Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller) (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sherriff McNulty was lean and bony and dark. There was nothing soft or relaxed about the man, no sign of middle-aged loss of tone. His uniform was crisp and freshly laundered; his regulation police-issued shoes polished to a high gloss. His desk was as bare and shiny as the top of his head. The only thing that betrayed his age was a touch of gray in his mustache.

“Looks like the Colonel didn’t take a shine to you, Detective.”

I was now in McNulty’s office, just off the bullpen. “He wants to keep the peace. I want to catch a killer. Different priorities.”

“You think this Gideon is up to no good?”

“I have four, maybe five deaths linked right to him and his soldiers. But I’m out of my jurisdiction. So he’s going to go free.”

McNulty walked around me and closed his door.

“I had a sister up there,” was all he said, pacing in front of the windows looking out into the office. “Or did. She disappeared after a few months, and when I went up there, I was told she run off. She’s been missing ever since.”

“Does Brice know that?”

“Didn’t see the point in sharing that with him. It’s personal.”

“How personal?” I asked.

McNulty turned to me. "You roll up to Parkhurst in a marked car, Detective," he smiled, "and there'll be nothing left but frame and burning tires, I guarantee it." He scratched the back of his head. "And a lot of black smoke."

"Those crackers don't frighten me," I said, rubbing what was probably a whiplashed neck.

"They should," he argued. "They are a wound up passel of sons-of-bitches. And getting more wound up by the day." He walked over to a rack of AM-15 rifles. "They have done nothing to warrant our taking action. But they are set for some show."

"Do you have evidence of some build-up?"

McNulty took down one of the semi-automatics from the rack.

“The NSA has them on 24-hour watch. Eye in the sky and whatever else they have. Cameras up their colons for all I know. They’re worried about them.”

“How do you know that?”

“My FBI BFF’s told me,” he said, chuckling. “But Gideon could be organizing a church picnic or an NRA membership drive for all I know. Maybe a cluckers coming-out party. I can’t arrest citizens, without records, for simple assembly.”

I felt like the seconds were ticking away in my head like the midnight clock. "There has to be a way in that won't start a war."

"What do you want in for? Doing a spread for Mother Jones magazine?"

"I don't have time to explain it all. They've got a computer program that goes off at noon. This thing will fry police nets, the FBI, CIA, government, business, private, everything. Tens of thousands of lives are at stake. Besides, then it will be too late."

"And you figure if you can get in, they'll let you just mosey on over, sit yourself down at one of their Dell’s, and stop something they've spent a decade putting together?"

"Why do you say decade?"

“Gideon Lear moved into Parkhurst in the mid nineties. The first thing they did was spend millions with local contractors and suppliers. They paid well. And on time. They partied with everyone. Parkhurst was like Disneyland north. And his church grew like a bad weed. Of course pitching salvation, no gun control, and free shares in the new order didn't hurt. There's only one industry in this country – it's Parkhurst. They built three hundred new homes on the property for his immigrants."

"Where did these immigrants come from?'

"Hungary. Poland. Russia. Mexico. A lot of them were techies. Computer scientists. Programmers. Computer-types. People to build a new world."

"How did you know that?"

"Locals built a lot of the houses. Met some of the new families. Most of them have past stories – about Parkhurst sponsoring them to America. But the real story came out."

"Do you know why would they need a hundred computer experts?"

"Software makes the world go around, I guess. Maybe we were going to be Microsoft East. Hey! Nobody complained. We almost got to zero unemployment."

"What about the Church?"

"McNulty shrugged. "A tax loophole – I figure that's not my jurisdiction though. Ask the BATF. They've been around shopping for another Waco."

"That could be arranged,” I said.

McNulty hunched his shoulders. "Did I say I thought Waco was a good thing? If I did, I apologize cause that was the nuttiest fuck-up I've seen on TV since Tiny Tim's wedding."

"If we don’t get in, we haven't a chance of stopping them."

"What the hell do you know about what they are planning?"

"If getting into Parkhurst is your only hope, you might as well drive straight home son, and start burying food in the backyard."

