Chosen (23 page)

Damion sat three rows from the back, right section. Getting in was a breeze. These imbeciles should be ashamed of themselves. They should have expected trouble. Their shortsightedness made his mission a sure success.

The CIA’s first oversight was Damion Lazote’s love of guns. It was not mentioned in his profile because no one knew he had the Colt.

The second gaffe was not paying attention to the artist’s rendition of TAOC’s Supreme Commander, the “Holy Avenger,” the one who would slay the Antichrist. The colored illustrations of the Avenger (found in every piece of their literature) would have made them more aware of Damion’s fanaticism.

The original members of TAOC had wanted a powerful figurehead, so had hired one of the most prolific historical romance novel illustrators. The drawing depicted the Avenger as tall, fair, and as muscular as a body builder. His long blonde hair streamed behind him like the mane of a stampeding stallion as he looked toward the heavens. He wore a white shirt, similar to those worn by courtiers in Elizabethan England, with gold buttons down the front (unbuttoned practically down to his navel) and puffy sleeves gathered at the wrist. Snug white trousers outlined his powerful thighs and the prominent bulge in his crotch.

One patent leather black boot was planted firmly on the stomach of the Antichrist who writhed in excruciating pain, being incinerated in a conflagration of blue flames that, miraculously, never touched the Avenger. In the Avenger’s hand was the hilt of a massive golden sword which he had just plunged into his victim’s heart. The weapon glistened, both from the holy water and the font of black blood that geysered out of the False Prophet’s chest.

The police on traffic and crowd control, and the FBI agents on this detail, had seen a video shot surreptitiously at a TAOC meeting. They would have no problem identifying the scrawny, greasy black-haired fanatic whose clothes never varied from funereal black.

No one comprehended to what lengths Damion would go to assume the role of Holy Avenger.

There was nothing he could do about his musculature or height, but those two attributes were not of major importance. It was only critical that the Antichrist recognize the Slayer at the moment of its death. Damion was positive the changes he could make would be sufficient.

The synthetic blonde wig that trailed down his back made him sweat so that the shirt stuck to his back. It also made his neck itch, but he ignored the discomfort. Even the sweat that trickled down the sides of his face and caused runnels in the pancake make-up was of little consequence. Damion Lazote had made another supreme sacrifice for his Lord: he had purchased white cotton trousers thin enough to see the bulge in the crotch, an effect created by rags stuffed in his briefs.

His snow-white shirt was perfect, neatly tucked into the beltless white trousers. Full sleeves were bound at the wrist with elastic. The cheap gold buttons he sewed on himself kept the shirt closed completely. He didn’t need to bare his hairless chest so strangers could see the self-mutilating tattoos.

Highly polished black boots that nearly reached his knees completed the wardrobe. The color of the Avenger’s eyes were blue; it didn’t matter that Damion’s were brown. The holy light of righteousness which emanated from his eyes would blind the Antichrist no matter the color.

And there she was, all sweet seduction, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Like a siren who called to the sailors to dash their ships against the rocks. She acted like a messenger of the Lord Almighty, her every gesture copied by millions, her radiant smile plastered on every major magazine cover with such profanities as
: “IS THIS THE FACE OF A SAINT?
” or
“THE FIRST SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN GIFT FROM GOD?
” or even
“THE LORD’S MESSENGER—OR THE SECOND COMING?
”

She was so self-effacing, so humble. Claimed to hate the publicity and the adoration of the crowds, wishing only to do God’s bidding and be left in peace
.

Horseshit.

The Dark Lord had chosen wisely, had confused everyone with his choice of the Antichrist being a woman. She might fool the stupid masses, but she hadn’t fooled Damion Lazote.

His backpack sat on his lap. It held the “Sword of the Avenger” or, in this case, Grandad’s Colt .45. He didn’t have a sword, nor did he need one; it would have been impossible to smuggle into the church anyway. The holy water in the cartridges, the barrel, and the trigger would be more potent than any clumsy saber. Besides, if he used the sword, he would have to get too close to her. She would sense his presence and kill him like she did Hinckley. Damion Lazote knew his physical limitations. It was this honesty that would allow him to triumph.

