Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1) Page 16

  Henri—or what was left of Henri—stared back at him through empty eye sockets. Someone had surgically opened his lower stomach, which was an empty crater. His naked body was a mosaic of burns and slices. His genitals were missing.

  Burke slowed his breathing, even as the cab raced through traffic.

  The next file was a video. Burke didn’t want to open it, but Henri had been a loyal employee and friend for many years. The picture image of the short movie was crystal clear. Henri was very much alive. Henri was being forced to stay on his feet as he staggered around a wooden post. One end of his small intestine had been nailed to the post. Every time Henri started to fall, one or two men would catch him and keep him on two feet. They would then push him forward as seven meters of small intestine was pulled from his body and wound around the post. Each meter, the men screamed the same questions in his eyeless face.

  “Where is his base of operations? How do you connect with him? How do we find Burke?”

  Pauline and Henri both dead. Time to pull everyone off the operation and tell them to disappear. He didn’t care that it was doubtful he would ever see the second half of the blood money on the Alexander contract.

  A reflex inside him wanted to go back a few years and say a prayer for Pauline and Henri and maybe himself. He knew the Sunday School answer was that no matter what you’ve done bad in life, you can always start over with a clean slate. He shrugged the thought away. There is too much blood on my hands. Soon there will be more.

  33

  The Ozark National Forest

  PAULINE OPENED HER EYES, STILL groggy from her ordeal the day before. At least she assumed it was the day before.

  I’m alive. Spared again. But for what?

  She sat up slowly. There was no curtain on the window and dancing shafts of starlight filtered into her room, turning blackness to smudges of charcoal gray and azure blue accents.

  She stood up and the rough wooden floorboards creaked and groaned loudly. She tiptoed to the window. She was upstairs in a cabin surrounded by a dense forest. She moved to the front window. A small yard, no more than fifty meters deep was swallowed into the woods at its abrupt end. To the left was a small structure. He first thought was storage, but the rough hewn side wall didn’t reach floor or ceiling. A small barn?

  Her bed was a double with a soft down mattress. A single dresser had a line of plush dolls arranged on it. She looked at the bedspread. It was actually a quilt with a mosaic of flowers. The nightstand had a small lamp shaped like a kitten on it. The only other piece of furniture was a small writing desk. A row of ceramic cats looked at her. In front of them was a glass of water and a small plate with cut fruit, cheese, and crackers, covered by the sheen of Saran wrap. Her stomach growled on cue. Her mouth was dry.

  She crept over, planning to eat and drink slowly. The plate and glass were empty in less than a minute.

  Now I’ll have to go to the bathroom.

  She looked at the door with fear. What lay beyond it? Jules and other Alexander men? Could she even open it? It might be locked. She was probably a prisoner. She looked out the window again. There was a shallow roof that covered a wrap around porch. She could climb on that and jump from there—maybe a twelve-foot drop—without major injury. But where would she go?

  She looked at the ceramic cats thoughtfully. If she broke off the head of one she would have a dangerous weapon to stab or slash with. She would love to drive a spiked shard of ceramic into Jules’ eye socket. When had she ever thought things like that? Living in fear for six months, being shot, and running for your life could do that to you.

  She felt her shoulder and realized someone had taken off her clothes and dressed the wound. She was wearing an oversized pair of men’s pajamas. How long had she been asleep? Her eyes were already wanting to close. Apparently not long enough.

  She mustered her courage and treaded toward the door. She opened it and it creaked loud enough to wake someone in a neighboring state. It didn’t matter. She was where she was. She couldn’t kill Jules with a broken cat—and probably not with an Uzi.

  She peered down a short narrow hallway. There was a door at the other end. Undoubtedly another bedroom. Halfway down the hall was a night light. It was placed in a socket outside an open door. Had to be a bathroom.

