The Breath of God (18 page)

“No one was supposed to be hurt,” he'd cried.

“Johnny, every war has its casualties.”

“I'm sorry, I just can't do this.”

They'd parted and hadn't spoken since. Tim wondered whether he should let Johnny live. He was a loose cannon, capable of turning himself in over
guilt. In the end, Tim decided that Johnny was too much a wimp to take responsibility. Plus, he could never handle jail. Only Tim had the requisite faith and strength for the plans God had.

Tim's discovery on one of his favorite blogs had changed everything. Now he understood that the bombing had been a warm-up. The danger presented by this new discovery was much greater than that posed by the scientists in their labs. Tim had heard how the CDC scientists experimented with viruses like Ebola and AIDS. They claimed that they did this to learn about the diseases, but Tim knew better. His new discovery, however, revealed a danger more deadly than the potential to use a virus as a weapon: the research being done by Grant Matthews was aimed at attacking not people's bodies but their souls. He'd sat in disbelief, staring at the article that described the texts Matthews found in the Himalayas.
How can this guy make such a claim?
he'd wondered.

Reverend Brady's sermons came to mind: this was precisely how Satan worked. Just as Satan periodically threw temptations his way that he struggled to resist, the Dark Lord sent people like Grant Matthews to undermine people's beliefs. Tim took two hours to calm down after reading the article and then began to hatch his plan. First he'd emailed the reverend. He recalled the words from Brady's short reply, “My son,”—Tim must have read the salutation fifty times—“I deeply appreciate your commitment to the Lord and our community at New Hope. Fondly, Rev. Brady.” Then Tim began his preparations.

Returning to Atlanta so soon after the bombing carried certain risks, but he'd covered his earlier tracks well, and implementing God's will wasn't supposed to be easy. He had to move quickly. Tim would play a role in history—God's history. He would find salvation for his sins.

Tim located the tarnished brass numbers on the second floor. Apartment 208. From his right pocket he produced a small leather case containing the lock pick set he'd kept from years earlier during his spec ops training. It had served him well during his brief job at the hospital, but now he understood that God had been paving the road for this mission all along. He worked quickly until he felt the pins click into place. The door swung open with only a slight creak.

After replacing the lock pick into the long cargo pocket, he pulled his Glock forty-caliber semiautomatic pistol from the nylon holster hidden under his sweater. The Glock, with its extended fifteen-round magazine, was his favorite close combat weapon. While the 9mm model was widely used by police forces, Tim had heard enough stories of amped-up perpetrators taking multiple body shots without falling that he preferred the more powerful forty. The gun's composite parts made it lightweight and easy to handle. In addition to being simply camouflaged when disassembled, the gun had no safety to disengage, which ensured that lethal seconds wouldn't be lost during a firefight.

Tim stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him to keep the cold air from waking the sleeping occupant. A small foyer opened to a living room, which was dimly lit from the kitchen to the left. He advanced with the Glock in front of him.

Approaching a futon in the living room, he noted that it had been pulled out into a bed, a pile of laundry scattered on top.

The pile of laundry shifted.

A surge of adrenaline pulsed through Tim's veins. He swung the pistol toward the futon and froze.

For the next two minutes, neither Tim nor the laundry budged. He crept to the edge of the futon without letting the gun barrel waver.

Grant Matthews lay sleeping on his side. Matthews had bunched a heavy comforter over his legs and waist, giving the illusion of laundry from across the dark room. He slept alone. But why was he in the living room? Tim glanced to the closed door ahead of him. Maybe Matthews had a guest.

Tim studied the profile of the man who had discovered the heresy that Tim knew, from the moment he read it, it would be his mission to stop before it could spread like a virus through his country. The various articles he'd read online were essentially the same: each contained a forwarded copy of an email that Grant Matthews had sent to a professor at Emory. In addition to a translation of the heretical texts, the email had information that Tim would exploit this evening. Matthews had written that the texts were still in Bhutan but he was bringing back photographic proof. Since no photos had been posted and Matthews's flight had arrived earlier that evening, Tim hoped that he was in
time. One of the rules of combat was that acting first gave you the upper hand. Now Tim was acting first.