His eyes glowed in anticipation. On his way into the church, he overheard a cop remark that Mariah Carpenter’s solo sent chills down his spine. Damion realized she would be on the stage by herself. Perfect. The Lord was with him.

Damion’s hand slipped into the zippered compartment of his backpack. His fingers caressed the Colt. Once the people in the congregation saw the Antichrist burst into blue flames as the holy water destroyed its vital organs, they would applaud wildly, would chant his name, and he would be hailed as
The True Avenger of Christ
!

From the first few words spoken by Mariah in this last service, Peter Martin knew something was different.

He had coached her through both segments of the song he chose for her, called “Mercy Lord.” First, she would recite two passages from the Bible: then the vocals would follow, accompanied by the band and the choir.

Many hours were spent polishing her delivery so the words would have the desired effect. And her three-octave range was clear and vibrant. When she was ready, she joined the choir and band which had practiced the chorus and background separately.

Peter stared at her, his mouth slightly ajar. She no longer recited the text to the congregation. Instead, she berated them like a New Testament prophet. The harsh words struck his heart, as meaningful and frightening as intended when originally spoken:

The congregation was spellbound, each word driven into their conscience with conviction and righteousness. Peter Martin had heard a variation of this voice before. Not the resonant, dramatic baritone that issued forth during a
Finding
when she pleaded with God to help her, but the emotion was similar.

The second phrase chilled him but for a different reason: her voice, filled with tears, dropped to nearly a whisper. She offered them a reprieve, pleaded with them to listen before it was too late. His heart rate accelerated as a chill caused him to shudder.

Peter glanced at Michael who stood in the wings behind the curtain. He, too, stared at Mariah, his hands clasped to his chest, tears in his eyes, his face a study in wonder and love. Peter knew Michael’s sentiments echoed his own: although it was Mariah who physically stood before them, challenging them to tear themselves away from the seduction of evil and turn their faces to the Lord, it was another’s voice that spoke those words.

As the band began the first chords that announced the start of the vocals, Peter glanced at the people in the audience. Some had their palms together in the traditional prayer pose, their heads bowed. Others had closed their eyes, their faces turned upward, their mouths moving with whispered prayers. Even the choir was visibly shaken.

And then, with hands outstretched, palms turned upward, and the choir humming in the background, Mariah Adele Carpenter began to sing, to weave a blanket of serenity and devotion over them:

“We have come to this place to seek salvation,

peace and grace;

Unto the Lord we pray, heal our family,

this nation, this day.

Bow your heads, clasp your hands.

Lord, grant us mercy, surround us with love,

Willing we give our souls unto the Holy Dove.”

For the first time in all his years as director of the music ministry, Peter stopped conducting. He was not needed. The choir joined in at the appropriate time, the harmony perfect as they sang from their hearts, accompanied by the musicians who helped them spread the magic through the congregation. He sang with the tenors as Mariah continued:

“Take our sin, wash us clean; lead us so

our spirit we may redeem.

Teach us patience, teach us to forgive for only

in Your holy eyes may we live.

Bow your heads, clasp your hands.

Lord, grant us mercy, surround us with love,

And we willing give our souls unto the Holy Dove.”

Damion trembled, his heart beating dully in his chest. Never had he been so moved by words or song. For just a moment, doubt caused him to hesitate.
Could I be wrong? Is it possible? Could she be exactly who she says she is? Could I be planning to execute the true messenger of God?

NO! That’s exactly what the Fallen Angel wishes me to think! I have to be strong! She’s pure evil, able to worm her way into the hearts and minds of true believers, while all the time plotting the ascension of the Devil, her lord and master!

He slid the gun from the bag. No one saw him; all eyes were on Mariah Carpenter. This would be the last time she would take the name of the Lord in vain.

The instruments grew louder. The cymbals crashed and the choir, electrified, sang in various modes of prayer—and Mariah’s voice rose to the upper register of the song, her power and strength intensifying:

"In our heart we sing Your name, Your holy

Word removes the stain.

Hear us, Lord, take our hand. Walk with us

unto this land.

Lord, grant us mercy, surround us with love,

And we willing give our souls unto the Holy Dove.”

