Blind Faith Prologue Revelations Eleven years ago The door sealed with a maddening finality. The goose bumps on his arms jumped to attention, as when you pull a cold blanket up around you on a winter night. When the room plunged into darkness, he could imagine the switch on the power box out back being thrown. The air was stale. Dry. It left the taste of cotton in his mouth. The fight had just begun, but he was ready for it to be over. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that could turn you into a gibbering lunatic if you thought about it long enough. Still, he struggled to slow his breathing to maintain absolute quiet. The tickle of stagnant water and something like sour milk made him pinch his nose to drive the stench away. Not knowing exactly where he was, he dropped to all fours, clawing for the pagan symbols etched in the wooden floor. Those rough marks told him he was in the corner between the wall and the stage, near the altar. Finding safety in movement, he set off in pursuit of his prey. The darkness forced images into his mind. This place had once been a church, a country church built of a sturdy wood. He pictured the mystic white steeple reaching for the sky and its bell that could be heard for miles around the countryside. Ornately carved oak pews stained black with filth stood in precise rows. The stench of feces and vomit littering the once majestic pews was barely noticeable to him. It was the taste, organic, that brought bile to his mouth. He swallowed it back. It had not changed since his first pilgrimage to this shrine. He had never thought it would. Now, hidden beneath the reek was something new: the smell of death. He imagined row after row of peach and pear trees standing firm and tranquil in the grove, flanking the church, bursting with the reds of the season. A small dirt parking lot would be on the other side of the building. A tingle touched the back of his neck and a roar exploded in his brain, warning him of the attack. Instinctively, he jumped. The thin venom of steel licked up his side. He arched away from the cold sting flying up and out through the silky spider webs into the rafters. Down, dancing across pews he landed without so much as a whisper, far from his enemy. The torn flesh of his side ached. He felt the wound to judge the damage. Hot fire shot up his side filling his vision. A long cut ran from armpit to hip on his right side. It wasn't deep, but it was bleeding with a vengeance. The salt from sweat and blood assaulted him. He licked the blood from the tips of his fingers. It tasted sweet at first, then bitter; but it drove the dryness from his mouth. Crouching back into the corner, he considered who had attacked. Peter wasn't aggressive; it must have been Karis. Drops of blood fell from his side, heating his anger. He should have struck back in retaliation. This was no game. Determined, he slid back against the wall, the dust from it grainy in his hands. Two would die today. As he considered it might be he, terror gnawed through his calmness. Peter might be dead already. No, Peter would be alive, hiding, biding his time. Peter had always been the patient one. The altar would be a few feet to his left. It had been cut from a single piece of granite and was large enough for a man to lie upon. Once it had been a dull gray. Now he knew that it was stained a dirty red. He inched towards the altar, muscles and tendons aching with every tiny effort. The ache left him feeling out of place, as if something was not quite right. It occurred to him that perhaps not all siblings fight to the death at age twelve. Quickly, he dismissed the thought. He was no different from other children. With all the world at stake, they would do the same. That's just how the world works. A church is a place of holy worship. Once filled with the fragrance of living wild flowers, it now emitted the odor of decay. It was a place of vague whispers for all but the minister, a place of reverence and refuge for any who seek it. This was his church, his ministry: a shrine for the rejected, the judged. The grove of trees was his grove, their trunks bare and twisted markers for the dead. The wound had begun weakening him, forcing exaggerated movements. If he kept this up it could kill him. He forced himself to relax, taking deep breaths, preparing for the ambush that would come. A long, piercing screech came from the rusted church bell, singing out to the dead, breaking through the howl of the wind. He flinched at the sound. He had to relax and focus. He could picture the slogans in black paint that desecrated the flaking white plaster walls. His mark was signed to many of them, a reminder of what he must do. Closing his eyes, he filled his mind's eye with the image of the dragon. The bitter tang of vinegar danced across his tongue. The pain began to ebb. He held the image for a moment, then sent his mind out into the room in pursuit of his prey. They were both still alive. The heat from their bodies formed dim silhouettes in his vision. One was six or seven aisles up from the altar, perched in the rafters like a falcon, ready to strike. The other was faint, but he could still make them out in the aisle between the pews, moving away from him. He inched away from the wall to a spot between