Chosen (25 page)

They were back in the same conference room, but the mood had altered significantly.

“It’s time we move her,” Gabriel Winters said. His comment was directed at them all, but his eyes were on the Chief. “The death of Agent Manzetti, while tragic and unplanned, could be a blessing in disguise.

“At first, Carpenter was depressed over her inability to save Manzetti. Then she became angry because she had never taken the initiative to find out what she could really do.” His lips thinned into a tight smile.

“But all that’s changed. She’s experimenting. And we need to watch her constantly.”

Wandering past the living room one evening, Winters glanced in at Mariah and her boyfriend. He was reading. She was not.

There was a pencil suspended in midair, in front of Mariah’s face. It began to dip and twirl like a drum major's baton. Raphael glanced up and grinned, watching the expression on Mariah’s face. Her eyes were sparkling and she was leaning forward, her upper teeth over her bottom lip.

“Isn’t that something,” she murmured. Gabriel was not sure if she was talking to Raphael or herself, but it didn’t matter. A second pencil elevated off the coffee table to join the first, both now spinning and dipping like two ballet dancers.

They suddenly stopped, hovering vertically like soldiers awaiting their next command. Then they shifted horizontally until their erasers touched. Slowly, they began to rotate. As the pencils gained momentum, he was reminded of a hubcap on a tire: the faster it went, the more the hubcap seemed to slow down.

Carpenter had looked away from the pencils and met Raphael’s eyes, her face lit with smug satisfaction. Winters caught the warm look of love (and acceptance) from him as Mariah flashed him a triumphant grin mixed with something that might have been gratitude—and determination.

Several days later, he found her in the kitchen. Tipping back in a chair, her arms folded across her chest, Mariah was staring at a sixteen-ounce tumbler of water on the table. The glass began to rise, wobbling slightly, until it was six inches off the tabletop. And then it began to turn, the speed increasing until some of the water sloshed out, dousing both her and the table. When the whirling slowed and stopped, the tumbler set down gently.

Unfolding her arms and bringing the chair upright, she turned to look at him, her expression shuttered. He knew she was not surprised to find him watching her. At that point, Gabriel headed out the front door to make a scrambled call on his cell phone, requesting the meeting over which he now presided.

“When Carpenter was on trial for Hinckley’s murder, I paid a visit to our lab rats, most notably those who specialize in physics and paranormal phenomenon. They gave me an earful. It was pretty stunning. What is almost incomprehensible is the amount of electrical energy it took not only for her to project herself into that motel room, but to make herself visible. If equated to physical strength, they said that Mariah Carpenter could lift a fully loaded 747 jet liner over her head and heave it a mile down the runway.

“And all that was done subconsciously, when she was unaware of her potential. Before she started experimenting and improvising.

“She doesn’t even try to hide what she’s doing,” he said, barely able to conceal his excitement. “After the water glass incident, she winked at me and asked if I enjoyed the performance. She wasn’t bothered that I’d been watching. She even grinned delightedly when I told her it was most entertaining.

“Furthermore, it hasn’t stopped. Each time she becomes proficient at a task, she moves on to something more difficult. If you saw the satisfaction and purpose on her face, you’d know she’s definitely
not
playing.”

His eyes glowed as he unconsciously rubbed his hands together. “The scientists want to bring her in for testing immediately, but I don’t feel it’s the right time. Why tip our hand now when she’s doing what we want her to, and without coercion?

“But she needs to be monitored twenty-four/seven. Who knows what she’s doing when no one is around. I propose we move her to a house that we wire with surveillance equipment. We’ve got a guy on staff, Vincent Crenshaw, who’s a master at hiding these miniature cameras. As the scientists watch the daily films, they can decide when she’s gone as far as she can without their intervention.”

The Chief nodded but did not return Gabriel’s smile. “I presume you have a
safe
plan on how to move her without causing suspicion.” Winters winced inwardly. Even though he had not personally checked Damion Lazote’s background, or delved into the doctrine of TAOC, it was his operation, and the screw-ups fell on his shoulders. He was not openly chastised by anyone because the ultimate goal was attained with no harm to Ms. Carpenter ... no thanks to him. But they all knew the death of Agent Manzetti was a blot on his record. They also knew Gabriel Winters would take great pains to see nothing like that ever happened again.

He returned the nod and said, “We’ll leak her location to only one television network to minimize the number of people that show up. Once Carpenter realizes her hideaway has been compromised, we won’t have a problem convincing her she needs to be moved. I think we’ll have support from Raphael. At first I was opposed to him living with her, but I reconsidered. She might become dangerously depressed if we take away her playmate.”

Gabriel Winters was in his element. His plan was maturing like an expensive wine. His tone of voice didn’t mirror the exhilaration bubbling inside him. “Besides, he’s been an ally on a number of occasions and keeps her calm, which helps her focus.” He cleared his throat and leaned back in the chair, a man convinced he had everything under control.

“So far, he hasn’t gotten in my way. If he does, I’ll take the necessary steps to eliminate his interference.”

