They’re mine. Your children only live because I allowed it. And why do you think that is?”
Schofield was quiet. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I allowed it because they provide what’s been missing from the other rituals. When you were a boy, we made sacrifices, but they didn’t really mean anything to you. It was the same last year. They weren’t your sacrifices. It wasn’t your choice. Your heart wasn’t ready. It wasn’t dark enough, hard enough. The last ritual was only to prepare for the darkest night. Everything we’ve worked for has been leading to this. The darkest night in five hundred years. Now you are ready. When you choose to sacrifice your own children to the Father, you will ascend to the throne. You will be the true Antichrist. This world will be no more, and a better one will be born from the ashes.”
The fear and doubt flooded over Schofield, but he wiped away his tears and said, “No. I won’t allow any harm to come to them. I’m tired of doing what you tell me to do. I’m not your puppet. I’m not that little boy anymore.”
“You’ll do as you’re told!”
Schofield hung up the phone. Anger, fear, and confusion swirled inside his mind. The maelstrom threatened to tear him apart from within. It felt as though the pillars holding up his fragile world were crumbling, and the sky was falling down upon him. He was losing control and had no idea how to stop the downward spiral.
He looked toward the home of Liz Hamilton. He needed her strength. His confidence and power had grown with every kill, and if he wanted to protect his family and stop the Prophet, he would need all the souls he could get.