a pair of pews directly beneath and behind the one in the rafters. That would be Peter. Karis wouldn't lie in wait; she didn't have the patience. Anthony wasn't comfortable with the thought of his first kill being a woman, especially Katie. They had spent so much time together, were so much alike. He would have to start with Peter. Knowing he would only get one shot, he gathered his strength. Reaching for the knife strapped to his side he carefully slid the cold blade from its sheath. His mouth tasted of dirt as his heart strained to escape his chest. Creeping onto the slippery pew, he waited. There would be only one chance. He launched himself, the pew creaking from the strain, high into the air directly behind his victim. Savagely he grabbed Peter, throwing one hand around his mouth to muffle any cry for help, and pulled him back from the rafter. Peter's ankles caught on the rafter and Anthony struggled to remain upright. Whipping his blade hand around him like a viper, he turned the blade back towards Peter. There was the slight resistance of flesh as it entered just below the ribs. With a hard impact and a crunch, they hit the pews. The wound in Anthony's side howled in protest. His knife hand went numb as the blade was driven out of Peter's body. Stunned, he stumbled back, the blade still in his hand. The acidic scent of urine emerged from Peter's still form. For a moment, he stared at the unnatural angle of his brother's body. Peter's back was bent where he had landed squarely on the pew. The heat of the blood and urine distorted the vision. Anthony forced himself not to grin, but couldn't help chuckling inside. He was still alive. The blow took him by surprise, metal scraped on metal as the blades met, knocking him over the pew and onto the floor. But Anthony had no time to appreciate his luck. His chin slammed into the floor. The rocky solidity of a tooth and rich blood exploded in his mouth. His instincts took control immediately and he rolled over and down the slight incline, under the pews. Each time his side hit the floor the agony of it throbbed newborn. Reaching the bottom, his elbow slammed into the stage sending sharp tingles through his arm. Disoriented, he fought the pain in his arm in a struggle to stand. He heard the crack as a hard impact to his face slammed his head back against the floor. A hand filled with his hair forced his head against the floor repeatedly. Anthony fought to stay conscious. When the collisions of his head to the floor stopped, the cool edge of steel was against his throat. "It's over... Everyone thought it would be you in the end. No one even considered me. What they should have realized is that in the end, only a woman can do what must be done." Anthony spit blood and saliva at her in defiance. He smiled, the dark pit of his missing tooth gaping, glad it was over. Chapter 1 Today "Oh! Oh, my Lord!" "What, Mary, what?" The dim early morning light of the alley made it hard for Paul to see what his wife was looking at. He tried to step around her; but she turned, bent over, and vomited onto the pavement right in front of him. Keeping her legs spread, so it wouldn't hit her shoes, she pulled her hair back to keep it clear of the spray. Paul stepped back and averted his eyes; he didn't want to lose his own breakfast. "Are you all right?" Mary didn't answer. She just turned away, pointing towards the corner created by the building and the dumpster. Paul stepped behind her, staring at the dark patch Mary had pointed out. Mary coughed, dry heaved, then spit; making Paul swallow and wish he had something to drink. "I don't see anything." Paul knelt towards the corner, placing his hand on the pavement. He wished his eyes were as good as Mary's, maybe he should have listened to her and gotten those glasses. Feeling something wet, he lifted his hand up and looked at it, hoping he hadn't just put his hand in a pool of urine. Paul's hand was covered in blood. Standing and stepping back, Paul saw what had startled Mary. An arm was sticking out from under the dumpster, cradling the wheel in its elbow. The hand had been severed, and maggots fed on the grisly stump that was lying in a pool of congealing blood. "Mary?" "Tell me it's not real, Paul. Lord, have mercy." "Mary, there's a phone right around the corner. Go call the police." "I'm not going anywhere." "Please, Mary, don't argue. The phone's not fifty feet from here." She gave him a dirty look but headed off in the direction of the phone. Paul reached into his pocket with a shaky hand and dug out the keychain flashlight he kept. Turning the head of the flashlight it didn't come on. He smacked the light and was rewarded with a dim beam of light. He smacked it again and the light brightened up. Paul and Mary enjoyed helping the homeless and this wasn't the first time they had stumbled onto a body in the alleys. It was the first body missing a hand, and it filled Paul with a feeling of dread. