Читать книгу The Curtain - David T. Maddox - Страница 9

CHAPTER 1

A GLIMPSE BEYOND

“… the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing….”

—2 Corinthians 4:4

Wednesday, January 30 – MD minus 116 days

PAUL STOOD WITH Samantha, holding her hand, drying her tears – and it was cold. It is always cold in Williams in January, depressing at times waiting for spring and signs of life. But this was not about life. This was about death, and there had been a lot of that lately.

There it was, just in front of them, only a few feet away – an expensive, overdressed metal box containing all that was left of Taylor Jones, Samantha’s father, the latest in a seemingly endless stream of victims of senseless violence and terror. He was the thirty-eighth person shot at or killed by an unknown shooter. Once Pastor Holt had his say, they could get out of the open and the box would then be planted six feet down in a concrete vault that the family had been assured would protect the coffin for at least 100 years. Get real, thought Paul as if anyone present would be around in a hundred years to test their warranty. The foolishness of the guarantee was matched only by the seeming foolishness of what was now being said about Taylor Jones. A man of the cloth trying to comfort and make sense in a theater of the absurd.

Paul Phillips was no genius, but he also was no fool. His life had changed much over the three years he had been attending Williams College. Now with the reality that the so-called “American dream” was mostly a mirage, he had lowered his expectations and simply was looking to complete his business degree and get a decent job of some nature which would enable him to support a family and pay off student loans. Having come from small town America, his choice of Williams College was intentional. He liked the conservative reputation of the school, its academic quality and the opportunity to interface with the faculty. He was serious but discouraged and recent events only added to that discouragement.

After the family shared, Pastor Holt said the usual things about Taylor Jones being “a good man” who “worked hard” and “cared for his family.” His death was a “great tragedy” and no one could know why “God allowed” him to be killed by the sniper, but we could be assured “that he was now at rest in a far better place.” The Bible reading was from that passage where Jesus said, “Do not let your hearts be troubled … in my Father’s house are many rooms … I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you may be where I am.”² Good words but Paul had to wonder if they really applied to the petty old man in the box.

Taylor Jones had been a church regular at First Christian Church of Williams since he moved to the city 28 years ago, but if you tried to do a business deal with him on a Monday, you had better count your fingers after you shook his hand. He was a classic example of the problems Paul was studying in his business ethics class at the Williams College MBA program. Did he really want to be in business like Taylor Jones? Was dishonesty really what it took to be successful?

Pastor Holt knew, even as he spoke, that Taylor Jones took care of one of his families, but ignored the first, and the first was Samantha’s family – Samantha, her mom and two brothers, those he had abandoned when he sought “the desires of his heart” and forgot the commitment of his youth. The other family was also present and Paul held his tongue but hoped that God, if there was a God, had a higher standard for residence in this “Father’s house” than that evidenced by Taylor Jones’s life or the words of the lying preacher. In his opinion, the religious hypocrite deserved a different address, though the murder still troubled him.

Suddenly, his view began to change. It was as if a mist was falling before him and as it fell, it slowly began to reveal a view unlike anything he had seen before. Paul struggled to focus as his eyes began to take in the scene. High over the cemetery, Paul saw what appeared to be wisps of darkness, multiple figures of varying sizes with fiery orange eyes, pitch black skin and huge hands with enormously long fingers. They seemed to be gathering together in deference to one who held a pen and book. They were laughing and celebrating, although he heard no sound. The largest one handed something that looked like papers to smaller ones who immediately departed in different directions as if being sent on separate missions, each with a definite purpose.

Turning away in horror, he looked back at those standing in the crowd before the coffin. For a moment, it was as if he had been removed from the cemetery, suspended above, and was looking down up on the scene. He saw large dark beings standing behind most of the people in the crowd. Their great hands rested on the heads of the people, their long fingers seemingly piercing the skulls as if they were cradling their brains. The eyes of each one of the people they touched were crusted over and the palms of their great hands covered the ears, yet the people seemed not to notice the presence of the wisps or the limits and control being exercised over what they could see or hear.³

Suddenly Paul saw a pair of great yellow hands reaching toward his head and his eyes began to itch. Screaming in terror, he awoke. And then the Curtain closed.

