The Prophet Motive (34 page)

“So during all that crying at the pond,” John said, “where were you?”

“Sitting behind that stack of clean clothes, so my hands couldn’t be seen. Bob stood on the other side of Piper and his two ‘conduits,’ leaning against a tree, his hands out of sight too. I was aiming at Ben, and Bob had Brandy.”

“How close do you have to be? What’s the firing range for those things?”

“Up to sixty feet,” Tom said, “depending on the weather, but they’re only a hundred percent reliable within about forty-five.”

“But the bullfight ring? The size of it?”

“We used three remote controls on the animal. I was running around the edge of the ring on one side, Bob the other, and sometimes we had to wait until the bull wandered away from the center of the ring to re-zap its brain.”

“Who worked the third zapper?”

“Piper himself. He’d designed something special for that performance. His big, silver belt buckle was the paralyzing neurostimulator. He’d turned it on just before hopping into the ring, and he’d rigged it to spray invisible beams all over the fucking place in front of him, like a force field, but only for a distance of five yards, so that the people would shit their pants thinking the bull was about to gore him sure.”

“The man doesn’t take many chances, does he?”

“Oh, he does. But always arranges it so the odds are strongly in his favor.”

Now they were on their last flight leg, an hour from Los Angeles, riding the tops of coiling white clouds shaped like tilled fields. Unfiltered sunshine flushed shadows from the cabin. From his window seat, John gazed past Tom, who dozed beside him, to where Daryl sat directly across the aisle. The man’s huge, bended frame seemed permanently lodged in place. He wore headphones and, every few seconds, shook with laughter at a cartoon on his viewing screen.

No need to worry about Baby Hughie overhearing me
, John thought. He shook Tom awake, demanded a credit card, inserted a platinum American Express into the proper slot to use the pay phone on the back of the seat in front of him, and dialed.

“You’re in the clear!” Eddie announced the moment he recognized John’s voice. “Not only are you no longer a fugitive from justice, but once Commissioner Holton learned about the case, he lifted your suspension from the force, blessed our plan, and assumed command of the field operation.”

John sighed. “Great news, buddy. Way to go.”

“Holton called in the FBI too,” Eddie said. “With their firepower, we can take that chopper out of the sky, if need be.”

John peeled his back off the seat. This unexpected wrinkle made him nervous. “That was smart, but make sure the FBI knows to stay the hell away from the farm, until I’ve taken Marilyn to safety, until I give the go-ahead.”

“Will do, John, don’t you worry. I’ll see to it personally that there won’t be any inter-agency screw-ups.”

“Got a cell phone I’m taking in with me when I meet Piper. Tom was nice enough to lend it to me. What’s the number I call when the coast is clear?”

John moved his plastic cup of Coke and ice out of the way and scribbled down the number Eddie gave him on a cocktail napkin. They hung up. John plugged the number into the phone’s speed-dial feature.

The jet landed at dusk. John found Eddie as planned, outside the doors of the baggage claim area, wearing a navy blue business suit, posing as a business traveler, waiting for a Hertz rental car shuttle van at a curb.

On the ride to Hertz, the inspectors sat by each other, behind the luggage rack near the rear of the vehicle. When Daryl Finck turned to gaze out the window, Eddie handed off a small cloth bag, containing the firearms, which John quickly shoveled inside his green duffel bag.

The shuttle van came to a stop directly in front of the car rental agency’s front doors. They disembarked.

Eddie whispered into John’s ear: “Godspeed.” As John waited in line to rent a car, he watched Eddie hop on another shuttle van heading back to the airport.

A nearly full moon lit the sky over Natural High Farms by the time John’s rented econo-box pulled up to the front gate, which was closed. Seconds later, the gate groaned open electronically. John parked beside a produce hauler and swung his door open.

“Leave your baggage here for now,” he told his traveling companions. Together, they walked toward the red farmhouse. The front gate was busy closing again.

As they stepped into the building’s floodlights, about fifteen yards shy of the rear entrance, a loudspeaker above the door squeaked. An instant later, a deep, familiar voice broke across the night.

