Mark of the Beast (7 page)

“I love it,” Silvia said.

First man I've dated that drives a decent car, she thought.

The drive to Whispering Oaks was rather quiet; a few conversations about East Chicago, Indiana, the Luckiest Luck Casino where she worked, and about Atlanta. She surprisingly confided to Bill that she did not tell anyone of her escapade to Atlanta, fearing that her coworkers might make fun of her.

“I'm very shy and sensitive, but my one love is to roam the Web,” she confessed.

Leaving the airport at about 12:30
A.M.
, they encountered few motorists on the road.

Bill parked the car in the garage next to the Toyota Highlander.

“You own that car, too?” Silvia asked.

“Yeah, in case the Lexus breaks down,” Bill said.

“The Lexus cars don't break down, do they?” Silvia asked naïvely.

“Sometimes they do,” Bill replied.

Sitting in the comfortable cushioned leather love seat in the living room, Silvia was really impressed with the house decor.

“Tell me something about you,” Bill said.

“Well, I attended Indiana University Northwest in Gary, Indiana, for three years, then my parents got divorced and my dad refused to pay for my tuition anymore. I had to leave school and work to make enough money to go back to college. A cocktail waitress, especially at the casino, can make a decent wage, you know, and I think after one more year, I'll have enough money to complete college.”

“That's admirable,” Bill said. “Do you have relatives, friends, roommates, or a boyfriend?”

He is really inquisitive, Silvia thought.

“Relax; like I said, no one knows I'm here. I live alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Hammond, Indiana. I work all day. I've been on only four Internet dates before. I didn't care for them. My sister and I don't get along. She lives in Minnesota. The last time I talked to my parents was a year ago.”

“You really are a loner,” Bill said.

“Yeah, you can say that,” Silvia replied.

Perfect, thought Bill.

“I'm a loner, too. I'm an only son. I was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, went to school at Clark University here in Atlanta, and got a job here working for Uwani,” Bill said. “Do you want something to drink?” Bill offered, not wanting to say more.

“What do you have? I need something to relax me.”

“You name it,” Bill said.

“Hennessy V.S.O.P., with orange juice,” Silvia said.

“It will only take a minute.” Bill rose from the couch, bowed his head, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

“Why did you pierce your tongue?” Bill asked from the kitchen.

“Some guys like it like that. I think it's cute,” Silvia replied.

“Oh I don't know … it may hurt,” Bill said.

“I'll take it off then.”

Silvia unhooked the silver metallic ring that was pierced through her tongue.

“Better now?” Silvia asked, sticking out her tongue.

“That's much better.” Bill gave Silvia his half smile.

That's an odd way to smile, thought Silvia as she sipped the Hennessy. She noticed that the drink mix tasted a little bitter. “Mmmm … that's different,” Silvia said, wiping her lower lip.

“I added a little tonic to bring out the flavor,” Bill said, intently watching Silvia.

“Yeah,” Silvia said, not wanting to appear like an alcohol novice.

Noticing Silvia's eyes closing, Bill went over to the stereo system, pushed a button, and slow jazz music filled the room. This was the moment Bill had prepared for.

 

5

A
T WORK,
B
ILL WAS
happy to hear that yesterday's sales figures had pushed Uwani Microsystems' net worth to nearly the one billion dollar mark, and that helped push Uwani Microsystems' stock to $63 per share.

The systems analyst departments were very thrilled. In reciprocation, George asked Bill if he could entertain a party in his house. Taken aback a little, Bill unwillingly agreed.

“I guess that's okay,” Bill said. “I hope folks don't mind goat meat and lamb chops.”

“I am sure that'll be fine,” George said. “For once we get to taste the cooking that you've been bragging about. Next Saturday, okay?” George asked.

“Saturday would be great,” Bill said.

*   *   *

It took almost two years for the national media to tie together the cases of the vanishing women, as the crimes are now being called. Initially listed as missing persons, each case somehow reached a dead end in Atlanta. With no new leads, most of the cases were filed away. When a young, ambitious, would-not-take-no-for-an-answer investigative reporter from Channel 5 in Chicago tried to review the files of the missing women, he noticed a pattern.