The choir softened to a hush, the band following suit as they kept pace and mood. With his head bowed, Peter heard Mariah’s voice, now barely above a whisper, but he knew the words reached were heard by everyone. His knees felt weak as her plaintive cries embraced the choir as they repeated the last two lines.

With a start, Peter realized that they had never rehearsed the words that now rose from the deepest recesses of Mariah’s soul. There was no sound in the church, save that which came from the stage. Not one person in the congregation stirred. Their heads bowed as one, they heard Mariah’s last words through the agony of tears in her voice:

“I’m so thirsty, Lord,

And within me cries my spirit.

I beg you, Lord, touch me with Thy mercy.

Set my spirit free.”

As the music died away, Mariah opened her eyes. Through her tears she saw, no more than ten feet from the stage, that which had caused her overwhelming anxiety today. Dressed all in white with black boots, his blonde hair hanging down his back, a man stood with feet spread apart and both arms raised. In his hands, a gun pointed directly at her heart. The light of fanaticism blazed in his eyes and, in a high-pitched voice that reverberated in the total quiet, he screamed:

“
DIE, ANTICHRIST, SPAWN OF THE DEVIL
!”

Sinclair lived his nightmare. There was no hidden meaning, no variation from the cold truth.

Michelle, his nine-year-old daughter, stood before him, her brilliant blue eyes shining with excitement. “Daddy, Francine Cooley asked me to spend the night at her house, and mom says it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you!”

“I don’t think so, Button,” he said, ruffling her hair. “Children should sleep at home with their parents.” As expected, Michelle whined about how unfair he always was, how she wasn’t a baby anymore, how she never got to do anything fun. In desperation, she even promised to take her younger brother, Evan, if he would let her go. He left her fuming in the den and sought his wife in their kitchen.

“Darling,” Annabelle said, “I think Michelle is old enough for a sleep-over. I’ve met Endina Cooley; we’re on the children’s education committee at the country club, and I find her both intelligent and a loving mother. It’s time you let your daughter grow up.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He relented as she knew he would, albeit grudgingly.

He drove his children to the Cooley resident, impressed with the six thousand square-foot home and the landscaping that reminded him of an English Tudor garden. Meeting Russell and Endina Cooley further assuaged his reluctance. Russell, a defense attorney, and Endina, an architect, were both charming and successful people who seemed to have their heads on straight. He kissed his children good-bye, promising to pick them up the following day.

At two o’clock in the morning, he awoke to the chimes of the front door bell. Staggering down the staircase, he stared through the peephole. When he saw two policemen, his first thought was that his car had been stolen, it being left on the driveway instead of being parked in the garage. He opened the door
—
and from that moment, the life he had lived for thirty-eight years was gone.

“Mr. Sinclair? Mr. Gregory Sinclair?” asked the taller of the two. When he nodded, the man continued. “I’m Lieutenant Elliott Burdick from the Seattle Police Department. This”
—
indicating the officer to his right
—
“is Sergeant Chuck Ryan. May we come in?”

Gregory stared dumbly at the two men, his eyes shifting toward the driveway where his black Porsche gleamed in the moonlight.

“Sir, can we come in?” Burdick said again, this time a little louder, as if Gregory’s hearing was the reason for his muteness.

“Of course, officer, pardon me,” said Gregory. He felt rather than saw his wife shift to the side to allow the two uniformed men to enter.

The one named Burdick greeted his wife. “You are Mrs. Sinclair?” She nodded, and he said, inclining his head in the direction of the room off the foyer, “Can we speak in there?” She nodded again and, without speaking, led them into the living room.

Burdick looked first at him and then his wife. “Please, sit down,” he said, his tone of voice pitched low and even. It was then that Gregory experienced the rush of adrenaline, delayed due to a sleepy fog, causing him light-headedness and the contraction of his stomach muscles.

Looking into his wife’s eyes, both of them slowly sank into the silk brocade sofa while the two policemen stood before them.

“You are the parents of Michelle and Evan Sinclair?” Although he didn’t realize it, he assumed he nodded because Lieutenant Burdick said, “I’m so sorry to have to inform you, but the house in which your children were staying tonight was involved in a home invasion. A burglary that went bad. There’s no easy way for me to say this, so I’ll just come out with it: your children were murdered, along with Mr. and Mrs. Cooley and their child.”

