Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller) (8 page)

He reached out again and felt his body float away from the dash. He tried to clamp his mouth, struggling to save what air he had left in his lungs and every second fighting the urge to cough. When his hand found the steering wheel, his brain made the connection with the Toyota, but it was a soggy unsatisfying realization. Kam reached for the door, but it didn't appear to be where it should be. He banged his head against the roof trying to right himself. His lungs were screaming at him now – he needed to get out of this watery nightmare and soon. He scraped the floor with his fingernails. Now he was pushing himself toward the rear of the van, to the tailgate, which seemed to be just above him. But he could find nothing in the inky black.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My daughter finds it mildly embarrassing that her father doesn’t own a personal computer or a big screen TV or even a tablet. When she stays with me on weekends, she brings her Apple Air, so it’s not like she is totally digitally deprived. My next-door neighbor, a young single guy named Jimmy, lets me tap into his WiFi if I need to and I pay half of his monthly Internet bill. So he’s happy. Of course, that means if I want to do Internet research, I sit down in front of my computer at work, where I live twelve hours a day anyway.

I was researching
The Soldiers of Patmos
online, which led me to a couple of news stories on Gideon Lean. There were a few dated photographs. I checked; he had no criminal record and no driver’s license that I could find in the database.

There seemed to be a lot of speculation on his wealth on the web, but that’s all it was. He wasn’t a director of any large company, had no holdings listed. He clearly took pains to separate himself from his financial interests which one so-called blogging expert felt was pretty significant. As in billions. But he’s a blogger. If I put that juicy quote in the police report, I’d be laughed out of the bullpen.

So here’s the big question. Why would the leader of a religious sect want a bunch of University professors dead? Science vs. religion? I couldn’t find anything online that suggested any acrimony between these Patmos people and the University intelligentsia.

Captain Ipscott happened to be in his office late so I thought it would be a good time to update him on the Gridley case. As usual, he was practicing his putting on the worn green industrial carpeting that covered his office.

“I think you’ve got the lie just right, Cap,” I said, poking my head in the doorway.

“Yeah. But then you show up, and I have to deal with all that wind.”

“You wanna hear about Gridley’s wife?” I asked.

“Somebody likes her upstairs, Hyde. She’s probably the niece of some heavyweight. So do what you can and then let’s just quietly close the file.” He putted and missed by a foot. “Besides I heard once that teachers have one of the highest suicide rates. Second only to beat cops.”

“I think she’s got a point,” I said. He looked up for the first time. I gave him my theory. “Rich guys don’t gas themselves in a garage the size of a big box store. Three hours in there with all of his SUVs running and you might just get a headache.”

“What does the ME think?”

“He’s overworked. But he said that given enough time, the carbon monoxide level would rise to deadly levels.”

Ipscott laughed. “That’s like saying if I could keep playing golf for the next few centuries I would eventually get my score south of 80.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what he said. He’s seen you play.” Ipscott put the putter against the wall and flopped down at his desk. He looked a bit depressed.

“So what’s next?” he asked.

“I have five dead or missing professors all tied into Gridley and some cult group in Ashland. That’s a lead I got from the Fibbies …”

“Oh shit” growled Ipscott.

“This is not official yet. They’ve been following this group for years, and they’re prepared to feed us what they know. ”

“The FBI gets their canines into this and you’ll be tagging along like their comedy relief sidekick for months. You’ll be fetching coffee on our dime.”

I gave Ipscott my most severe stink eye. “I don’t do coffee, Captain. You know that. But I do need to go to Harvard for a day to follow up.”

“You’re a funny man, Hyde. How you snuck that request in like that. Didn’t you have a wild weekend in Boston once in your wasted youth?” I didn’t answer.

“Listen, if the FBI wants to blow their budget and do a cross country alma mater tour, then let them burn their jets,’ said Ipscott. “But we don’t have budget for that. In fact, word from on high is not to spend dollar one on this case. So you’ll just have to reminisce from your desk.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tommy McDane was undoing the front button of a pair of designer jeans, his tongue on the young girls neck, when he heard what sounded like an aerosol can exploding in a bonfire.

There was a sharp explosion of glass, then the dull thump of gas igniting. It was close, like Gideon said it would be. He heard the local girl gasp slightly at the sound, then gasp again when he quickly untangled himself from her bra.

He quickly slid across the bench seat of the new truck to the driver’s door. He swore. He wished he had ten more minutes with this local tramp but now it was too late.