"Look, Sheriff, what if you went in alone. Meaning just you and me?"

"What are we doin? Delivering fried chicken?"

"Tell them you've had a report of a missing tourist or whatever. Routine."

"If they smell a rat, that place will go off like a powder keg. Any chance they might launch this program early if alerted?"

I didn't know how to answer that.
Why not,
I thought. But there was something orderly and filled with precision about this plan that gave me a sense that Gideon would wait until zero hour.

"I'm guessing noon isn't some random time he picked. It's part of his churches writings, like a prediction or a revelation. I think he's got to wait."

“So we roll in. Have a chat. You got anything else?”

“We have some intel on this. Parkhurst is going to try to manage the public relations. They will have their own TV cameras and new feeds.”

“I know. They have a complete editing suite up there.”

“So we need to take down their power. That will slow them down.”

“Can’t be done. They have a big diesel power plant up there. As soon as we cut the power, their generator will cut in.”

“I know. That’s part of this intel I’m talking about. There’s a trick we can employ. You get the power company to switch off the power at noon. Then keep cycling it back on and off every thirty seconds. Those generators need about thirty to forty seconds to cycle up to power. Then when it gets going and sees the power is back on, it will shut off again. If we keep cycling like that, no one at Parkhurst will be able to do anything unless they can manually change the system over. That will take them at least ten minutes. By then, we will be done or dead and won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

McNulty looked at me like I had just sprouted wings, but he made the call to Virginia Power anyway.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

McNulty walked me out to the parking lot and led me to his car. I whistled.

“Must be nice to have money to spend on equipment,” I said, looking at a brand new Ford Interceptor SUV. McNulty almost looked embarrassed, but he still smiled like a proud father.

“I drove a piece of crap for a decade. It got so bad I couldn’t catch a ten-year old on a BMX bike carrying a jumbo slushy.”

“Do you want me to wipe my shoes first before getting in?” I asked.

McNulty just ignored me and got behind the wheel. I dialed my phone.

Years before, I had worked on a case involving a computer virus strangely bound up with a number of homicides in the Washington intel community. A very clever programmer at the CIA was a witness, and I still had her number on my cell phone. Everyone called her Med.

“Med. It’s Hyde.”

“Greg? I never thought I’d hear from you again.”
Hoped
would be more accurate, I guessed.

“Med. I’ve got an emergency. And you’re the only person I could think of to help. Are you watching this Internet attack that’s supposed to happen today? J-Day?”

“We’ve taken some precautions but …”

“No but. I’ve been following this group, along with the FBI, which has been pouring millions into this sick project for years. They’re very powerful and very organized. I can’t believe I’m buying this – but they are going to go after everything in a couple of hours.”

“Everything?”

“Government. Financial exchanges including banks. Airlines. Power facilities. Even hospitals. You name it. The goal is to take America down first, then the rest of the Western world.”

“Wow. This doesn’t sound like you at all, Greg. Sounds like you’ve gone over to the dark side. Have you gone geek on us?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be calling you out of the blue. Someone very close to me has this on solid evidence. So is there anything we can do?”

“Well, it’s too late to take security precautions now. I’d say close down the banks and exchanges before the attack. That would limit the damage. The attack comes via the Internet. No Internet access, no permanent damage. But if you shut down the exchanges for example, that’s just about as bad as attacking them. Same result. They’re down. That will cost someone a fortune.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Good question. Someone with a lot of clout needs to make some calls.”

“How much clout?” I asked.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“Hello?” asked a very familiar female voice.

Med couldn’t believe what she was doing. And she was surprised how quickly the woman picked up the call. She had answered her Blackberry instantly.

“Mrs. President?” asked Med, her heart pounding so loudly, she was sure they could hear it in the Oval office.

“Who is this and how did you get this number?” President Taylor did not sound happy. Med could hear others in the background wanting to know what was going on.

“My name is Duke. Mary Ellen Duke. I work at the CIA Counter Intel Group in Washington.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Ms. Duke. How the hell did you get this number?”