  The carpet runner muffled her footsteps a little, but occasionally she would step on wood strip that was just waiting to holler. She turned into the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the light. It was a tiny room with a small shower, a toilet, a recessed bookcase with toiletries and supplies, and a small sink. On it was a towel, a bar of soap, a small glass with a new toothbrush in it, and toothpaste. The bare necessities. All she needed.

  She used the toilet, considered a shower, but settled for a quick sponge bath with the washcloth. She brushed her teeth. Took a look in the mirror at her dark ringed sunken eyes. She examined her shoulder closely. The wound was covered with a thick unguent poultice and held in place with a gauze wrap. Amazingly the pain was manageable. A home remedy? She wanted to lift the poultice to see the state of the bullet wound, but figured it was better off left alone at the moment.

  She knew she had to figure out where she was and plan what to do next. But that would have to wait. She was warm with food and water inside her. She wasn’t exactly clean or pain free, but her conditions were reasonable to great under the circumstances. She was too tired to think anyway. She went back to the little girl bedroom, shut the door, pulled the blankets up tight under her chin, and was asleep in less than thirty seconds.

  34

  Bentonville, Arkansas

  REVEREND DWIGHT GARRISON WOKE WITH a start. He sat up wide-eyed. He had soaked the bed in sweat a second night in a row. His wife Judy mumbled something to him but wasn’t quite awake and rolled away from him, never opening her eyes.

  Good. This was his problem. He didn’t want to bother her rest. He didn’t want her to see him like this.

  What was going on? Why was he dreaming so vividly of war, plague, and pestilence? Where had such vivid images of tortured death come from? He didn’t watch violent movies or play violent games. He was taught as a child to guard his heart and mind from images of evil and that was how he had conducted his life.

  He walked into the small kitchen of the three-bedroom ranch house on the corner of the church property. He took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. He smoothed back his bedraggled hair. Wow. What a dream—what a nightmare. It was a vision of hell on earth. In the middle of the carnage was Jonathan Alexander, riding a huge red horse.

  Their last meeting was both remarkable and unremarkable.

  What was most remarkable was that one of the richest men in the world had visited him three days ago. Him. Dwight Garrison. Pastor of the Mount Olive Independent Baptist Church. And not for the first time.

  He sat down at the kitchen table to clear his mind and say a quick prayer. His Bible was next to him, still open to Revelation 9.

  He half stood to return to the bedroom but realized he wasn’t going to fall back asleep anytime soon … not after seeing the blood seeping from the eyes, the nostrils, the ears, and every other orifice of the children. Not after seeing blackened fields littered with men, women, and children in the last stages of starvation, stomachs bloated, eyes vacant. Their mouths opened and closed to voice the moans of their misery, but no sound coming out. No, he would not fall back asleep easily after seeing missiles turn airplanes into fiery infernos. In those scenes he could hear the screaming of the victims.

  His meeting with Alexander was also remarkable for the specific line of questioning. The international businessman always wanted to know more about the Book of Revelation in broad terms. But this visit had been different. The man had something specific on his mind.

  “I’m just a country preacher, Mr. Alexander, why do you come to see me?” he had asked.

  “Maybe God brought me to you.”

  “But you’ve told me you’re not sure you believe in God.�
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  “Consider me a seeker of truth,” Alexander had answered.

  In previous conversations, Alexander would ask an occasional question and listen. Garrison would do most of the speaking.

  Not yesterday. After his dreams, the meeting felt like it had taken place a week ago.

  He had never seen the man so animated as he asked his questions. What armies will be at Armageddon? Are you sure? Tell me again what factors will start the final battle? Who is the Antichrist? Who is the Beast? How will they be recognized? Who is the Whore of Babylon? What form will Christ take? Will the Beast know his role in waging war against Christ? Will he know the prophecies of John? Will he think he can win? What is the timetable?

  This didn’t seem theoretical to the man. It was as if Alexander had been visited by the supernatural and knew something was coming.