A City Under Siege

Fear is real – conscious – cutting like a knife. It is an ever-present force paralyzing its victims, and all those now living in Williams were victims. For 128 days they had lived with a reign of terror that began with the shooting of John Sample as he sought to fill his car with gas at the Chevron on 6^th and Main. The latest was last Thursday when Taylor Jones was killed as he walked from the parking garage to his office on the other side of town. Paul had attended the funeral, but it was only later that more of what had occurred there began to be revealed to him, and him alone, through a disquieting dream.

For over four months the city had been under furtive attack. Thirty-eight people had been killed or wounded, ranging from a five-year-old in a preschool playground to a senior citizen in a church parking lot. What made the situation so frightening was the absence of any clear pattern, just death or injury randomly inflicted by an unknown assailant or assailants, whenever and wherever they chose. Sometimes it was only one victim, sometimes more, and thankfully, on occasion, the shooter missed. To date, people had been shot at near schools, churches, homes, parks, banks, gas stations, and grocery stores. Shots had been fired at people driving their cars, walking, running, bike riding or simply sitting outside in a park. No place or activity seemed safe in Williams.

Fear was beginning to take its toll. People were now openly contemplating leaving the city. Among those who remained, there was a developing bunker mentality. Outside activities of any nature were minimized. Businesses were hurting as both customers and employees increasingly stayed away from any public place. Some parents were now keeping their children home from school.

The only businesses that were not suffering were those that sold firearms. The level of anger and outrage was rising. There had already been shootings of innocents as frightened residents fired at sounds in the night or early morning. The situation was getting out of hand. Something had to change – fast. The violence had to end, and the people had to believe they were safe.

Headquartered in room 107 at 1632 Washington Avenue was a group of four men and one woman who were charged with this task. There, throughout the ordeal, they had pored over files, notes, interviews, pictures and forensic evidence looking for anything which would provide a clue that could lead to the capture of the snipers and end their reign of terror. They had used computer models and experts, other law enforcement agencies, and even mediums, all to no avail. They had sought national help including requests for the use of spy satellite imagery and photographs to help find the sniper or his means of transportation after an attack. They had sought security camera videos following attacks seeking to identify anything that would lead to the sniper. It was almost as if a phantom force motivated, protected and controlled this human killing machine, inflicted for some unknown reason on this small Midwest American college town.

The appointed team leader was Detective Pete Samson, an organization man. He left no stone unturned, using task forces and division of labor to cover all the bases. It sounded trite, but it worked by forcing accountability on each member of the team who had a single responsibility, leaving him in control, able to look at the big picture and plan, rather than simply react to the shooter’s next move.

“Listen up. I just got back from a meeting with the mayor, and we have to change our focus. This thing has gotten crazy. The governor is threatening to call up the National Guard for additional manpower and institute a curfew. We are going to lose control of this investigation if we cannot find the sniper quickly or calm the public and buy some time. The politicians seem to be more concerned about their survival in office than they are about dead people in the streets. We have become the target. Expect more public criticism. It’s coming. They are looking for someone to blame and that someone is us!”

“Whatever happened to a simple police investigation?” Troy Dallas asked in frustration and disgust.

“There is nothing simple about this investigation,” answered Inspector Todd Wilson, the old man on the team. “We’ve followed procedure and worked through all the logical means to identify the killer, and we are no closer today than when we began. People are afraid with good reason. This sniper seems to kill simply for the pleasure of killing. He doesn’t care who he kills. How can we stop someone like that? He’s inhumane. He kills indiscriminately. He even targets children. What kind of monster does that?”

The marker board was out, and Officer Sally Johnson wrote two words in capital letters – WHAT NEXT. “Enough already,” she said. “Let’s go to work and stop this killer.”

Located less than a half a mile from room 107, the shooter was considering how to proceed and how she wanted this all to end. She felt safe, protected and concealed in her garage apartment close to the campus. The key for her was the garage. It provided a place where she could do in secret everything necessary to prepare for her next move. She waited for inspiration. The specific target didn’t matter. What she was looking for was surprise, effect then escape. Hit hard and be smart. It was a game, like the video games she had grown so accustomed to over the past few years. She liked that the games had become more realistic as technology developed. It made what she was doing more fun.