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to see what was lying in that corner exposed to the light, but he had to make sure it was a body. What if it was still alive? He doubted it was. Whoever was lying in that corner had lost a lot of blood, more than Paul would have thought possible. Still, if there was life in it and he could help, he would. Shining the beam into the corner, he saw that the figure had a green army jacket stained almost black pulled up around him like a blanket. A mop of dirty brown hair peeked out from the top of the jacket. Paul tentatively reached down to pull the jacket away. It was like pulling Velcro apart. The blood had dried to the jacket. Paul desperately fought to keep from vomiting. The image beneath was haunting: puffy skin, surgical wounds, and blood. The boy was nude and probably no more than eighteen. Both hands were severed. The cheeks were puffed out like some monstrous chipmunk but it was the salty smell of the blood that would forever plague Paul. Who ever had done this had taken their time. This was no murder of rage. Whoever had done this had enjoyed it. Paul's thoughts turned to Mary, she should have returned by now, something in a store window had probably caught her eye or maybe the police where making her hold the line until they arrived. Gradually worry crept into Paul's heart like a predatory animal stalking it's prey. "Mary?" Paul held his breath straining to hear an answer. None came. He left the body and moved towards the street. At the corner he turned to look at the pay phone that hung from the wall of the liquor store. The receiver lay swinging from it's flexible metal cord. No Mary. Paul turned around. Still no Mary. Not a single sole was on the street. "Mary!" Paul tried to keep panic from his voice, but it still came out shrill and broken. No answer. Paul moved off in the opposite direction of the liquor store, towards their Lincoln. He didn't know what else he could do. Maybe she had gone back to the car for something. Maybe. The car was just around the corner from a Wallgreens drug store. Paul picked up his pace to match that of his heart. Turning the corner Paul collided with a street sign stating "We cash post dated checks. No id required." Stumbling, he fell to the ground scuffing his palms. He bounced back to his feet mumbling an excuse me before he realized it was as sign. Wiping the gravel from the palm of his hands, spots of blood rose to the surface and the sight of the blood brought with it a sharp stinging. Looking up Paul spotted the Lincoln. No one inside the car, no one on the street, no Mary. Paul turned his head trying to encompass as much of the area as he could, scanning, searching for some sign of his wife. He shouldn't have sent her to call the police on her own. He should have stayed with her. Paul was starting to sweat, great glistening beads were forming on his forehead. He wiped the sweat from his brow and immediately wished he hadn't. The saltiness of his perspiration turned the sting to a ball of fiery pain in his palm. He should call the police. Racing back around the corner he headed for the phone. A firm grip on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. Paul nearly screamed. Turning Mary stood before him with an Ice Cream in her hand. "Paul, where are you going?" "Mary, Thank God. Where did you go?! You weren't at the phone. Why didn't you tell me where you were going?! I thought..." "Paul, the phone was out of order. Didn't you see the sign on it?" "Sign?" "That's why I came to the drug store, to use their phone. The police are on the way. Said they'd send a car right over. What's gotten into you, Paul?" "Nothing. Let's get out of here." "Shouldn't we wait for the police." "You can if you want but I'm going home." Before she could even respond he headed for the car. It would be a couple months before Paul was up to making a trip back to the allies. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * A shadow appeared across Blake's table, and in the dim light of the restaurant, that was saying something. A bright perfume stole into his thoughts but he blocked it out. The program, he still had to knock two megs off it. You just can't fit eighteen megs on a sixteen meg chip. It would make his life a hell of a lot easier if you could. When he had gotten the program it was thirty-two megs. Now it was eighteen, but all that work was going to go down the drain if he didn't get it down to sixteen. His employers never noticed how hard he tried — only if he failed. The shadow was still there, rustling noises flickering in and out of his thoughts, a mild invasion into his mind. Sipping on the warm and watered Coke, Blake mumbled something about not needing anything so the waitress would go away. The program really wasn't a new program at all: more like a group of existing programs thrown together, designed to work as one. Each subprogram was broken down to its most basic form. Only those functions needed would be kept. He wasn't sure that he could get two more megs off it. The shadow was still there, silently intruding. Blake glanced up. It was a man, his pressed shirt tucked into ironed jeans, wearing expensive flowery perfume, his black leather motorcycle boots creaking when he shifted weight. Over this he wore a mid-length black leather coat, the belt dangling at his sides. Blake new the type. Everything was in just the right spot, picture perfect. Recognition dawned. It was Nick Bower or Bowen something like that, one of Karis's ex-college friends from Oklahoma State. Blake hadn't seen him in quite some time and was a little surprised