“Mrs. President. We have a national emergency, and we only have a few minutes.”

There was a brief pause. “Explain.”

“Tens of thousands of hackers from Russia, China, Iran, North Korea, etc. are about to attack the New York Stock Exchange and all the major American banks and trading houses. Within hours. They will steal valuable data that will probably cost the U.S. economy billions, if not trillions. And then they will shut everything down. Potentially for weeks.”

“What do you want from me?”

“We need to call the exchanges and the banks and have them close down their sites before Noon.”

“Then call them. You’re the CIA.”

“They won’t listen to me, Mrs. President. I just tried the Director of the NASDAQ, and he told me to, well, he told me to forget it. Not in those words. He probably thought I was pranking him. And he wouldn’t answer my second call. He didn’t even think to ask me how I got his private cell number, which kind of surprised me.”

“How did you get my private cell number?” Med could hear the concern in the President’s voice.

“I work for the CIA. I’m just a worker bee, but I know where the files are kept. You know those people who track all the cell phone conversations and email on the planet for your government? Well, we built that technology for them.”

“I see,” she answered. “Why wouldn’t your Director, Mike, call me. That would be protocol.”

“Yes, it would. I am probably going to be fired for this. But we have so little time. By the time I tracked him down and explained everything …”

“It’s quite an unbelievable story. Is this what they’re calling J-Day online?”

“Yes. Judgment Day for hackers.”

“Ms. Duke? I will need verification.”

“I can have the Director call you within five minutes. If I can say you personally asked him to call, I’m sure it will get his attention.”

“That will do. Make it fast.”

“Yes ma’am. But I need to know who will be making the calls. I can help with the explanations.”

“I’ll get my team on it as soon as I talk to Mike. But the Director of NASDAQ? That call I’d actually like to make myself.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

When McNulty’s shiny black Interceptor SUV pulled into the center of the main parking area in front of Parkhurst's largest single building, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A group of about a dozen women, dressed in long cotton dresses, were drinking lemonade at a number of picnic tables just to the south of the parking roundabout.

  Four soldiers dressed in camouflage gear were standing under the extended portico that ran the length of the main command center, about two hundred yards to the north of us. I could see several residents out in a distant field, hunched over the ground digging up potatoes or some other root vegetable. There was a complete lack of tension or preparedness in the air. Yet it was only minutes to noon.

We got the same impression at the guarded gate. Four militia types, looking prepared, but cool. They called the main house and opened the steel gates within a minute or so of our arrival. It was like they were expecting us.

When McNulty parked the SUV, he looked over at me as if to say "I told you so." Then he tipped his hat forward and opened the door. I squinted out at the fresh cut grass and the perfectly trimmed hedge that surrounded the command center.

"Looks like friggin Disney World," I grunted to myself as I stepped out.

The soldiers on the porch were now at attention.
Look ma, visitors.

One militiaman had his head tilted to the side, speaking into a radio unit clipped onto his shoulder. I could have sworn he had a smile on his face. Before we could make our way across the gravel lot to the sidewalk, a tall man with long pepper-colored hair to his shoulders, had exited the oak front door and was hurrying down the front steps to ground level. He had his hands in his pockets.

McNulty slowed his pace slightly, which allowed me to catch up.

"Hope I haven't caught you at a bad time, Gideon. Just some routine police business," said McNulty.

We met on the sidewalk lined with azaleas. Gideon was tall; his broad shoulders evident under what appeared to be a hand-made cotton shirt. He wore dark green slacks of the same rough fiber and thick leather sandals. I guessed his age at late fifties. I couldn’t remember any age specified on the online accounts.

"Sheriff," he nodded, his hands still in his pockets. "What brings you here, this beautiful summer morning?" His eyes moved from McNulty to me and then back to McNulty, as if I belonged to an inferior caste that held no importance for him. I looked up and noticed that three more soldiers had appeared by the front door, one carrying a video camera. They looked curious and unafraid. I wondered if our meeting was being broadcast live or would be edited for use later.

