Sinner (2 page)

None of what's happened to you has been by accident, Johnny. I've
always known this, but never with as much clarity as now, after being
approached by a woman named Karas, who spoke of the Books of
History with more understanding than I can express here. Not even
my son, Samuel, knows what I now believe to be the whole truth.

Where to start . . . ?

The world is rushing to the brink of an abyss destined to swallow
it whole. Conflict among the United States, Israel, and Iran is escalating
at a frightening pace. Europe's repressing our economy. Famine
is overrunning Russia, China's rattling its sabers, South America is
battling the clobbering disease—all terrible issues, and I could go on.

But these challenges pale in comparison to the damage that pervasive
agnosticism will cause us. The disparaging of ultimate truth is a
disease worse by far than the Raison Strain.

Listen to me carefully, Johnny. I now believe that all of this was foreseen.
That the Books of History came into our world for this day.

As you know, the world changed thirteen years ago when Project
Showdown was shut down. I, and a dozen trusted priests, sequestered
thirty-six orphans in the monastery in an attempt to raise children
who were pure in heart, worthy of the ancient books hidden in the
dungeons beneath the monastery. The Books of History, which came
to us from another reality, contained the power to make words flesh.
Whatever was written on their blank pages became real. If the world
only knew what was happening!

Billy used the books to write raw evil into existence in the form of
Marsuvees Black, a living, breathing man who now walks this earth,
personifying Lucifer himself. He (and I cringe at calling Black anything
so humane as a “he”) was defeated once, but he hasn't rested
since that day. There are others like him, you know that by now. At
least four, maybe many more, written by Black himself from several
pages he managed to escape with. I believe he's used up the pages, but
he's set into motion something that he believes will undo his defeat.
Something far more ominous than killers who come to steal and
destroy in the dead of night. An insidious evil that walks by day,
shaking our hands and offering a comforting smile before ripping our
hearts out.

Billy may have repented, but his childish indiscretions will plague
the world yet, as much as Adam's indiscretion has plagued the world
since the Fall.

Yet all of this was foreseen! In fact, I am convinced that all of these
events may have been allowed as part of a larger plan. The Books of
History may have spawned raw evil in the form of Black, but those
same books also exposed truth. And with that truth, your gifting. Your
power!

And Billy's power. And Darcy's power. (Though they may not
know of it yet.)

Do you hear me, son? The West teeters on the brink of disbelief and
at the same time is infested with the very object of their disbelief. With
incarnate evil! Black and the other walking dead.

But there are three who stand in his way. Johnny, Billy, Darcy.

Black is determined to obtain all the books. If he does, God help us
all. Even if he fails, he escaped Paradise with a few pages and has
wreaked enough havoc to plunge the world into darkness. I am convinced
that only the three of you can stop him.

Find Billy. Find Darcy. Stop Black.

And pray, Johnny. Pray for your own soul. Pray for the soul of our
world.

David Abraham

Marsuvees frowned.
Yes, pray, Johnny. Pray for your pathetic, wretched
soul
.

He crushed the letter in his gloved hand, shoved it into the bucket of gasoline by his side, and ignited the thing with a lighter he'd withdrawn from his pocket after the first reading. Flames whooshed high, enveloping his hand along with the paper.

He could have lit the fire another way, of course, but he'd learned a number of things from his experimentation in the last decade or so. How to blend in. Be human. Humans didn't start fires by snapping their fingers.

He'd learned that subtlety could be a far more effective weapon than some of the more blatant methods they'd tried.

Black dropped the flaming page to the earth and flicked his wrist to extinguish the flame roaring about his hand. He ground the smoldering ash into the dirt with a black, silver-tipped boot and inhaled long through his nostrils.

So, the old man had known a thing or two before dying, enough to unnerve a less informed man than Black. He already knew Johnny and company were the only living souls who stood a chance of slowing him down.

But he was taking care of that. Had taken care of that.

Marsuvees spit into the black ash at his feet. Johnny's receipt of this letter would have changed nothing. It was too late for change now.

And in the end there was faith, hope, and love.

No. In the end there was Johnny, Billy, and Darcy. And the greatest of these was . . .

. . . as clueless as a brick.

CHAPTER ONE

Day One

WEDNESDAY, DAY six of a seven-day jury trial in Atlantic City,New Jersey,May 13, 2034. A thick blanket of smog hung over the city, locking in early summer's heat—ninety-five degrees at 10:05 a.m. and on its way to the forecasted one hundred and five mark, thanks to thirty years of rising global temperatures.

Billy hooked his finger over the tie knot at his collar and tugged it loose, thinking the halls of the courthouse felt like a sauna. What now? City Hall was shutting down its air-conditioning system to appease its guilt over mismanaging energy costs for the last ten years? The casinos suffered no such guilt. The air conditioners in the New Yorker would be blasting cool air, comforting those willing to make donations at its slot machines.

Billy shifted his eyes from the stares of two well-dressed attorneys passing by and headed for the large double doors that opened to Court-room 1.His stomach turned and he had to force himself to stride on, chin held level. But there was no hiding his disheveled hair, the wrinkles in his white shirt, the hint of red in his eyes from lack of sleep. The three twelve-ounce cans of Rockstar he'd slammed for breakfast a half hour ago were just now kicking in.

He'd won his share of poker hands in the past five years—had a real streak going there last year. But at the moment he was sinking. Freefalling. Screaming in like a kamikaze pilot. Ground zero was in that court-room and it was coming up fast. It would all end today.

The district attorney's murder case against Anthony Sacks was open and shut. Billy Rediger knew as much because he'd spent six days defending the scumbag with nothing but fast talk and pseudolitigation just to keep the jury from convicting by default.