  When Garrison felt the call to be a preacher and attended Bible College in Chesterton, Indiana, he had yearned for deep conversations like this. Well, not like this, but intense dialog on Scripture and spiritual matters. He pictured being a pastor as preaching twice on Sunday, leading a Bible study and prayer meeting on Wednesday night, and a series of hour-long meetings Monday through Saturday with sincere seekers who wanted to know how God’s Word applied to this or that situation in their life.

  Those Monday-through-Saturday, heart-to-heart encounters had been few and far between, replaced by meetings to make sure there was enough money to keep the lights turned on, buy supplies, and ensure he had a salary. In the seven or eight times he and Alexander met, he kept looking for signs that he was boring the man. But Alexander never looked at his watch or phone. He gave Garrison his undivided attention. He seemed to cling to every word. He wrote nothing but Garrison wondered if he was recording the conversation because he kept looking at a small jeweled pin on his lapel.

  I probably got carried away with such a receptive audience and waxed a little too eloquent at times, Garrison thought, finally mustering a small smile. A dying child, being torn apart by vultures, reappeared from his dream. The smile was gone.

  But for this last conversation the billionaire directed the dialog with his questions, including a few that threw Garrison for a loop. They felt … strange. Eerie. They were troubling. Especially in the last moments of their time together. No wonder his dreams were so surreal. Was that the only thing he needed to understand to explain his dreams?

  Alexander had repositioned himself in the chair across from Garrison, looked at him with dark hazel eyes, and said, “I just need to clarify something we discussed earlier. What is your understanding of confidentiality between a minister and someone he is counseling?”

  After a brief pause Garrison answered, “If someone comes to me with a personal spiritual issue, then I can’t legally or morally reveal the contents of our meeting.”

  “I want to remind you that I’ve come to you with a personal spiritual issue,” Alexander had said quickly, too quickly. “Will you honor this meeting with a continued commitment to confidentiality?”

  “I’ve already answered this question in previous meetings Mr. Alexander.”

  “Call me Doubting Thomas. I need to hear the words again. Will you keep our conversation confidential? No matter what?”

  “Yes sir, I will.”

  “I’ve been given promises before that were broken, seemingly on a whim. How do I know you are different?”

  “If you care to talk to anyone in my congregation or family, I think they will tell you I am a man of my word,” Garrison answered.

  “That isn’t practical and it won’t be necessary,” Alexander said. “I think I trust you.”

  He had never had anyone be so direct on the issue of confidentiality. Despite a twinge of concern, he assumed—or was it that he hoped—at the moment that it had to do with Jonathan Alexander’s legendary aversion to publicity. If the meeting had ended like he hoped it would, Garrison would tell Alexander that if he accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior, he would need to make a public confession of his faith and be baptized. But that opportunity never arrived.

  There had been a rare pause in their conversation. Garrison had run out of words. Alexander remained silent for a moment. His eyes seem to bore into Garrison’s soul. It felt strange. He wanted to believe the man was pondering the offer of eternal life Garrison had just presented to him. But Alexander’s next questions, his final questions, were again about the Beast.

  “Reverend Garrison, in your considerable knowledge of what you call the End Times, do you believe that a man can consciously volunteer to assist God in bringing all this about? Can a man choose to assume a role in creating the conditions for Armageddon? As one example, could a man choose to be the Beast?”

  Unlike their previous encounters, Garrison didn’t know how to answer immediately. What was the man asking? What was he getting at? Did he know something? Had he recognized evil in someone?

  After another moment of silence Garrison said, “There are Christians who have committed their lives to seeing the Gospel preached to the ends of the earth in order to meet that condition for Christ’s Second Coming. I don’t know of anyone working toward Armageddon—something no one wants to see happen—but I can see why you asked it that way. The two events are connected. Do you know someone who wants to be the Beast?”

  He smiled but Alexander just stared back.

