by Ethan Cross
Schofield’s eyes shot to the rear-view mirror. Marcus placed the freezing cold barrel of his Sig Sauer against the back of the killer’s neck and continued, “Make no mistake, you’re only alive right now because I’ve allowed it. Because I need your help to find the Prophet and those missing women. That doesn’t make us partners, friends, or accomplices. You lost your basic rights as a human being the second you chose to take the lives of innocent people. I know that you’ve been through hell and that not all of this is your fault. I don’t hate you for what you’ve done, but I am going to make sure that you pay for it. If you help me, you may get a chance to save your family and kill the Prophet. Cross me, and I won’t hesitate. Are we clear?”
Schofield said nothing.
In a swift and violent movement, Marcus slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of Schofield’s head. The killer’s left temple smacked against the driver-side window, and he gasped in pain.
“Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good. Now exit the lot and take 55 south.”
Schofield pulled the Jetta out from beneath the overpass and headed toward the exit to I-55. They would be passing right past Buckingham Fountain, but Marcus didn’t expect them to have set up any kind of roadblocks, at least not yet.
As they passed the fountain, Marcus looked out his window and saw that it was buzzing with activity. The Chicago PD cruisers and an ambulance were parked along the opposite side of the park, coming from the city. As if on cue, his phone rang. It was Stupak, but he didn’t accept the call. He wasn’t in the mood for explanations.
They pulled onto the interstate, and Marcus tried Maggie again. There was still no answer, so he dialed Andrew. This time, he received a response. “Hello?” The voice on the other end sounded as though it was straining for air, like someone suffering from emphysema.
“Andrew?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“What happened to you? Is Maggie with you?”
“I took three in the vest. Came away with two broken ribs and some nasty bruises. It also knocked me back, and I hit my head. When I woke up, the cops were here, but everyone else was gone. It was Schofield’s neighbor, the Irish guy. He must have taken them. I don’t know what happened. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“The neighbor is really Anthony Conlan. The accent and innocent-bystander routine was all for show. That’s why Schofield tried to take him out.”
“And we led him right to the family. I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I should have figured it out. Where are you now?”
“They took me to the hospital.”
“Okay, just stay there. I’m going to try and figure out where they’re headed. I’ll call you when I know more.”
Marcus clicked off and said to Schofield, “Take me to Conlan’s antiques shop.”
122
Aramark was a leader in professional services, including facilities management, food services, and uniform and career apparel. It was also the company where Erik Jansen was employed as a driver under a false identity. His job was to deliver uniforms to health-care institutions. But the large white truck used for those deliveries also provided the perfect means of transportation for five bound and gagged women.
The Prophet sat in the back with the boy, Benjamin, while Eleanor Schofield and her two daughters, along with the other two slaves, had been tied and thrown in a heap on the floor of the truck’s storage compartment. The Prophet’s plan was to stay mobile until the hour of the final ritual. It was only a matter of time until the police or the feds searched his antiques shop and home, but he reckoned that if they remained on the road they should have no problems.
Benjamin’s stare was locked on his mother and sisters. His eyes were filling with tears. The Prophet reached out and gently turned the boy’s head away from the sacrifices. “They’re not your family, Benjamin. You’ll be united with your true father tonight when the ritual is complete. These are merely the slaves that have cared for you until the time of your ascension. This is what we’ve been preparing for.”
“I know … but I don’t want to hurt them.”
“Their pain will only last for a moment, and it’s completely necessary. Once the ritual is complete, you will be king of this world and usher in a new golden era for mankind. You will wipe the tears from every eye. You will be our glorious savior, and then no one will ever need to suffer as the slave of a false god. These people have been put on this Earth to test you. To try and stop you from ascending to your rightful place. Don’t be fooled by their hollow words and counterfeit sentiments of love. They don’t love you, Benjamin. They know that you are The Chosen. They’re jealous of you. They hate you.”
Benjamin’s gaze fell to the floor of the delivery van. The Prophet placed a hand on the boy’s knee and gave a tender squeeze of affirmation. “Don’t worry, Benjamin. I believe in you. I know how strong you are. I know that you are The Chosen, and tonight you will be my king. Do you believe it?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess. Mean it, boy. The other kids at school tease you, don’t they?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s because they sense how special you are. Look what they’ve done to me, Benjamin. They tried to kill me. These slaves will do the same to you, if you give them the chance. But I know that you won’t let that happen. You’re my strong king. After tonight, you will be loved by all. You will never have to be afraid or sad or feel left out or different again. We’ll set everything up. All you have to do to take your rightful place at the throne is to make a simple choice. Do you believe it?”
Benjamin raised his eyes to meet the man’s gaze. “Yes, Prophet.”
123
Conlan’s Antiques Shop was a surprisingly elegant gallery located in Chicago’s River North area. The place was closed down, but Schofield had a key and knew the alarm code. The interior reminded Marcus of some centuries-old shop transplanted from the south of France. It was filled with beautiful antique glassware, furniture, sculptures, and pottery. The floors were made from a very light and worn hard wood like that of an old barn. Cream-colored brick lined the walls. The ceilings were all exposed beams, but with sophisticated chandeliers hanging every few feet. It all combined to create an atmosphere of old-world elegance. Marcus at least had to give it to Conlan: he had taste.