Gabriel Winters had absolutely no compunctions about removing anyone or anything that stood in the way of the successful execution of his plan. He was the kind of man you wanted on your side. Few knew about his past; he was a blank page, more or less, which made him dangerous.

They knew about his upbringing in the badlands of South Chicago, and a grandmother who raised him and his two brothers, but that was about it. The Chief knew a bit more (like his military record and his college days) but that didn’t add much to his complicated nature.

What they knew was what counted now. He was brilliant, decisive, and intuitive. His superiors respected him, gave him almost free rein, but knew they could never buy his loyalty. It was well known that as long as he was in charge, and his orders were followed, he would give them one hundred percent.

However, they also knew that if crossed or thwarted, if made to be the scapegoat for a failed plan not of his own devising, he would be as dangerous as a wounded wildebeest.

Mariah was dreaming. It had nothing to do with her alien planet, but had plenty to do with her feelings of horror and helplessness.

The dream of the three colored bands and changed. Apparently her vision had cleared or she was just closer to them. The bottom band of green sludge now morphed into dirt with sporadic splotches of green weeds. Dust rose from the parched soil and the air shimmered in the unrelenting heat.

The dancing balls atop the gyrating strings of the second band were now balloons. Some flew independently, probably clutched in the hands of children, while many more pressed together, held in the hands of the vendors. Occasionally one would escape and float away, dipping and twirling at the whim of the hot breezes that tugged and pulled it, seen even through the haze of dusty air.

The top band had changed color if not form. Gone was the pale, ailing gray. In its place were smears of nimbostratus clouds heralding rain. They were moving quickly, attempting to consume the cerulean blue, superheated sky.

Ahead of her, a circus. She could just see an arena in which acts were performing. Due to the color variety of the fabrics, and the frenetic bursts of maniacal movements, she assumed the center ring was occupied by clowns.

Mariah’s throat thickened and her heart raced. She had coulrophobia, a deep hatred and fear of clowns. They had swollen red nose, unnaturally colored hair that stuck out from their heads like spikes, and an exaggerated greasy smile that never changed, that always looked mystifying, sinister, and treacherous. Then there were the evil clown movies: “It” and “Poltergeist” and Batman’s nemesis, the Joker, and the one based on the life of John Wayne Gacy called “Killer Clown.”

A shadow suddenly materialized between her and the circus. This time she was certain: it was human. Further, it was a clown, but not like the ones gamboling around in the arena, spraying the crowds with seltzer water and hurting their ears with honking horns. This one seemed to acknowledge her presence with a nod of its head. Then it began to advance toward her.

Frozen in fear, unable to even blink, Mariah abruptly heard the screams of children. Maybe it was the delighted noise of children being happily scared.

Maybe not.

And then the clown started to hum. She had heard the tune before, in the first dream with the visually disturbing colors. It was a catchy refrain, light and playful. However, coming from the throat of the clown, it was loathsome, full of hatred, pain, and insanity. She shivered as her heartbeat accelerated.

Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
...

Mariah awoke trembling, crying. She was no longer in doubt. The clown was as real as the circus in which it performed. She had felt its fury, its fear, its dementia. She also knew that the children’s screams had nothing to do with the circus. Something so shocking, so powerful, had breached a barrier in her brain, polluting her mind—and something so monstrous that she feared it beyond reason.

Mariah tensed, waiting for Winters’ look of skepticism: the lifting of his eyebrow, the sarcasm couched in words of condescension. She could just imagine it: “So, let me get this straight: You’re seeing a
clown
. A clown who is—what—killing children? Killing adults? Please. It’s been done before.” She was surprised, however, when his questions indicated that he took her seriously.

“Do you think the clown has something to do with a kidnapping?” he said. “Is it possible he can block your psychic power so you can’t talk to the child? Were there any signs with the name of the circus? Or anything that can tell us where they are geographically?”

Even though Mariah did not completely trust Gabriel Winters, with Frannie gone she knew she needed the mind of a trained detective, one who would ask her thought-provoking questions and drag more from her memory if possible. He was thorough, she had to give him that, and maybe even a more ruthless interrogator than her friend had been.

Mariah said, “I’m sorry, I just don’t know. If the shadow clown hadn’t forced my entire attention on him, I might have seen something to identify the circus.”

Her eyes widened. “I just remembered: this dream ties in with another one I had. I’m in complete darkness and freezing and lights are flashing by me on both sides. The floor is shifting and buckling and wind is blowing so strongly that I’m almost lifted off my feet.

“What ties these dreams together is the song from “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” The clown is humming it both times. Three times, counting this last dream.” And then she sang it for him.

“That song is tied to him, I know it. It’s somehow significant to him.” With eyes troubled and still anxious, her thoughts shifted. “I can tell you for sure they’re in the desert. Intense heat, dust everywhere. The sky was blindingly blue, but rain clouds were heading their way.”

Winters pen flew across his notebook. “Anything else?” he asked, his pen still poised over the pad of paper.