They were in their thirties, living alone, some with college education.

“Two of the missing women had told friends that they were going to Atlanta for a date,” the reporter said to his station manager. “But when the police in Atlanta were alerted, they denied finding out-of-state dead females. They claimed that most of the victims in Atlanta were identified as local, except one forty-five-year-old female whose body was so mutilated and stripped of all IDs that police are still trying through dental records to identify the body.”

When the composite report made national news, the Federal Bureau of Investigation finally took over the cases.

After thoroughly investigating all the cases, the FBI finally took a special interest in Uwani Microsystems. Arriving in Atlanta and briefing George on the investigation, the FBI wanted to talk to Bill.

Detailed analysis of Silvia's Internet chats failed to identify who she had had her last conversation with. But with the help of the local phone company, the FBI discovered that Silvia did place a call to Uwani Microsystems in Atlanta the last day she was seen at work.

The FBI privately interviewed all the phone operators at Uwani Microsystems who worked on the day when Silvia called. It was getting late in the day; Bill was notified by George that the FBI would like to schedule an interview with him first thing tomorrow morning at eight o'clock sharp.

“What's it about?” Bill asked with his usual smile.

“I don't know, but my hunch tells me that it might have something to do with those missing girls,” George confided.

“Do they think somebody here has something to do with that?” Bill's half smile disappeared.

“Don't worry about it,” George said. “I think they're looking in the wrong place.”

“Thanks,” Bill said.

“Don't forget, eight a.m.,” George said on his way out of Bill's office.

Next morning, Bill did not show up for his interview with the FBI.

By 8:10
A.M.
, local police in conjunction with federal marshals were dispatched to Bill's house.

After several knocks at the door failed to illicit any response from within, they busted the door open.

Bill was found sitting in the basement shower, cold as ice, a sawed-off shotgun on his lap. There was blood mixed with whitish pasty material all over the bathroom wall, and Bill's face was totally unrecognizable from the bullet wound.

 

6

I
T WAS A BEAUTIFUL
hot and muggy autumn evening in Cicero, Illinois. The sun was a little rusty in all its background shadows, unsure whether to rise or set, even though the time on the First Suburban National Bank building showed exactly six o'clock in the evening. In Cicero, the southeastern section was a gorgeous neighborhood, especially toward the end of summer.

There were cars parked on both sides of the narrow streets in this middle- to higher-income section of town. At Eighty-seventh Street near Kedzie Road, a child, trying to cross the street, caught Joanne's eye. Joanne couldn't understand why this little, happy-looking three- to four-year-old boy was trying to navigate the street alone.

“Where are the parents?” Joanne asked herself.

Where is this boy going?

Who is he playing with?

The child skipped and hopped, periodically looking between the cars, while singing an inaudible song.

Joanne saw no one around. The street appeared deserted. In the distance, Joanne saw a silhouette, and within seconds, heard the humming of an oncoming vehicle.

The car must have been traveling at quite an excessive speed, because the acceleration was getting louder and louder.

The child apparently did not hear the car, Joanne surmised, because just as Joanne determined the make of the vehicle, the boy veered between the red Ford Escort and the blue Nissan Pathfinder parked some distance south of the junction of Eighty-seventh Street and Kedzie Road. Joanne immediately knew what was about to happen.

She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Hey, kid! There's a car coming. Don't cross the road yet.”

Twice she yelled, but the kid appeared to be ignoring her. Just as the child cleared the parked cars, on came a Toyota Camry at an excessively high rate of speed. The car must have been traveling at least sixty miles an hour in a speed zone posted at thirty-five miles per hour.

Just then, the boy looked at Joanne and gave her a closed-mouth, sad-faced smile.

“I've seen you before,” Joanne said to herself aloud.

The squeaking of the brakes, the shrieking of the child, and the strange buzzing sound coming from the distant steel mills became deafening—and then, silence.