During pretrial discovery, Billy had seen that any concrete defense was out of the question. The prosecution had an extensive amount of evidence, had subpoenaed numerous character witnesses, and retained a pair of expert witnesses to elaborate on the physical evidence. By the end of exhibition, the jury was laughing up its collective sleeve at Sacks's plea of not guilty
.
By the time the third witness took the stand, the jury had lost all presumption of innocence, and that was two days ago.

If left to themselves at this point, the jurors would reach a conviction in less time than it took them to reach the deliberation room. All that remained now was cross-examination and closing arguments.

Billy knew more than the court, but not much. And the jury was catching up to the facts:

Sacks was a known midlevel boss in Atlantic City's organized crime world, headed by Ricardo Muness.

Sacks ran the lower-side gambling rackets and had a long history of enforcing loans with extreme prejudice. The kind that left debtors either dead in a landfill or shopping for prosthetic limbs.

Sacks had allegedly murdered a local imam,Mohammed Ilah, for interfering with the gambling trade by speaking out against it to the Muslim community and threatening to expose Sacks personally.

The most relevant fact? Criminal defense attorney Billy Rediger, who owed just over $300,000 to Sacks, had been coerced into his defense by Ricardo Muness, the most notorious crime personality from the board-walks to the turnpike.

It all made perfect sense to the crime boss. Sacks had loaned Billy far more than Billy could repay. Now both were in the toilet.

Solution: Billy would defend Sacks in his upcoming murder trial. If Billy got Sacks off, he would be absolved of his debt. If not, he would be relieved of his arms.

Sacks had complained bitterly. Billy might be a clever defense attorney, but at twenty-six he was only three years out of law school and already washed up, hamstrung by his addiction to gambling.

Now Sacks's life was in the hands of the man he'd unwisely extended credit to. Poetic justice,Muness had said, boots propped up on his large maple desk, grinning plastic.

A chiseled relief over the courtroom door said it all:
Permissum
Justicia Exsisto Servo
, Let Justice Be Served.

Billy took a deep breath, shifted his briefcase from one sweaty palm to the other, nodded at the security guard who was watching him with one eyebrow cocked, and pushed the heavy oak door inward.

A hush fell over the packed room; every head turned, every eye focused. He was a few minutes late to his own funeral; wasn't a man allowed that much? By their reaction,
he
might as well have been on trial.

You are, Billy. You are.

The Honorable Mary Brighton was already seated behind the bench, gavel in hand, as if she
had
just, or
was
just about to issue a ruling. The prosecutor, a thin man with a long nose and sharp cheekbones, stood on the right looking smug, if looking smug was possible for a face fashioned from an ax.

“Forgive me, Your Honor.” Billy dipped his head and walked briskly forward. The gallery seated one hundred, and every seat was filled. Media, well-wishers from both sides, and entertainment seekers who followed this sort of thing for a living.

“You are late, Counselor,” the judge snapped. “Again.”

“I am, and I regret it deeply. From the bottom of my soul. Unavoidable, I'm afraid. I called your office. Did you get my message? I was, shall we say, held up. It won't happen again.”

She eyed him with the same gleam that had lit her eyes over the last six days. The Honorable Mary Brighton was known as a hard judge, but Billy thought she might have a soft spot for him. At the very least she found his methods interesting. Not that any of that mattered in this case.

“No, it won't,” she said. “I expect we'll wrap up arguments today.”

“Yes. I understand, Your Honor.” He slipped behind the defendant's table on the left and dipped his head once more.

“This is the last of my leniency with your tardiness, Counselor. I will find you in contempt if it happens again, and I suggest you take me seriously.”

“Of course. My sincere apologies, Your Honor.”

Anthony Sacks sat to his left, sweating like a pig, true to form. The Greek weighed a good three hundred pounds at six feet tall and was dressed in a black pinstripe suit that failed to hide any of his bulk.He glared past bushy black brows.

“You're late!” he whispered.

“I know.” Billy opened the latches to his briefcase, withdrew the Sacks file, a legal pad and pen, then eased into his seat.

“This is ridiculous!”

“I concur,” Billy whispered.

“Don't screw this up.”

“No, Tony, I won't screw this up.”

But Billy wasn't sure he wouldn't screw
this
up. Muness had tossed them a last-minute witness . . . last night. A man who was deposed to testify in court that the victim, Imam Mohammed Ilah, had been murdered by an extremist from his own mosque. Despite the court's rigid adherence to the rules of discovery, Her Honor could allow the defense to produce the witness on the grounds that the witness was inherently material to the case, the testimony was to be given in court rather than in deposition, and the witness had volunteered to undergo vigorous cross-examination. A lucky break. A defense attorney's gift, all things considered.

But the man would be a liar. Had to be a plant. Muness couldn't produce an honest witness any more than he could join the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. His testimony would be perjury, and Billy knew it as well as he knew he still had two arms. Producing a fraudulent witness would get Billy dis-barred, and he would do time for subornation of perjury. A legal term from prelaw filtered into the front of his mind:
the miscarriage of justice . . .

And here it was, right in front of him. The miscarriage of justice.

The judge cleared her throat.“Would you like your breakfast served first, Counselor? Or are you ready to call your next witness?”

Billy stood. “Yes. No, no breakfast,Your Honor. Defense calls Musa bin Salman.”

The DA was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution doesn't have a Musa bin Salman listed. The defense cannot produce a witness without our knowledge unless . . .” The prosecutor, Dean Coulter, looked genuinely surprised, but trailed off. An associate attorney from his team was rifling through some papers.

“Counsel, approach the bench.
Now.
”

Billy got there first. “I sent it over last night, Your Honor. The witness is material to the case, is willing to testify before the court—”

“Please tell me you're not just posturing, Counselor,” the judge said. “I am not going to take another deposition, and if you're stalling for time . . .”