he was here. He had dark hair slicked back and a goatee, the kind that was so popular now. Blake would bet money that he had been a frat boy. "Hey, Nick. How's it going?" "That all depends on you, my friend. Mind if I have a seat?" Man, he hated it when people he barely knew called him friend. People like that always want something from you. He waved Nick towards the seat and stabbed a bland fry into his mouth. "What do you want, Nick?" "Same old Blake. I'll get straight to the point. I want access to the backdoor." Blake was stunned. Without looking up, he pushed aside his plate and slid a crumpled pack of Winstons out of his pocket with one hand while searching for his lighter with the other. "For which program?" "You know which program, Blake." Finding the lighter, he lit up. Smoke burned every other taste from his tongue. He blew smoke across the table to negate the overbearing perfume. Who the hell was this guy to sit here and ask for access to a program? "I don't know anything about any backdoors." Nick waved the smoke from his face, frowning. "Don't play games with me, Blake. I want SYSOP access to the program your working on." It came out a guttural whisper forcing Blake to strain his ears. Exactly how much did he know about the backdoors? The last time he saw Nick, the man didn't know a keyboard from a mouse. The backdoors were his insurance policy, and not even his boss knew about them. "Impossible, there are no backdoors." "Blake, you don't seem to understand. Millions of lives are on the line." Blake figured Nick to be the kind of guy that was always busy at work but never got anything done. He took another drag, savoring the dark tang, flicked the ashes to the floor. Nick's eyes drifted to the ring of smoke floating up from the end of the cigarette. Blake blew the smoke directly at Nick, relishing the fact that his smoke had overpowered the prissy perfume. It was apparent that this guy would say anything to get his hands on the backdoor. "I'd like to help you, Nick, but it's not mine to give." "I'm sorry to hear you say that, Blake. You see, I'll get what I want." This time Nick made no attempt to banish the smoke. "Are you threatening me?" He could hear anger heating his tone. Man, this guy had balls the size of basketballs. Nick stood up and flicked a business card onto Blake's lap. "Take it however you like. Here's my number. Give me a call when you change your mind." "Listen, asshole, I'd sell my soul before giving you a hair off my ass." The prissy perfume returned on an inconsiderate breeze. People nowadays could be real pricks. "Be careful what you wish for, Blake. Be seeing you around." Blake grunted, watched him leave, picked up the card Nick had left with his phone number. He wondered how Nick had known; who had been watching him. If his bosses had found out about the backdoors he would be out of a job. They might even prosecute him. It would ruin him. He sucked off the last drag, tasting the flame as it hit the filter. Using his trusty Bic he set the card aflame and watched it burn in the ashtray. Blake had no idea that things would only get worse once he got home. * * * * * * * * * * Man, she was pissed. That was one thing Blake had always been good at — pissing her off. "It's over!" she screamed, anger leaping from her throat like a flame. "Just leave me the hell alone!" She was flipping channels. He stood there dazed. The whiff of last nights dinner still lingered in the air like a ghost. How could she end it? Three and a half years was worth more than that. He wasn't a great man, maybe he wasn't even a good man, but he wasn't going to let her just walk away. As if he had a choice. "Why?" he whined. "Blake, you're blind." Again he pushed the issue. "Just tell me why!" She looked up from the TV and the stare she flashed him was cold, that of a woman beyond emotion, pushed beyond control. Softly she said, "Because I don't love you anymore. I don't want to be with you any more. Move on with your life." That hurt. Why was she doing this? What did she want from him? A lump was forming in his throat. He tried to swallow it back. "Did you ever love me?" he asked. "Why are you so concerned about love, Blake? Love has nothing to do with it." She got up from the couch and strolled into the kitchen. The luscious smell of honeysuckle beckoned him as she passed. "Love has everything to do with it. If you loved me once, you can love me again. We can work this out." "Blake, I don't want to work it out. It's just not worth it. I want to see other people." Flipping his hair back out of his eyes he followed, stopping inches behind her. The honeysuckle fragrance was stronger, begging him to embrace her, but he fought it. "Don't you suppose you should take some time for yourself, think this through?" She turned and faced him pointing an accusing finger. She shrieked at him. "I asked for some time to myself a week ago and you couldn't, no, wouldn't, give it to me!" He stepped back. "But, I will this time." He could almost taste the candy softness of her lips on his. Desperately he stared into her dark green eyes. But she turned away. "Blake, it's too late." "Man, it's never too late." His hands frantically searched his pockets. He wanted a smoke. The quick release smoking provided. Maybe his