Gregory knew the Lieutenant continued to speak because he saw his mouth moving, but with the pounding of blood in his ears, he didn’t hear a word. He dimly felt Annabelle dig her fingernails into his arm and heard her scream as his world imploded. He was now in a universe devoid of sensation, where darkness threatened to steal the light that illuminated the room in which he sat.

But sound eventually returned to his ears as he listened to an account of the horror in which he now dwelled. Evidently the robbers had entered the house through the front door. Apparently, Russell Cooley had forgotten not only to engage the deadbolt, but had also neglected to turn on the burglar alarm system.

Russell had fallen asleep while watching television in the den, Endina having already gone upstairs to bed. He awoke when he heard noise, and had started out of the den where he was met by one or more of the intruders. He was shot in the chest and left where he dropped, across the den’s threshold.

Endina was found in bed, a shot to her head terminating her life execution-style. It appeared that she had not awakened when her husband was shot: the bullet taken from her husband’s chest and her forehead indicated that they had traveled through a silencer. The three children were also dispatched in the same manner.

Gregory Sinclair heard the platitude of condolences, and his wife’s hysterical sobbing. He obviously responded appropriately, because the next thing he remembered, he was dressed and at the city morgue, identifying the bodies of his children.

He wasn’t sure exactly when his soul died. Events from the moment he heard about his children were vague. He remembered snatches of conversations with an undertaker, remembered caskets, flowers, and music; friends shaking his hand; and some hugging, some kissing. He remembered doctors administering medication to his wife, eating food that had no flavor, and driving to and from a job that had no meaning. He remembered more tears, sympathy, grief, sorrow, and suffering. He was all alone in his misery, his wife having retreated into a semi-catatonic state so severe that she finally had to be institutionalized.

After many months, numbness gave way to anger. It began with the knowledge that none of this would have happened if Annabelle had supported him in his belief that children needed to sleep at home with their parents. He refused to seek counseling, preferring to let the fury fester. He absolved himself of any blame, as if any had been assigned. After a time, he stopped visiting his wife. She deserved the pain she felt, deserved to be locked away forever, both inside her mind and away from society.

The second thought that occupied his fevered brain was the surety that the police had lied to him. Russell Cooley was an intelligent man. Did they expect him to believe the man had forgotten to deadbolt the front door? And had compounded the lunacy by not turning on the burglar alarm system before he drifted off to sleep? In Gregory’s state of grief, he began to believe that Russell and Endina had not died. That they had fallen on hard times, and had decided to burgle their home for the insurance money. And had killed his children because his innocent darlings had caught the Cooleys in the commission of the crime.

Further, he convinced himself that Russell and Endina Cooley had killed his children and made it look like a home invasion to get even with
him
.

Gregory Braeden Sinclair was the epitome of the perfect male specimen. Standing nearly six feet tall in his Gucci loafers, he had thick, curly blonde hair, emerald green eyes, and well-toned muscles over a sturdy bone structure. He was born into wealth, had an IQ of one hundred seventy, and was a born leader.

Sinclair knew that Russell Cooley, the bastard, had decided to make Gregory suffer, to take away that which was his by birthright and status in the elite community.

The police erroneously labeled him grief-stricken and unstable and in need of therapy when he insisted they look for the Cooleys, more convinced by the moment that they had eluded the police by murdering two innocent adults and leaving the corpses for the police to find and misidentify.

The idea that he would have to take matters in his own hands began to percolate. And the method he would use presented itself almost accidentally.

The television played constantly, providing noise in the otherwise deathly stillness of his house. A sound caught his attention one evening as he wandered through the den. He paused to watch. It was a special about the circus.

It was then that a plan to find and bring the Cooleys to justice began to take shape. He could travel the country in the anonymity the circus afforded, searching computer records of home sales, plus check law offices and architectural firms that had recently hired people fitting the description of Russell and Endina Cooley.

Without further consideration, he quit his job as a chemist, locked up his house, put the trappings of his former life into storage, and signed up for Clown College. From his perspective, he was not debasing himself: his status in the community of the elite was just temporarily on hold until he brought the murderers of his children to justice.