Marcus started with Conlan’s office. He rifled through filing cabinets and stacks of papers scattered on the killer’s old mahogany roll-top desk. There were a myriad of small drawers and shelves in the antique. But it was all business-related, nothing to indicate what Conlan was planning.
Then Schofield led him to the back of the shop where a large rug of intricately woven red fibers concealed a trapdoor. It was padlocked, but Marcus was able to break the lock free using a tire iron retrieved from the trunk of Schofield’s Jetta.
As soon as the door came open, the smell bombarded them. Marcus could tell by the scent of excrement and body odor that this was where the women had been held. Descending the concrete stairs, he saw the large blocks of soundproof foam covering the walls. It was similar to the material that Marcus and his colleagues used in their shooting range back in DC.
No one would have been able to hear the women’s screams.
He pictured Conlan entertaining upper-class clients just above the spot where he was holding a group of women that he planned to sacrifice to the devil later. By all accounts, Conlan could be charming and charismatic. No one would have suspected his true nature. Marcus wondered how someone that could appear so normal to the outside world could actually be so utterly insane.
There was a large home-made cage in one corner, but it contained nothing more than a bucket filled with foul-smelling liquids. Bare bulbs lit the space and illuminated a massive black pentagram drawn onto the floor and surrounded by body-length mirrors. There was also an old wooden table covered with a few scattered pieces of aluminum foil, a cardboard box, some plastic baggi
es, and a spool of thin wire.
Marcus picked up the box and examined it. It was labeled AlphaFire 1Q – Wireless Radio Firing System – For Fireworks Pyrotechnical Display. But the box was empty. Then he picked up the spool of wire. The words Resistance heating wire, Nichrome, 32 awg, 50ft were typed in a plain font onto a white address label attached to the spool.
“Where is he going, Schofield?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Marcus swore and ran a hand through his hair. This was a dead end, and he had no idea where to go from here. Everything was crashing down. Vasques, Andrew, and Allen were all in the hospital, and Maggie was MIA. He had failed them all. But there had to be something he was missing, some clue or avenue of investigation that was still open.
Schofield said, “Did you really talk to my mother?”
“No. I just knew about her from your file. I made the rest up.”
“So Conlan’s not really my father?”
“I can’t tell you for sure, but I’d be willing to bet that he is. It fits. You have to have wondered the same thing.”
“I’ve tried to get her to tell me for as long as she’s been in the home, but she still says that I’m the child of the devil. And that I have no soul. That I’m an abomination. I’ve tried to be something more, but I’ve failed.”
Schofield’s gaze was fixed on the floor, and his eyes glistened in the light from the bare bulbs burning overhead. He looked like a broken man, and Marcus couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “Your family loves you, Schofield. Your wife, your kids. You’ve done right by them—in that part of your life, anyway. Despite all that you’ve done, they still love you. And that counts for something.”
“All I wanted was to be a whole person for them.”
“We’re all the sum of our collected experiences. And your experiences have been about as bad as they can get. You’re sick, broken. But that doesn’t make you a monster or an abomination. They love you for the man that you are, not the one that you wish you were. Besides, we’re all broken in one way or another.”
“Then how do we get fixed?”
“We don’t. Not on our own, anyway.”
Schofield was quiet for a moment. “Do you think that God can forgive me for the people that I’ve killed?”
Marcus thought of all the lives that he had taken. His hands were just as bloody as Schofield’s, and he had often asked himself the same question. In a whisper, he replied, “I hope so.”
Schofield closed his eyes and leaned against the old wooden table. Marcus continued to examine the basement. There had to be something more that he was missing. He looked around at the pentagram and the mirrors and thought of the compound in Wisconsin where Conlan had performed the first ritual.
“Schofield, the last ritual that Conlan performed, is this where it took place?”
“No, but I know now that he never intended for that to be the final ritual. He was just trying to prepare me. He wanted me to choose to sacrifice my own family willingly.”
“But where did it take place?”
“There was an old church in the west suburbs that was closed for renovations. He wanted it to be on holy ground.”
“So he’d want this ritual to be on holy ground as well?”
“I suppose,” Schofield said, “but do you have any idea how many churches there are in the Chicago area?”
“Two thousand, nine hundred and eighty-two churches and places of worship in Chicago. But there has to be a way to narrow it down. He wouldn’t want to be disturbed, and so it would have to be somewhere isolated. Has he said anything else about the ritual?”
“Just something about the abomination standing in the holy place.”
Marcus thought of a verse from the Book of Matthew.
When ye therefore shall see the abomination of desolation, spoken of by Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place, (whoso readeth, let him understand): Then let them which be in Judaea flee into the mountains.
“Did he say anything else?”