“Hello, my people, my good people, this is The Wizard speaking. I’m sorry to inform you, the End Time has arrived. I repeat, the End Time is here. The End Time is here now. Please report to your dormitories immediately. Immediately. Goodbye. Goodbye, and remember, I love you. I will always love you!”

Daryl started off toward the dormitories. John whipped out his nine millimeter. “Hold it right there, Daryl.”

The overgrown man-child turned around and froze at the sight of a gun pointed at him. He looked to Tom for guidance.

“Stay here, Daryl,” Tom said. “You don’t have to go.”

“But it’s the End Time,” Daryl said, now doubly confused.

“Just stay here and do like I do,” Tom said. John pointed his gun to the ground, and Daryl retraced his steps.

“What’s going on?” John asked Tom.

“Just a drill. The rank and file are reporting to their dormitories. Piper probably wants to keep them out of the way while he conducts his business with you.”

The back door of the farmhouse swung open, and Bob Marsh emerged, smiling, greeting everyone by name. John trained his weapon on him, chest center.

“Relax, John,” Bob said. “You don’t want to shoot me. I’m taking you to see Marilyn.”

Bob led the way on foot. He was followed, at John’s instruction, first by Daryl Finck, then by Tom Mahorn. John took up the rear, both hands gripping his gun, eyes sweeping the inky panorama. A few times they crossed paths with cult members, walking alone or in small groups, everyone hustling in the same exact direction.

By the time John’s party arrived at the central complex, it was a ghost town. No one in sight. Not even a guard stationed at the checkpoint.

Bob led them inside what John knew to be the education center, a single-story cinder block building, shaped like a pentagon, with a leafy courtyard within its five walls. The plain corridors were lit as brightly as an elementary school on PTA night. John wondered if he’d ever see his daughter again.

Bob halted in front of the door to one of the classrooms. The others huddled behind him. The door was shut. Bob reached for the knob.

“Hold it,” John said. “Is she in there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Bob, I want you spread-eagled against this wall.”

“Never thought you’d ask,” Bob said, winking as he complied. John frisked him one-handed, holding the gun on Daryl Finck. He found no weapons.

“Okay,” John said. “We’re going in now.”

L. Rob Piper stood in position behind a lectern at the front of a small classroom, his back to a row of windows looking out onto the dark courtyard. His hostage sat in a front row seat, hands tied behind her back, mouth gagged, and within easy reach. Voices came from just outside the door. Then the door opened.

First Bob Marsh entered, then Daryl Finck, followed by Tom Mahorn. Finally, that meathead cop who dared to challenge him stepped into the doorframe, halting there, gun drawn, the barrel locking onto Piper’s forehead.

“Good evening, Inspector,” he said. “No need for theatrics. I’m not armed. See?” He stepped to the side of the lectern and turned round slowly, three hundred and sixty degrees, his hands held high, above his shoulders. He wore tight blue jeans and a clinging white cotton Tee shirt so that the cop could tell he wasn’t concealing a gun. “Let’s make our exchange and say ‘Goodnight’ and ‘Goodbye.’ Shall we?”

“Let’s take a look at her first,” John said. “Remember what I told you.” His gun hadn’t budged from Piper’s forehead.

Piper helped his hostage to her feet before turning her to face John. “See?” Piper said. “Undamaged goods. Ready for delivery.”

“Simultaneous exchange,” John said. “She starts walking forward, they start walking forward. Slow and steady pace.”

“Don’t forget the remote control,” Piper said.

John handed the device to Tom, then ordered Tom and Daryl to stand in front of him, facing Piper and a narrow aisle, which split the classroom desks into two equal groups. Piper placed Marilyn in front of the lectern, facing the door.

“Okay,” John said. “Let’s do it.”

Piper nudged Marilyn forward with a push at the small of her back. Tom and Daryl started forward from the other end of the aisle. Piper stepped behind his lectern.

He waited until the hostages crossed paths, bumping shoulders, the moment of maximum visibility impairment between himself and the inspector, and then reached for the remote control hiding behind his lectern.