Although the face on the pillow was relaxed in sleep, Matthews had a strong jawline that terminated in a cleft chin partially obscured by a couple of days' worth of stubble. Tim recognized the grad student from his Facebook page. He slept shirtless, and Tim's eyes traced the twist of his torso, which accentuated the V shape of his lat muscle as it tapered to his trim waist.

Tim's right arm began to tingle. The feeling was almost pleasurable. He bit his lip. What was he doing?

Then he understood. He was being tested.
Tempted
. Underneath his sweater the tingling became an itch and quickly a burning. For once, he relished the burn: the distraction from his sinful thoughts. Instead of scratching, he extended the arm until the muzzle of the gun was only a foot from the luxurious dark hair on Matthews's head.

Tim caressed the trigger with his index finger. Just a slight pressure would splatter chunks of brain matter and shards of skull onto the white pillowcase. He savored the image of this quick solution to his problems. Then he crept away.

Confident that Matthews slept soundly, Tim silently searched the apartment. He found the first two items on the kitchen counter—an expensive Nikon camera and Matthews's cell phone, which was plugged into a charger. Before taking them, Tim studied their exact positions on the countertop. Then he switched the phone to vibrate, stuck it in his pocket, and slung the camera over his shoulder.

Not seeing the third item anywhere in the kitchen or living room, he inched the bedroom door open and stepped inside. As he expected, he saw the outline of a body on the bed. Matthews had company. Then he spotted what he'd come for: Matthews's laptop, on a chair to the right of the door. He should have taken it then and left the apartment, but a force out of his control drew him further into the room.

She lay sleeping, tangled in the bedsheets. He shuffled to within inches of the bed. Her long, black hair fanned out over her pillow like the plumage displayed by a peacock. From her facial features he guessed that she was a half-breed. He studied the roundness of her breasts, outlined against the fabric of
an oversized T-shirt. Her bare right leg was draped on top of the sheets while she grasped at the rest of the bedcovers like a child holding on to her blanket. Tim followed the sweep of her leg from the arch of her foot, along the line of her calf muscle, up to the taut skin of her thigh.

Tim swallowed, aware that he'd been producing copious amounts of saliva. Who was she? A girlfriend? But why weren't they in bed together doing it? A lover's quarrel, perhaps?

He urged his body to turn and leave, but instead he leaned forward, his face inches from hers. He held his breath to avoid any sound that might wake her. He could hear her steady breathing and see the slight flare of her delicate nostrils with each breath. Tim then inhaled deeply but slowly, drawing her fragrance into his lungs as if she were an exotic dish that he was savoring before tasting. He felt nothing.

The itch began as a crackling sensation along both arms and radiated to the core of his body. He straightened and backed toward the bedroom door. He lifted the laptop from the armchair and placed it under his left arm, keeping his right hand free to maneuver his pistol.

Less than two minutes later, Tim sat panting in the front seat of his car.

“Idiot!” He banged the steering wheel.

He'd been stupid, but lucky. His actions in the apartment could have compromised the entire mission. Only he had the smarts and skills to accomplish a task of this sensitivity and this importance, yet he'd just risked everything.
For what?
He would make them both pay for the trouble they were causing on so many levels.

Tim glanced at the clock on the dash: 2:30. He began his work. Once again, the cyber ops training he'd received during his time with Army Intelligence at INSCOM would serve him well. God had been planting the seeds even then.

G
RANT MARCHED UP THE stone stairs toward Bishops Hall, the main administrative and classroom building of the Candler School of Theology, located just off the central quadrangle on the Emory campus. Even though he was still in the cast, his pace forced Kristin to hurry to keep up. He tried unsuccessfully to erase the image in his mind of the hundreds of emails from the previous night. He was so discouraged, he hadn't even bothered to turn his laptop on that morning. Kristin now carried it in her backpack along with the camera.