  “There are those who have been committed to establishing and preserving a Jewish nation for that same reason,” Reverend Garrison awkwardly continued. “God will use whom He will, but yes, I have to assume that a man can consciously volunteer to be part of God’s glorious plan for the End Times.”

  He planned to clarify that he didn’t think a role as specific as the Beast would be within human purview. But Alexander cut him off and stood abruptly.

  He had hoped beyond hope to once again ask Alexander if he was ready to accept Jesus as his Lord and Savior, but the man was done talking. He had extended his hand, and the two men shook hands.

  “Thank you, Reverend Garrison. That is exactly what I wanted to hear. You have been most helpful.”

  Garrison wanted to say something more but couldn’t muster his thoughts to get even a word out.

  Alexander paused before he reached the office door, pulled a notecard out of his jacket pocket, and placed it carefully on the corner of Garrison’s desk, and looked him in the eyes.

  “I know you have not accepted my previous offers of financial remuneration. I thank you for your generous gift of time. But please reconsider using this humble expression of my gratitude in whatever way you believe it will best assist you in your ministry. The user name is the same, the password has been updated. It will expire at week’s end and the money will no longer be available for you to use.”

  Then the man was gone.

  Garrison had watched from his small office window as the black Range Rover pulled out of the gravel parking lot.

  He held the quality card stock in his hand and looked at the four lines. The user name, the password, the most recent deposit, and the balance. The latest deposit was $5 million, bringing the total to $11 million plus interest.

  What would he do with that kind of money? What had he said that Alexander wanted to hear so badly and reward so generously?

  He got up from the kitchen table and looked outside at a brilliant night sky shimmering with stars and a full moon. It was as large as any harvest moon he had ever seen. But instead of a yellow-gold hue, it almost had a red tint to it. He shuddered. Was this a full blood moon he had read about?

  He turned and looked at his open Bible. He flipped forward three pages. Revelation 13:1 in the good old King James Version read:

  “And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.”

  Garrison stood up and refilled his empty water glass.

  Was the explanation of Alexander’s interest in him—in
his questions during their time together—as obvious as it seemed in retrospect? Had Garrison been fueling the imagination of a madman intent on mass murder? Was Alexander using him to inspire genocide? Was Alexander volunteering to be the Beast?

  He didn’t want to acknowledge that possibility. But it was there. Staring him right in the face.

  Can a man choose to assume a role in creating the conditions for Armageddon?

  He was suddenly sick to his stomach. Should he go to authorities? Who would he call? The FBI? But what would he tell them? I think I’ve been giving spiritual guidance to a man who wants to be the Beast of Revelation?

  Even if he could get someone to listen, what of his promise of confidentiality? It wasn’t a vague promise with conditions on it— Alexander made sure of that. But what if the man was considering what he saw in his dreams?

  Should he confront Alexander directly? But how? Their last meeting had the feeling of a definite finality to it. He suspected—no, he knew—Alexander would not be reaching out to him again. He didn’t have a phone number to call him anyway. All incoming calls had been blocked. But did it really matter? If Alexander’s thinking was as diabolically crazy as he thought it might be, would the man listen to reason? Not likely.

  But was that the point? He couldn’t do … nothing. If he was bound by a solemn oath to not divulge the contents of their conversation, he had to get to Alexander directly. He knew the man kept homes all over the world, but his primary residence was outside of Geneva, Switzerland. Do I just knock on his front door?

  He still had a passport from a biblical tour of the Holy Land a few years back. But no way could he afford a trip to Europe.

  He opened the back of his Bible and picked up the thick card with four rows of numbers on it.

  I can’t just do nothing.

  35

  New York City

  THE MADISON CLUB, JUST EAST of Central Park, between Park and Madison Avenues on 68th Street, has no signage to announce its presence. The dinner club and its small membership list rest in the shadows. If you belong in it, you know it exists and know where it’s located. If you don’t belong there—and that would be all but three hundred members and their guests—you probably have never heard of it.