Beyond the sight of human eyes, inspiration arrived in the form of one of the messengers sent from Taylor Jones’s funeral. There was a smile on the dark wisp’s bright yellow face as the message was delivered to another whose huge hands and long fingers dug deep into the shooter’s head. Message delivered. His master would be pleased. Soon another one of these human creatures would perish.

The Target of Darkness

Argon waited for each of the dark wisps to return from their assignment. His thoughts were interrupted by one such excited being who asked carefully, “Sir, what is the greater plan? Why did you send those messages?”

“And who gave you permission to ask?” he responded in anger at being interrupted. “Have you suddenly become one with authority?”

“No, Sir,” came the answer deferentially.

“What is your name, little one?” Argon asked.

“I am called Zaccur.”

“A noble name with history I know,” Argon replied and paused for effect. “I will answer you although you have no right to know. The messages are for those who hold influence over human instruments we can use to advance the Dark Master’s plan. Consider the shooter. We protect and guide her; we confuse those who seek her, and we create fear and anger in the hearts of the masses. That you should have expected. The goal hasn’t changed. The Dark Master hates all made in the image of the Enemy, the one they call God.”

“Yes, but there is more here than that. I have seen others and have heard them talking,” Zaccur continued pushing for information despite the danger.

“What makes you think I know the Dark Master’s plan? I merely rule a city under other authority. The Dark Master rules the earth.”

“You had to know something to direct the messages,” Zaccur probed.

This one is both smart and ambitious. A dangerous combination, Argon thought.

“The Dark Master’s target is not simply this city and those the shooter may be persuaded to kill before she is ultimately killed. It is what we have been waiting for two hundred years, the end of arrogant America – the so-called “land of the free and home of the brave,” the nation that proclaims “in God we trust” on its money and “one nation under God” in its pledge, America, the “Christian nation.” It’s all a lie, but many people in the world believe it. America will be humbled and then destroyed. It will crawl and beg for the end. And Williams has a special place in the Dark Master’s plan – we will not fail.”

“Come and I will show you some of what I have been entrusted with,” Argon said arrogantly as he led and Zaccur followed, flying through the sky unseen by human eyes.

“Look now,” Argon said as they descended through a wall to enter a building where a meeting was in progress. “The one talking is called Sam Will. He is a retired truck driver with a high opinion of himself. He thinks he is the inspiration behind an organization they named the Citizens’ Militia, a name they took from some old document. This bunch wants to organize the gun owners in Williams to act as a private law enforcement group to stop the shooter. They have given up on the police. The possibilities for mischief are enormous.”

“Let me show you another,” and they moved toward an old rent house off of Bell and 17th which they entered with equal ease. “Those you see here were trained along the Afghan and Pakistan border in the fine art of killing masses of people. They will be most useful. They are but a test of a strategy which will be inflicted on the whole country as part of a larger plan. There are other groups forming in other cities, and even now many corresponding trained Jihadists are crossing the Mexican border to advance the Dark Master’s plan. It is not clear to me what the others are to do, but I know the intent is that together they will deal the United States a blow from which it can never fully recover,” Argon spoke with joy and passion.

“Respectfully, Sir, wasn’t that what September 11th was supposed to do?” Zaccur asked.

“September 11th was to humble America by destroying national symbols, killing masses as well as some of its elected leaders. It ended up embarrassing America, but only 3,000 died, and our instruments missed the targeted leaders. This is nothing like that. That was for show; this is to finish what we have been trying to do since the beginning. Just wait and watch. We won’t fail this time.”

Argon smiled, anticipating what was coming, excited at his part and loving the attention of the little one. His instructions had been obeyed fully. The messages, when delivered, had resulted in multiple long fingers digging deeper into skulls, the brain of each target being cradled as direction was planted in their consciousness so that they believed it was inspiration from their own thoughts and ideas. The scales over the eyes kept them from seeing anything their Keeper did not want them to see while the great hands covering their ears kept them from hearing anything other than what their Keeper wanted them to hear. As long as the Curtain remained closed, no one was the wiser and nothing in the physical would appear out of the ordinary.