“He did mention something about the ritual being on the darkest, longest night in the highest place. But I don’t know if that means anything.”
Marcus thought about that for a moment and then pulled out his phone and dialed Stan.
On the third ring, Stan answered and said, “Thank you for calling Procrastinators Anonymous. Leave a message, and we’ll call back … eventually.”
“Cut the crap, Stan.”
“Gee, somebody’s in a mood.”
“I need you to find out if there are any churches in the Chicago area currently undergoing renovations. Or a church that’s currently closed down for any reason.”
“Okay, give me a few minutes.”
Marcus hung up, and then he said to Schofield, “How much time do we have?”
“He’ll start the ritual at three in the morning.”
“You know that for sure?”
“It’s the devil’s hour—according to him, anyway. He says that’s the time when the barriers between hell and Earth are at their weakest. Something to do with three in the afternoon being the time when Jesus was crucified, so the inversion of that is the devil’s time.”
Marcus nodded, but he found it strange that someone would attach supernatural significance to a specific hour like that. After all, Jesus would have been crucified in an entirely different time zone. It was always three a.m. somewhere. But he didn’t have to buy into the Prophet’s beliefs or even understand them in order to use them against the killer.
Giving up on finding anything in Conlan’s shop, they went back to the car and waited for Stan’s call. Time seemed to be ticking away, the clock working against them. Marcus was both keyed-up and dead tired at the same time. He wished that he could close his eyes and sleep for a few moments while they were waiting, but there was no way he was going to take his eyes off Schofield.
His phone rang, and Stan’s number appeared on the screen. “What did you find?”
“I’ve got a ton of churches that have gone defunct and been converted into condominiums and houses.”
“No, nothing like that. Somewhere isolated.”
“Okay, there’s one small church on the north side of town that just had a fire destroy part of the roof. It’s closed for renovations, and they’ve moved their worship services to another location.”
“That could be it. Send me the address,” Marcus said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and finally be one step ahead this time.”
But in the back of his mind, he sensed that they were still missing something.
124
As the Prophet stared up at the night sky, he saw that the eclipse had already begun. The surface of the moon was seventy-five percent dark. Normally, when a lunar eclipse reached its apex the moon wouldn’t disappear from the sky. Instead, it would turn blood red as sunlight refracted through the Earth’s atmosphere. The blood moon on a winter solstice would still mean that this would be the longest, darkest night in five hundred years. But, because of volcanic eruptions in Iceland and Indonesia during the past year, there were two clouds of ash and dust floating high up in the atmosphere. As a result, the eclipse would be even darker and might cause the moon to disappear completely.
Everything was falling into alignment, a perfect storm of celestial forces coming together to make this an unparalleled moment to finally break down the walls of this reality and forge a new one. And soon he would stand in the highest place of worship in all the land and complete The Work.
The Prophet fitted an Osprey sound suppressor to his FNP .45 Tactical handgun and loaded the clip with subsonic ammunition. He wanted to ensure that their entry went undetected so that they wouldn’t be disturbed during the ritual. Jansen parked the delivery truck down the street a short distance from their destination, and the Prophet stepped out.
“Wait here for me. I’ll call when I’m ready to bring in the sacrifices.”
Jansen nodded reverently. “Yes, Prophet.” The younger man’s eyes were
blazing with excitement. Tonight would be one of great joy and triumph. The excitement even allowed the Prophet to momentarily forget the pain and stinging from his burns.
He followed the sidewalk to the front of the skyscraper and entered through a set of large glass and bronze doors. Inside was a long corridor with white block walls and ornate archways. It was dimly lit and had white and bronze accents over a dark marble floor. The sparse illumination reflecting off the bronze gave it a glowing, candlelit feel. A security guard sat behind a small desk in an alcove along the right side of the corridor and a bank of elevators was on the left.
The security guard was a small Asian man with red-dyed hair that hung down over one side of his face. He wore a blue blazer jacket with a small bronze name tag that said his name was Ronald. As the Prophet approached, Ronald gave him a big smile, but then his eyes went wide for a second. He was probably surprised by all the bandages. He said, “May I help you?”
The Prophet returned the smile until he was close, then he pulled the silenced FNP from his pocket. He fired twice into Ronald’s forehead before the man could speak. The shots were muffled but were still loud enough to draw attention as they echoed down the corridor. For a moment the Prophet watched for anyone coming to investigate—even though he didn’t expect anyone else to be around at this hour—and then moved behind the small desk and retrieved Ronald’s keys. He had done extensive research on the location for the ritual and knew that he would need a special key to insert into the elevator in order to gain access to the appropriate floor.
Once he had the key in his hand, he called Jansen. “Bring the sacrifices and the boy. We’re ready to begin.”
125
The Northwest Church of Christ sat within the Mayfair neighborhood on Chicago’s north side. It was a mid-sized white and tan brick building. Scaffolding had been affixed to the building’s periphery, alongside stacks of shingles, but the repairs would have to wait for warmer weather. A red sign out front had the name of the church listed in English, Spanish, and Korean.