Tommy jumped out of the truck, landing on the cold grass in his stocking feet. Melanie, he couldn’t remember her last name, was halfway through asking him something. Her sleepy and tequila-laced voice was already drowned out by the sound of something big and ungainly hitting the surface of the lake. Tommy didn’t know why yet, but the sound he heard unnerved him – threw him into a kind of panic that had far more power over him than a pair of soft lips. And it occurred to him that that was saying a lot when you’re only twenty-five years old.

What Tommy saw at the lake edge in the moonlight, a mass of steel that was at least one car, perhaps more, sliding noisily into Lake Muskoka, filled him with a kind of pure anxiety he had never known before. And he was no stranger to fear. Was it the dark shape at the lake edge moving through its wake like some underwater beast? Or the ragged cauls of cloud sliding across the moon? This all seemed so unreal, so unlike the Hollywood disaster movies he had grown up with. Where were the bursting gas tanks filling the night sky, the billowing flames, the jarring soundtrack.

The back end of one of the cars was hissing impotently in the cold water now. A slight breeze brought the smell of burned rubber and gasoline, but any fire had already died or been suffocated by the lake.

Moonlight slithered over the roof of one of the vehicles – a van, Tommy guessed, as it settled down into the glossy black surface of the lake. Inside he saw a movement then, when the light was just right, for a few seconds – something human. He knew there were people inside, but he wasn’t expecting anyone to still be moving about.

The accident wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Gideon had planned a simple collision on a quiet road. They hadn’t told him about the lake. He hated water at night.

Tommy pulled off his shirt; the ends already out of his Levi’s and tossed it aside against a pine bow. He pushed up closer to the rocky edge and reluctantly dove in. When he broke the dark surface with his body, the icy water pulled his breath from him and made his ears ring. He took a shaky gulp of air, feeling the still blackness of the lake and hearing the steel wreck hissing as it was swallowed. His legs and arms had turned to putty.

He moved in closer with hesitant strokes, afraid to touch the steel, thinking it would burn or electrocute him. He heard his name called. When he looked back, he saw Melanie, pale against the trees, the wind blowing her hair in her eyes, her face a mask of shock. That look of hers electrified him. He felt a tingle as if a tongue of lightning had touched the lake surface and passed through his body. Then he heard a thump.

The van was now nose down – only a quarter of the rear end still above the water line. The brake lights looked black – like the lifeless eyes of a reptile – the water bubbling around the rear door. Then the van slipped under. The next thump was duller, more pronounced.

Tommy was supposed to retrieve something from the vehicle – if it was still there. A document. Or at least insure the papers burnt in the crash. The vehicle clearly wasn’t burning. What would Gideon think if he failed?

Tommy reached down for the rear latch, and he felt the weight of the vehicle suck him down. Before he could fill his lungs, he was under, the cold water stinging his eyes and wrapping his head in a dark green shroud. He wanted to let go of the handle, but feared he would never find it again. Then he would fail his mission. He couldn’t imagine that.

Tommy tried to twist the handle, realizing immediately that it was locked. Unable to think of any other solution for the moment, he hung on, feeling the heavy lake water swirl around him. All the time the blackness becoming more complete. Then he felt another thump. He bunched his fist and hit the rear door hard, then again. Nothing.

Tommy’s lungs ached – the urge to cough or breathe impossible to ignore. He imagined for a second giving it all up in one thick, raggedy, inhalation of icy Lake Muskoka. Then the door gave away in his hands. At first he thought the van had begun disintegrating, but before he could let go, he was struck in the chin by something hard and smooth.

He groaned, the pain filling his head full of bright lights. He pushed away, and his fingers brushed something leaf-like. Cloth. Then he touched an arm. It felt rubbery and lifeless. He wasn’t interested in the arm – he wanted the document. Then it occurred to him, maybe the passenger had the file on him. Following the van down into the depths was a death sentence anyway. Would they be able to collect the vehicle at the bottom of the lake? He didn’t know. He grabbed the limb and kicked upward. There was no sense of movement at all. He felt like he was trapped in freezing molasses. And he was running out of air.   

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As Gideon worked, hearing his heart pound in his chest as he pulled himself up from the straw mat, then down again, he practiced his speech. It was the world council address, the one he would make to the assembled masses of humanity once his plan had bore fruit. He imagined the faces looking up at him, people eager to understand their new world – a world he had invented for them – Gideon's world.

