The Victim (7 page)

“What about all those cops?” James asked. He looked scared now. His eyes darted between his brothers and then back to Simon. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “They have families, wives, children. Is it right … what we did?”

Simon glanced around the circle before answering. He needed to see if any of the others were as weak as James. He knew what had to be done. It was time for James to move on. Not only could this kind of weakness get James Raptured in the process of fulfilling his destiny, he could get others Raptured early, jeopardizing their mission. James would need to be taken out on the next mission.

“Brother James, let me ask you a question.”

James nodded, not willing to talk back to Simon Peter.

“Who are the bad people in society? Who are the ones staying behind for the thousand year war and the end of the earth by fire?”

“People in jails, people hurting others for pleasure.”

“That’s right, Brother James,” Simon said, keeping as calm as the virgin in her shroud, as calm as a summer sea. His posture, facial expressions and mannerisms meant everything to his followers. After all the preaching, all the parables he offered, none of them really, truly believed in his mission until he showed them, on paper, what Matthew had said. That brought them on board. Simon’s job was to keep them rapt in his inner circle, fighting against the winds of evil.

“Who are the good? Who need to be Raptured and taken home?”

“God is almighty, all-seeing,” James said, reciting Simon’s teachings. “He is taking home everyone He desires, but there are a few that need our help. He has enlisted us to do his bidding. We’re on a mission—”

“That’s correct, Brother James, but who can go home?” Simon interjected, trying to get James to mellow out. “Who is authorized to be Raptured by our hands?”

“Good people. Ones that the Lord needs.”

“Correct again,” Simon said, his arms outstretched. “Wouldn’t you agree that police officers, who protect our women and children, are good people, deserving of Rapture?”

James scanned the room for support and, finding none, looked back up at Simon. “Yes, Brother Simon. I do.”

“In the future, examine your questions prior to asking them. Anyone else want to talk, let it out, discuss what happened? Discussion is important. Thinking, tantamount.”

No one responded.

“Good,” Simon said. “I’m going into the other room to call Matthew. We need direction here. Sarah is still our primary goal and Matthew will be able to tell us what to do. When I get a hold of my brother, I will rejoin the circle and tell you what I’ve discovered. We will reconvene to make things right. Are we all agreed?”

As Simon moved around the room, each man raised both hands heavenward, palms open and facing the ceiling, allowing God’s energy to course down their arms and into their soul, their hearts.

“Good, now pray, talk to God and then rest. No one leaves. We meet when I come out of the bedroom.”

In the bedroom, they had an altar set up for those that had passed over. Simon opened a bottle of salve and applied the white cream to the palms of his hands and soles of his feet. The cracking had become something of a pain recently. He would need to be diligent over the next few days with his skin and fingernails to keep them from getting infected. He had lived with ectodermal dysplasia for twenty-four years and had gone for countless doctors’ visits, dental surgeries for his teeth and tests. Always more tests.

Before leaving today, he had removed the dentures that covered the two pointed teeth on the bottom of his mouth. There was no need to be accepted by society, no need to appease the sensitive nature of the common people. God had created him and his brother in his image, and Simon needed to be proud of how he looked. He wouldn’t chastise or ridicule himself anymore—he would leave that to the ignorant and less educated.

He sat on a cushion in front of the altar, crossed his legs, placed his upturned hands on his knees, and began to pray.

He would wait for Matthew to call.

The Rapture was upon them and nothing could stop the Rapturites from sending Sarah Roberts home. She would die by Simon’s hand. When Simon changed his name, he also took on the role of bringing people to Jesus. He had every intention to deliver Sarah to God. Even if he died doing it.

There could be no greater honor.

Chapter 9

Sarah entered the hotel Dolan had arranged. At the desk, they gave her no trouble. Dolan had described her and said his daughter had lost her purse. He would join her later, but charge what she needed on his card. The young attendant at the counter had been overly nice, offering her candies from a large bowl. He had given her two keycards for the electronic door lock and explained about the restaurant, the pool and checkout times. All she wanted was a long hot bath and room service.

After feigning sleepiness, Sarah got away from him without being too rude. She checked in with the name Sarah Ryan, Dolan’s last name. Using his name made her feel special after all they’d been through together.

She put out the Do Not Disturb flap and secured the night lock. Dolan, or anyone else, wouldn’t be joining her this evening.

She grabbed the restaurant menu, ordered room service to be delivered in one hour sharp then drew a hot bath. She disrobed, hopped in the steaming water and finally relaxed. She was safe. Only Dolan knew where she was. She could stay the night and decide what to do in the morning. If Parkman was already in the States, maybe she would have to bite the bullet and call her parents. After reassuring them she was alive and well, her father could drive up and fetch her. Until then, she could stay locked up in this hotel.

She sunk lower in the tub, letting the filth of the past week locked in a cell ooze off her. She needed new clothes. Maybe the hotel had a gift shop where she could at least buy a hat and a toothbrush. She was weary, tired of being on the run. It was time to get her life back.

The phone rang. She wondered if it was the kitchen with a question about her food. They could wait. She needed to enjoy her tub before she would eat. She had all night to eat, sleep and eat some more. Which reminded her, she needed to order some kind of chocolate dessert. A Snickers cake or double chocolate arrangement of some kind. A woman needed her chocolate.

The phone stopped ringing.

She dipped her dark hair in the water, ran her hands through it and pushed up and out to grab the small bottle of shampoo.