“Impressive campus,” she said, wearing jeans that hung low on her hips and a faded Johns Hopkins sweatshirt. “The limestone walls and terra-cotta roofs remind me of a village in Tuscany.” The warm southern sun highlighting the fall hues on the campus oak trees added to the picture. “This where you take your classes?” she asked.

“Just a couple.” He jerked open the heavy door. “Candler's a Methodist seminary. My PhD program falls under Emory's Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, but the Division of Religion shares some classes and faculty with Candler. Professor Billingsly's office is here.”

When they reached the door with the nameplate reading “Harold Billingsly,” Grant didn't so much open the door as burst through it. Startled, the professor jumped in his seat before rising to greet them. With his thinning gray hair, half-moon reading glasses perched on his nose, blue oxford shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and striped tie, Billingsly appeared like the professor he was. But his usual jovial expression had been replaced by red, swollen eyes.

“Welcome back,” Billingsly said.

The sadness in his mentor's voice halted the momentum of Grant's anger. “Are you okay?”

“You haven't heard about the bombing?”

“Bombing? We just returned late yesterday.”

Billingsly described the attack on the campus the previous week that had cost Professor Martha Simpson her life. “We hadn't been dating that long”—his voice cracked—“but I really felt a connection with her.” He shuddered. “When I close my eyes, I can still smell her perfume.”

“I had no idea.” Grant approached his mentor. Lines of concern replaced those of anger on his face. “I'm so sorry. Do they have any leads?”

“Not yet. All the FBI will say is that the van that contained the bomb was stolen from Birmingham Airport.”

“I guess that explains the security,” Kristin said. Just a few minutes earlier, a guard at the parking lot had examined Grant's student ID before allowing them to enter, and they'd passed numerous police patrolling the campus on the short walk to Bishops Hall.

“Ah, you must be Ms. Misaki, the lovely journalist Grant spoke so highly of in his voicemails to me.” Grant felt the back of his neck flush. The professor extended his hand. “Harold Billingsly.”

“Please, call me Kristin.” She held the professor's hand in both of hers.

Billingsly motioned to two black wooden chairs with the Harvard crest on the backrests in front of his desk. Kristin hopped into one with her legs folded underneath her, while Billingsly pushed aside a stack of journals and sat on the edge of his desk. Grant remained standing.

“How could you, Harold?” he asked. “I trusted you.”

“Whoa. Slow down a minute. I was shocked to see the story published too.”

“But you were the only one I sent the email to!” Grant spat out the words.

Billingsly shifted his weight on the desk, suddenly seeming very uncomfortable. “After Martha's death, I was a little out of it. I forwarded your email to a couple of people in the department. Thought I'd line up resources for the work you had ahead.” He cast his eyes to the floor. “After Martha's funeral, I drove to my cabin in the mountains for a few days alone. I returned yesterday
to a deluge of voicemails from people wanting to speak to you.” He looked back up at Grant. “Someone in the department must have inadvertently let the email out.”

Grant massaged his temples with his fingers.

“Grant.” Billingsly leaned forward and placed a hand on his student's shoulder. “We don't have the luxury of time. For all we know, your monk friend has shared these texts with other tourists too.”

“Not Kinley.”

“Maybe, but realize that you have a career-making opportunity here—greater than anything you could have dreamed up.”

Grant lifted his head. On the flight back he'd indulged in the daydream of talk shows, book deals, and lecture circuits. He settled into the hard chair, extending his leg with the cast to the side. He felt his leg begin to throb. He couldn't wait to get the damn cast removed.

“So what do we do next?”

“Professor Singh has agreed to review your pictures of the texts. He can give us a quick read on the accuracy of the translation.”

Grant glanced at his mentor. As supportive as Billingsly had been over the years, he'd always been cautious about Grant's research. Grant reached into the backpack Kristin had set down at his feet and removed his laptop. He noticed Billingsly studying his unshaven face.