cigarettes were in the car. The thought of her being in the arms of another man struck him like a physical blow. He had to know. "Who are you going to date?" "It doesn't matter." "The fuck it doesn't matter, Karis. Who?" "Nick." His blood went cold, and his mouth suddenly went dry. Had he heard desire in her voice? "Nick that you went to school with?" "Yeah." He saw the word more than he could hear it, and for a moment he thought he could smell the saltiness of sex. Quickly he brushed it away. It was unwanted, unfounded. Still, it lingered in the paranoid side of his mind. "I just think you're moving a little fast, Karis." He wanted to tell her what Nick was, a predator. He wanted to say something about their little meeting. Would it matter? She wouldn't believe him. "Blake, I don't care what you think." She yanked a handful of clothes from the dryer, stuffed them in her bag and snatched her purse off the counter. Nothing he was going to say would change her mind. She had always been like that. Once she made up her mind, you were screwed. All you could do was give her a few days and hope she changed her mind. "Karis." "What?" "I love you; I always will." She turned towards him and took off her ring, the first time he had ever seen her do that, and handed it to him. "I'm sorry, Blake." He took the ring. Stared at it. Tried to hand it back. "You keep it." "I don't want it." She turned back away from him. He walked to her purse and tossed the ring inside. Her back was still to him. "You won't be pissed at me forever." "Just leave me alone. Will you? Please? Just leave me alone!" She shoved by him snatching her purse, throwing it into her car. She hopped behind the wheel, started the motor and drove away, leaving him the pungent smell of exhaust for his troubles. She never even glanced up at him. He stood there. Finding a cigarette he smoked it, but it didn't help. This time it tasted all wrong. Damn if he hadn't really messed that up. Nick, that little pissant, what was he up to?
On Blake's way to work, images of Karis kept popping into his mind. The damned stereo in his car didn't work, and that just pissed him off. Nothing like listening to your mind replay the last few years with the woman who had just left you. It wasn't the bad times, but all the good times they had spent together that invaded his mind. The first kiss. They were sitting in his old beat up truck at a park in front of a pond. They had talked for what must have been hours. The soft aroma of peaches filled the air. He asked her to sit on his lap. She had looked at him as if he was crazy, but she had slid over and hopped in his lap. He could hear her soft and rapid breathing. Her fingers toyed with her bottom lip, she looked nervous. She felt wonderful, soft as a cloud. His heart had raced. He had kissed her and she had kissed him back. It was a short kiss, tasting soft and dry as a rose petal, but to him the world seemed to stop in that moment. Blake lit a cigarette, smacking down the restrictive smoke. He rolled the window all the way down, wrinkling his nose at the wind and hoping that the noise of it would take his mind off it all. Saying I love you for the first time. They had just finished their fourth date. Their long kiss had left the tang of her honeyed mouth deep in his throat. The scent of her fresh desire flowed across him in pounding waves. He stood at the door of her car and told her goodbye. The warmth of the sun in the cold breeze sent gooseflesh running down his arms. It had been an accident, he had said the words before he had known he was going to say them. It was that natural, seemed that right. He had tried to take it back; he'd thought it was too soon. She laughed, a musical sound that lit up her eyes, and told him it was too late. She said she loved him too. He had watched her drive off, leaving him stammering for something to say. The first time they made love — he couldn't go on, this shit was killing him. Dodging his way in and out of traffic as the speedometer inched its way up around eighty, he just wanted to forget. The gold ivy-etched ring on his left hand wouldn't let him forget. They hadn't ever been married, but it sure felt as if they had. They had bought rings and the whole thing. He'd been married once and ending it hadn't been all bad. Somehow this was different, much worse. This time the ring had meant something. Now it was a symbol of his failure. He considered taking it off. Fuck it. He would wear it as a badge, a symbol of love once found, then lost. Maybe it wasn't over. Maybe she really would change her mind. He wasn't the kind of man who gave up easily. Nick, what kind of a sick game was he playing? Did he really think he could get away with this? Now he understood why Nick wore so much damn perfume. It was to cover the fact that he stank. Karis had taken everything that had meant something — the photos of them, the letters he had written her, and her ring. Actually, sneaking her ring in with her stuff might not count. But she hadn't thrown it in his face. That had to mean something. What had happened between them? Why had she given up so suddenly? If she would only talk to him maybe he could figure it all out and make it right. He had to find a way to get her back, one way or another. May 1999 HofP |