The phone started again.

“Holy shit, take it easy,” she shouted into the room.

She lathered up her hair, trying to stay calm, but the phone didn’t stop. Maybe it wasn’t the kitchen. If it was, their next step would be to send someone up to knock on her door. She wanted to avoid anyone else seeing her face, so she quickly rinsed her hair, soaped up her body and rinsed off under the shower.

While towel drying her hair, the phone started again.

She ran out, still naked, and picked up the receiver.

“Is there a reason to keep calling—”

“Sarah, it’s me.”

“Oh, hey, Dolan. Sorry about that. Thought it was the hotel. I was in the tub. I was supposed to call, wasn’t I? Sorry. Everything okay?”

“No.” He breathed in deep, exhaling as if it was his last breath. “They’re looking for you.”

Her stomach couldn’t take anymore. “Who?” Even after she asked the question, she dreaded the answer.

“You didn’t tell me what happened at the mall,” Dolan said.

“Yeah, long story. Why?”

“A lot of cops died.”

She dropped the towel on the bed and swung her hair over one shoulder. She felt vulnerable standing naked, talking on the phone.

“How many?” she asked.

“The news channels are saying nine people died. One unidentified man wearing white powder on his face, sky blue contact lenses and a long overcoat. Six Toronto police officers and two members of the American government. The ninth was a woman. They’re calling it a massacre. Never before have so many police officers been killed at one time in one place.”

“Rod Howley is dead, too,” Sarah said. “The woman’s name was Joan Frommer, Hank’s wife.”

“Sarah, what happened?”

“Can you give me a sec?”

“Sarah …”

“I gotta get dressed. I jumped out of the tub to take the call.”

“Okay, go.”

She set the phone down on the bed. While slipping into her panties, she wondered how much to tell Dolan. He deserved as much of the truth as she knew, but she really didn’t know a lot. She decided to slim everything down and stick to only what she knew.

She lay out on the bed in her shirt and panties and picked up the phone. “Dolan?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded dejected, saddened.

“This wasn’t me. It’s not my fault.”

“I know, Sarah,” he said. “You would never be a part of something like this. But they’re assembling every officer in Ontario for the largest manhunt in history.”

“Hank held me in an underground cell. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get out. Apparently Rod called him and said he had Hank’s wife as his prisoner. Rod wanted to trade for me. A meeting was set up for the Allandale Centre. That’s how we all came to be there. Hank was prepared. Toronto police were all over the place. Then Hank’s wife showed up with some kind of white powder on her face. She had a picture of a Rod Howley, dead. She didn’t say a word. Very creepy.”

“Oh, man …”

“I know. She died in Hank’s arms a minute or two later. All I know is these men wearing overcoats and white faces walked around carrying death in their hands—”

“What? Who?”

“There were men wearing the same white paint Joan wore on their faces. Whoever they touched died within seconds. I have no fucking idea what the hell they had in their hands, but it was definitely lethal. Two of them attacked me.”

“How did you get away?”

“Cops started falling all around me. The white-faced attackers were closing in. I’m not sure if I was their target because they went after the cops first, but I may have been. I ran for the sporting goods store. They chased me inside. One of them just stared at me and said, ‘Come.’ Creeped me out.”

“And …”

Sarah recounted the rest of the events at the mall to Dolan.

“
You
killed the one they found?” Dolan asked.

“Yes. Then I ran through the back hallways of the mall, out the door by the garbage compactor and once I got clear of the mall, I called you. That’s it.”

“Oh, Sarah, I wish I could help you out of this mess.”

“What are you talking about? What mess? I didn’t do anything, unless escaping with my life is a bad thing?”

“Turn on the news. Any channel you want. It’s all anyone is talking about.”

“I don’t want to see it. I was there, remember. It was traumatic as hell. I just want to forget it.”

“Sarah, a man named Detective Waller just did a press conference on the slaughter of his men. He says
you
started the whole thing. He has your name, video footage of you, and said you’re armed and dangerous. Your face is all over the news, and every cop on the continent wants your head.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!” She jumped off the bed. The walls of the room closed in on her. She thought she might as well be dead as the world
had
thought. “Dolan, is anyone asking how I’ve been resurrected? What am I going to do? You know I wouldn’t partake in—you know I had nothing to do with this. I’d be dead too if I hadn’t fought back and run. There has to be video footage that would verify that.”

“I know. The best thing to do is contact Waller and tell him your side. Explain how Hank had you as a captive and that this was supposed to be a simple trade—”

“That won’t work,” Sarah said as she paced the floor beside the bed.

“Why not?”

“Because I met Detective Waller and it didn’t go well.”

“Oh, Sarah, what did you do?”

“He overheard me telling Hank that I could kill him within seconds if I was challenged. He questioned Hank about me and why I was there. That’s when I heard that Hank had sold the Toronto cops a bill of goods.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sarah stopped pacing. “The Sophia Project men always fabricate what’s happening to get local cops involved. Like at the Rogers Centre when I met Drake. Anyway, Hank told them we were waiting for Rod, a sex offender.”

“A sex offender? You serious?”

“I wonder what Hank told Waller about me? Maybe that’s why he has a hard-on for me? This can’t get any worse. ”

“Yes, it could,” Dolan said.

“How?”

“You could be dead. That would be worse.”

“True.”

“I can’t give myself up. That has never worked in the past. The cops dance to a different beat than I do.”