"Gideon, sorry to bother you, but we have to follow up on a report,” said McNulty. “Authorities have a witness that says a woman may be held here against her will."

Gideon’s eyebrows registered slight surprise. "Have you talked to Judge Lahey?" McNulty seemed to blanch slightly at the comment.

"Lahey's in ICU. His diabetes is acting up again."

Gideon frowned slightly. "That's too bad." He turned back and eyed his military and media support up on the porch; men who were suddenly looking more serious.

"Where did you get a search warrant then?" asked the church leader.

McNulty tilted his head back. "Went to King William County and got Meridith Molvey to sign off."

Gideon nodded. "You believe this story, Sheriff? About this old woman?"

McNulty shook his head and the polite smile disappeared. "Didn't say it was an old woman, Gideon."

Gideon smiled back at the sheriff. "Had to be old. The young ones never want to leave. This your search party?"

I grunted. "DC Homicide. Gregory Hyde." I flashed my badge.

"How's Rosey?" was all Gideon said, but it froze me in mid sentence. Gideon turned back to McNulty, who looked slightly confused.

"Rosey is short for Rosencrantz. Captain Rosencrantz. He's detective Hyde's superior. We served in Vietnam together."

"That would make you almost eighty," I said, dismissing his comment as a bad lie.

"That's about right," answered Gideon, clearly enjoying the conversation.

"Then you’d know,” I said, “That Rosencrantz retired a decade ago. So now that we have that reunion out of the way – excuse us, but I have a search to carry out." Gideon removed his hands from his pockets and raised them up.

"Before you start, two things. One. There is no one on this compound being held against their will. But you seem hell-bent on proving otherwise, so let’s just skip to number two.

Sheriff, Judge Lahey may be on his deathbed, but you and I both know how things are done in this county. You also know his son is one of my most-trusted advisors and supported your re-election two years ago.” He was looking at McNulty. “I say that only because I thought we were friends. Friends don't barge in on each other to mess up a daily work schedule. This county doesn't need a police department led by a loose cannon." Then he turned to me.

"And Mr. Hyde, Rosy may be retired, but we go back a long way. Why don't you call him right now and ask him if he thinks it would be advisable to carry out this search?"
              I looked at Gideon, puzzling out what he was trying to accomplish. "You want to chat with Rosy, you dial up the old coot. I’ve got a job to do," I said.

"I already have," he answered back. One of the younger soldiers, acne roaming across his forehead in angry patches, walked up and handed me a cell phone. I looked at McNulty, who seemed unsure of his next move. I was getting the impression that he had totally lost his resolve to carry on. I pressed the speaker to my ear.

"Greg, is that you?" said a voice at the other end.

"Rosy? What the hell is going on?"

"Don't go in there, Greg. I never screwed you around and I won't start now. Don't do it, I'm begging you."

I turned away from Gideon and lowered my voice. "Rosy. You've gone soft in the head. This is police business."

"Screw the business. These people will do anything they have to. They'll track down your mother in Phoenix and feed her to desert coyotes. They'll track down your sister . . . believe me, Greg. Don't go there."

I could feel my face flush. I let the expensive cell phone drop to the sidewalk, lifted my right leg and stamped down on the silver plastic case, all the time my eyes on Gideon. Then I ground the fragments into the concrete walk. The soldier, who handed it to me, stepped back like I had discovered an improvised explosive device and he wanted to be out of range.

"Gideon,” I said, moving up closer to him, noticing he smelled like homemade soap. “I know you’re used to getting your way. Billionaires usually do. And you believe you have God on your side too. But if you get in my face like that one more time, neither your money or your church will save you from being sorry you were born.”

Gideon maintained his irritating stony half-smile.

“Here’s my question though,” I asked. “I’d like to know how you fit that gigantic ego of yours into that ill-fitting shirt every morning. No answer? OK. How about this then – I know about your adolescent J-Day plans. You just don’t know yet that all of the stock markets and financial institutions closed about five minutes ago. A bank holiday courtesy of me and Madame President.” That got his attention. He couldn’t control the corners of his mouth dropping.