*   *   *

Joanne woke up from the strange dream to the buzzing of the radio alarm on the nightstand.

It was Monday morning in Chicago.

Joanne had spent the whole weekend arguing with Doug's parents, so much so that by Sunday night she was tired. They had been here for the weekend visiting their grandchildren.

Dick and Valerie Stead had made their quarterly trip from Beloit, Wisconsin, to Chicago for their usual aggravation visit. What made things worse, Joanne believed, was that Doug, her own husband, always sided with them.

“That really is very frustrating,” Joanne muttered, face flustered, as she walked out of the bathroom, heading toward the kitchen.

“Good morning!” Doug's voice pierced the silence of the morning and startled Joanne.

“Yeah,” Joanne said, hardly opening her mouth, and not in the mood for any conversation, especially with her husband.

“That was a wacky weekend.”

“If you say so,” Joanne said with a loud yawn.

“Come on, honey, what is that supposed to mean?”

“What is what supposed to mean?” Joanne snapped, her voice stern, her face serious and sarcastic. “Ouch!” she bellowed as she turned on the coffeemaker.

Doug, standing at the edge of the beautiful marble kitchen counter, said with a small grin. “You knew exactly what I meant.”

Spreading her hands in an effort to try and minimize the situation, Joanne appeared mystified. “No, I don't know what you meant.” Not this morning, she thought. All she wanted to do was to get the kids ready for school. Alexis and Isipe were still asleep in their respective rooms.

Joanne made a move toward the kids' rooms in order to get them up and ready for school.

“Honey,” Doug interrupted, “are you still angry at them?”

“You know what?” Joanne retorted, with a serious and angry look on her face. “Your parents are the most irritating individuals I have ever met. I think they take personal pleasure in exploiting … manufactured weakness so that they can have reasons to justify … and especially in your case, make their point that Stella would have made a better wife for you.”

“What? Where did that come from … and … what does Stella have to do with this?” Doug appeared genuinely baffled, even though he knew what was coming.

Joanne tended to do this whenever she was really upset, Doug thought. She's never accepted the fact that she's good at what she does.

“Oh, so you don't see what they're doing?” asked Joanne, fumbling to put on her slippers with one hand while she balanced herself on the dresser with the other clenched hand. “Of course you don't. You're too busy agreeing with them and, of course, the laugh is on me.”

“What is this ‘of course, of course,' thing?” Doug asked, face puzzled and serious.

Doug, who was an attorney, never appreciated it when opposing lawyers used the phrase “of course.” He always interpreted that phrase as a backward way of minimizing his arguments.

“They're not doing anything,” Doug continued. He started walking toward Joanne to hold her hands. “Do you think that my parents have the power to disrupt this marriage?”

“Yes, I do,” Joanne snapped, wrenching her hand back, her voice rising.

“Well, if you think that, then you are severely mistaken,” Doug responded with an equally raised voice.

With a sense of rejection, and not wanting to make peace anymore, Doug headed to the bathroom.

“You're naïve!” Joanne shouted, angrier now that Doug was walking away. “And why do you always walk away whenever you start losing an argument?”

“Hi, Mom,” two voices greeted, coming out of the two adjoining bedrooms.

Alexis and Isipe, Doug and Joanne's two children, had been sleeping in their respective bedrooms but were apparently awakened by their parents' arguing again.

“Hi, Dad,” said Isipe, acknowledging Doug as he made his way back into the kitchen.

Alexis was rubbing her eyes, like she did every morning, while Isipe yawned.

“Cover your mouth when you yawn, sweetheart,” Joanne said in a much calmer voice, even though she was still breathing hard.

“Yes, Mom.” Isipe covered his mouth and finished the rest of his yawning.

“Come on, kids, let's get ready for school,” Joanne urged the children.

“I thought you said we weren't going to school today,” Alexis, always the smart one, reminded Joanne.

“When did I say that?” Joanne asked, her composure almost regained.