He gripped it, pointed it, and fired an electrode inside John’s head, expecting to have the upper hand, expecting that John would fail to shoot—or at least hesitate—with Marilyn’s head so close to his target.

A millisecond after he’d pushed the button that would briefly paralyze John’s motor system, a single gunshot rang out.

The round missed wildly, shattering a huge window to the left of Piper. John crumpled to the floor, a puppet whose master had dropped the strings.

Daryl Finck, expecting more gunfire, dived sideways, sending school desks sprawling. Marilyn ran to her fallen hero and fell to her knees, stifled shrieks leaking out of her gag. Tom stood dumbfounded in the aisle.

“Tom!” Piper shouted. “Get his gun!” Strangely, Tom hesitated. “What are you waiting for? Go!”

Finally, Tom reacted, snatching the Glock from the floor, removing a snub-nosed revolver from John’s waistband and stuffing it into his own. As the inspector started coming to his senses, Piper ordered Bob Marsh to frisk John.

Bob’s fingers fanned quickly over John’s body, extracting a small, black object from a pants pocket. “He’s got a cellular.”

“I’ll take that,” Piper said. “Bring it here.” He met Bob in the center of the aisle and took possession of the cell phone.

“Who were you going to call?” Piper asked John. The inspector rose to his feet and glared at him defiantly rather than answering. “Not ready to talk yet? You will be soon. You and Marilyn both. Because I simply must know everything you two know, and just who you’ve shared your knowledge with. Forgive me if I don’t believe you unless you’re being tortured and mutilated.”

Piper froze as Tom raised the Glock, pointing the barrel straight at him. “Tom? What the hell? What are you doing?”

“It’s over,” Tom said. “It’s all over. They know everything. The police, I mean, not just these two. They know about the neurostimulators, and they know the major crop on this farm is people. They’ve surrounded the perimeter from a safe distance. Got the FBI helping out. They’re prepared to shoot down your helicopter if you try to escape.”

“Tom’s telling you the truth,” John said to Piper as he ungagged Marilyn. “We know everything. We know about the sperm bank, the blood center, the egg brokerage, you name it. And now we have you bottled up. There’s no way out. Got it? So you might as well hand me back that cell phone.”

Piper was flabbergasted. He was livid. He turned to Daryl, standing amidst the scattered desks.

“Daryl, did you know about all this?” The big dumb ox shook his head vigorously. “Good boy, I didn’t think so. Now I want you to do something for me. I want you to take Tom’s gun away.”

“But what if—”

“Don’t worry, Daryl, I’ll protect you from harm. Now do as I say and charge him. Charge!”

With a war cry, Daryl rushed Tom like an NFL defensive lineman. Mahorn fired once, twice, three times. The last, a head shot, finally dropped Daryl. Tom swiveled the gun back on Piper, who put his hands up, while slowly backpedaling to the side of the lectern.

“Tom, listen to me,” Piper said. “Listen. You’re not thinking this thing through. We’re not finished, you and I. We’re not. Because we’ve got two hostages here. Law enforcement won’t shoot us out of the sky with them aboard. We can use John and Marilyn to guarantee safe passage out of here. Then we can disappear. I’ve got more than ten million dollars hidden in overseas accounts. Ten. Million. Dollars. That’ll keep us in style, until we can start over somewhere. What do you say?”

Tom held the gun on Piper while he thought it over. Beads of sweat formed on Piper’s brow. Suddenly, Tom dropped the gun.

“Okay,” Tom said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Piper reached behind the lectern for the semi-automatic handgun he’d hidden as an emergency back-up, aimed, and fired, squeezing off four rounds into Tom’s chest. As the body fell, Piper’s two hostages raced toward the door. He aimed to fire, hesitating briefly as he remembered that he couldn’t kill them just now, then emptied his weapon, firing at their legs. They both made it out the door, but he thought he’d hit John at least, thought he’d stumbled.

“Why’d you shoot Tom?” Bob asked.