“And she also has about a dozen drones circling only a quarter of a mile from here, armed with good old American Hellfire missiles. God, I wish I had my hands on one of those joysticks.” Even McNulty, who had overheard, was looking shocked. Gideon had taken his hands out of his pocket and looked like he was getting ready to run.

“Hyde, you are a stupid cop,” said Gideon. “You have no idea what you have gotten into. And dragged good people like McNulty along with you.”

“We came here in peace, unarmed. Just the two of us. I’m sure your video cameras are capturing that. So what are you going to do to us? In front of all of these people.” I pointed to the women sitting on the picnic tables.

Before Gideon could answer, we heard a noise and we all turned our heads. Doors banged open behind us. Women were pouring out of the Community centre from all exits, some with frightened looks on their faces, others determined, even angry. They soon filled the turnaround area. I could see this was not easy for them. Several were visibly shaking; arms pulled tight against their bodies.

A woman in the front, an elder, raised her fist in the air. "Gideon!” she yelled. “Put down your rifles. This is over."

Gideon stood silently, squinting into the sunlight. He looked back at the men behind him, their rifles at their sides. A few of the younger soldiers looked uncertain, their faces probably searching for mothers and sisters.
DNA was always part of the equation
.

Gideon finally turned and addressed the group. "Marjorie, my wife.” He smiled in a practiced way and raised his hands. “You forget. This is the moment we talked about! Dreamed about. And I told you what would happen then. That you would be frightened. That you would need to be strong.” He moved his focus around the group, connecting with as many faces as he could, working to draw them back in.

“This is the moment you sacrificed for. And in minutes the world will turn for us and everything will change. You, all of you, will own the new world. Now is not the time to lose courage.”

Marjorie answered him. "Not us, Gideon. We’re not afraid. But what about our children?” She stepped out from the group, the wind whipping her flower print dress around her knees. “We would have sacrificed ourselves for you, all of us, gladly. All you had to do was ask. But why the children? Why would you sacrifice our children?"

I looked back at Gideon.
The children? What were they talking about?

"We need an answer to that!" yelled another woman.

A soldier from the farmhouse porch yelled back. "Anna – go back in. We are almost there. Listen to Gideon. He knows best."

"No! He doesn't know best. You don't know what we found, Aaron. A huge bomb under our beds. Under the beds of our children.” She choked back tears. “Our leader wants to blow us up. He wants to kill Katie and Jeremy and all the rest." There was a groan of protest from the crowd, their discontent growing.

Gideon yelled, and people stopped talking. "We were never going to use that bomb. It is just a threat. You need to trust me."

"A threat to who?" yelled another woman, moving up from the back of the group of women. They parted for her, touched her shoulders and back with their hands. An elder. "Tell everyone here, Gideon, why you would risk all of the women and these innocent children."

There was a long silence at this point. I realized then that they were looking at him in a way that made it clear they were unaccustomed to outbursts. Gideon was especially angered with their uncertainty; the veins in his neck and forehead bulged and his face grew redder.

"He wants to sacrifice us," someone yelled. "Is this new world only for men?”

Another female voice quailed “Not for us or our children?" The women were growing in their diffidence. Gideon turned back to the men behind him.

"Is this how you control your women? Can't you see they are about to destroy everything . . ."

At that moment, Gideon paused, his mouth open, his eyes hooded. I’ve seen that look in prisoners before. Our staff psychologist calls it ‘cognitive load’. The human brain can only deal with so balls in the air at a time, and as a result, mental processing slows right down to a crawl. The scale of the lie Gideon was juggling was too much for even his impressive brain. He stalled, struggling to keep track of all the moving pieces.

I didn’t know it at the time, but he was also just coming to terms with the fact that his biggest secret was now out. That changed everything for him in an instant. And instead of having an army of federal agents surrounding the compound, he had just McNulty and I – armed with nothing more than a search warrant. Not a great media opportunity for the Soldiers of Patmos.

Shortly after that, all hell broke loose. And considering we were watching the launch of Gideon’s Armageddon, that’s a pretty appropriate description.