"You have arrived," he would say, struggling for the right words, like his father had, standing in front of his ragged band of commune devotees, most of them women in plain dresses with handkerchiefs in their hair.

"And you have arrived because I have delivered."

And he would. That was the key. Every religion known to man, making promises they couldn't deliver. Something was always coming, but it never seemed to arrive. Gideon knew he would get their attention if he could deliver. And he would do it on time.

Revelations
was a wonderfully, dark, foreboding and cryptic book. In the past, religious leaders had tried to find a way to make the metaphors mean something. The seven heads were seven states. The candles were men of power.

Gideon began to see how he alone could monopolize the power of
Revelations
for himself because he could build a world that matched the words instead of trying to find a world that matched
Revelations
.

One of the younger women came into his training room to bring him lemonade, a ritual for him at midnight. She had a blank look on her pretty face. She placed the silver tray on a long table and wiped her hands on her long skirt. Gideon laid back, a sheen of sweat on his upper body.

"Who are you?" he asked conversationally.

She tensed slightly. "Greer" she answered, trying to look brave.

"You're new," he said, rolling over on his stomach to begin his push-up regime. She didn't answer at first but seemed unable to move. Once spoken to by Gideon, you awaited your fate. She resisted the temptation to run. "Come over here!" he added, "Let me see you."

She walked carefully across the parquet floor to the left of his exercise mat. His back was muscular and shiny with sweat. He seemed to be effortlessly making his way through one hundred or more push-ups a day.

"Are you in the Bible study course?" he asked, not looking at her. She nibbled her fingernail not sure how to answer. Everyone at Parkhurst studied the bible daily. "I'm third in my class," she offered, looking hopeful now.

"I am in the presence of a scholar," he laughed. "An excellent choice." As he stopped his workout, she jumped back. He was referring to the selection process that went on in the kitchen every day. Women were selected for various tasks; delivering lemonade was considered one of the least desired.

Gideon had rolled over now and was stretching our and breathing deeply.

"Can you recite?"

"Which part, Gideon?"

"Any part. Your favorite."

She had no favorite part anywhere in
Revelations
. Reading it reminded her of what it might feel like to till a garden full of ancient bones.
 

And I heard a great voice out of the temple saying to the seven angels, Go your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth.

When she hesitated, Gideon smiled. "You are a wonderful child, Greer. You read my favorite part, which was very astute of you. For that, I have a treat for you." He sat up, catching his breath. "But first, let's go over a few things together. What are the seven angels?"

She answered as if by rote "The Seven Servers of Satan."

He nodded. "And what do they do?"

"They spread evil everywhere. They pour out vials of wrath like hate and porn and politics every minute. The information highway is the devil's racetrack." Even though he knew she had memorized these answers, her young melodic voice struggling with these thoughts was like a light hand caressing his body. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. His excitement was growing with every word.

"Go on."

"The prophecy of
Revelations
has finally become a reality. The seven heads of the beast are seven giant centers of technology and commerce circling the globe."

"And where are they?"

"Paris. New York. Los Angeles. Hong Kong. Jerusalem. London. Tokyo."

"And how do we know that?"

"Anyone can check. They are the primary nodes of the Internet. They are the filthy crown of science and war."

He shook with enjoyment when she said the last line.

"The filthy crown," he repeated. "Greer. You're like an angel sent to bless me." He looked up at her finally, greedily. "You are mine," he said slowly. "You are
my
angel." Something was working in his head; she could see it plainly.

"I don't want you to stop. Go stand there, by the light from the oil lamp." She moved closer to the single antique light sitting on a Quaker stool. "Tell me more. Don't stop."

She continued, her breath coming in starts. "Our truth is based on a world about to die. But we are chosen by truth. We know the day. We know the hour."

"What do you mean?"

"The highway will die on June the 21
at 12 Noon our time. That is the Prophesy."

"And what will happen?"

"Lights will be swallowed in darkness. Planes will fall from the sky. Like the tower of Babel, mankind will loose the ability to communicate yet again. The banks will turn to dust. TV will die. Radios will go silent . . . "

He raised his hand. She froze. He made a gesture – his eyes covered by one trembling hand. She untied her skirt, which fell to her ankles. Then she removed her halter-top. She was now standing naked in the glow of the light from the oil lamp. She could smell his perspiration and a muskiness that seemed to spill out of him. He waved for her to continue.