“Yeah, that’s about it. For some reason, I don’t think he’s abducted a child. I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right. Either it’s because I’m afraid of him, or...” She stopped, a sudden thought filling her with fear. “Maybe he’s got psychic abilities. And knows I’m there. And is able to block me. Even though I don’t want to, hopefully the more I dream of him, the better I’ll be able to pinpoint his location.

“One thing is for sure: we have to find him. He’s really, really evil.”

Two o’clock in the morning came with black skies and clouds obscuring most of the stars. Gregory Sinclair drove out of the city of Cleveland along the Grand Army of the Republic Highway in a rented black Ford Taurus, heading for the city of Markham, only five miles from where the circus was performing.

Last night as he stood in the wings, awaiting his cue for his second performance, adrenaline suddenly flooded his veins, his heart pounding with fury.

It was the Cooleys
. In the third row. Russell and Endina Cooley, with three children they probably adopted to foster the ruse of being a normal family.

His teeth clenched, his hands balling into fists. They should be
dead
.

On the third evening of a seven-day performance in Philadelphia, Gregory had spotted the Cooleys in the audience. Furious that they had eluded death once again, he had increased the amount of poison to nearly double the amount he’d used in Washington, D.C. He was so
sure
he had finally won, had even allowed himself the slightest thrill of victory when he found their obituaries in the
Philadelphia Chronicle
.

But here they were in Cleveland, Ohio. Would this torment ever end?

When Sinclair realized that the police were convinced that the Cooleys had been slain along with his children, he knew he alone would have to hunt them down himself and kill them. Once he formulated how he would find them, he did extensive research into what he would use for the proper medium—which led him to ricin.

The poison would never lead to him or, if by some chance it did, would never lead to a conviction. No widely available and reliable medical test existed to confirm that a person had been exposed to ricin. And any medical examiner who performed their autopsies would never suspect. The use of a biological weapon of this magnitude, one thought to be a “weapon of mass destruction,” would never be considered in an isolated case.

Contact with the ricin in powder form might cause redness and pain on the skin and in the eyes, but not always. Death could take place within thirty-six to seventy-two hours after exposure. Timed correctly, the circus would be long gone before the people died. No law enforcement agency would suspect anyone in the circus.

Sinclair concocted the ricin in his makeshift laboratory in the basement of his home. Being a former chemist, he had no problem creating the poison from the waste material left from processing castor beans. From this, he created a powder. He could have made it into a mist, but releasing it into the air might harm innocent people who would accidentally breathe in the vapors. Gregory Sinclair was no mass murderer: he was only interested in the death of the Cooleys. Besides, there would be a full scale investigation if people within close proximity suddenly became symptomatic—difficulty breathing, fever, cough, nausea, heavy sweating, and fluid building up in their lungs.

Why was he surprised they lived to taunt him? It just proved they were the demons Gregory knew them to be. Proved that their god, Satan, had thwarted him again, had given their blighted souls the ability to inhabit the bodies of two more innocent people. He surmised the new identities assumed by the Cooleys were to hide from the law. No doubt they had continued to murder children in every state he had found them.

But he was a clown, a professional entertainer, and when he heard his cue, he exited the wings and entered the center of the tent to give his expected, brilliant performance. He saw them laughing, pointing, making all the right noises and gestures, mimicking the stupid people around them, the dolts who didn’t know that devils from hell were sitting amongst them.

As soon as the last act was done and the last bows taken, he hurried to the exit, hiding in the shadows as he watched the audience stream out of the auditorium, heading for their cars in the parking lot. When he spotted the Cooleys, he followed them discretely to their car, making note of the license number.

Having developed a modest ability to hack into supposedly secure website, Sinclair found out who owned the white Honda Pilot: Charlene and Jamie Ortega. So they didn’t resemble the Cooleys; Sinclair knew about good plastic surgery. There was no doubt in his fevered brain that he had found them again.

He arrived in Markham and, with the aid of a Google map, found Terre Haute Boulevard. Just the kind of street he imagined the Cooleys would settle into: bland, devoid of individuality. Just perfect for murderers who wished to blend into an unsuspecting neighborhood.

When he killed them the first time in Santa Fe, New Mexico, he was overjoyed. But when the circus stopped at their next venue, Las Vegas, and he spotted them at the big top event, it was then he decided he needed to carry a supply of ricin with him. Chancy, but he had no choice. Each time he found them, he increased the dosage, milligram by milligram, but to no avail. They kept reappearing—stronger, smarter, more devious than before. The tube he now carried in his gloved hands was double the strength he had used in Philadelphia.

He knew that God blessed him in this venture. Why else would he keep finding them in the cities where the circus performed? The Cooleys didn’t always go to the circus: sometimes he spotted them in shopping centers, supermarkets, restaurants, and once, in a park.

He had killed the two of them twelve times already, each time trusting they would stay dead.

Gregory prayed to God that this time he would succeed, that he would finally vanquish the fiends that polluted both his waking and sleeping thoughts, and he could return to his former life of luxury and peace.