Terrorists?
Donovan glanced at Fullam, who kept his face carefully neutral.
It’s a description they’ll understand.
He studied the photographs. “Any word on hostages?”
“We’re hoping, but we heard they took out the precinct, so—”
“What’s…this?” Donovan pointed at a blurred figure near a tree adjacent to some lights or torches. It was the only one dressed in white. “Can you clean it up any more?”
“Let’s see…” Lo tapped a few buttons, calling the picture up on his screen and zooming a crosshairs icon on the spot. Lines coursed down the image, sharpening it a little more. “How’s that? Anything more will just look like a bunch of pixels.”
Joann!
Just then, a blue-and-white Bell 206B Jet Ranger helicopter thundered overhead. It paused a hundred feet above Columbus Circle, spun 360 degrees on its axis, and skimmed across the treetops into the park.
The radio on Fullam’s belt crackled to life. “
This is Sergeant Tex Waring. You down there, Frank?
”
The captains all looked at him. Fullam shrugged. “We were in the Academy together. He got smart and specialized.” He unclipped the radio. “Yeah, I’m here, Tex. You got the background on what’s happening?”
“
Some sort of group has invaded Central Park. A lot of people are dead; they’ve even taken out the precinct.
” Donovan thought Waring, like Braithwaite, sounded eager for action against the invaders. “
What do you need from me?
”
Clark leaned forward to speak, nudging Fullam’s hand so the radio faced him. “Intelligence, son. We’ve got very little to go on.”
“
Who’s this?
”
“FBI; Supervisory Special-Agent-in-Charge Harley Clark. What we need is an idea of their set-up: how many there are, hostages and their location, defense placements—whatever you can tell us.”
“
Uh-
hunh
,
” came the reply. “
10-4, Agent Clark. Frank? Anything
,” his voice deepened just enough for Donovan to detect sarcasm, “
The F-B-I left out?
”
“Be careful in there, Tex. See what we need, and get out. No hot—”
***
“—
shot flying
.”
“Roger that.” Tex finger-controlled the cyclic pitch stick, tilting the chopper’s nose down slightly as he headed north into the park. Trees rolled beneath him like dark green surf. “Switching on nose spot.” He squinted and squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked. “Is there some sort of chemical smoke or something covering the park?”
“
Our sniffers don’t detect anything. How’s visibility, scale of one to ten?
”
“Maybe…six, seven. I can see, but…I don’t know. It seems odd.” He cleared his throat. “No activity up to and in the Ramble. Might want to watch out for some of the denser growths, though. I can’t penetrate the cover to give you anything certain. The Boathouse and Tavern on the Green both look deserted, as far as I can tell.” Tex’s eyes skittered behind the nose-spotlight in rapid arcs across the terrain. “The drives look clear enough to bring the men up. Are you getting my video feed?”
“
Roger that. Your spot shows us some, but outside of that is a little dicey.
”
“Streetlights along the drives are operational. You shouldn’t have obstructions coming from the south. In fact, from what I can tell, there’s not much in the way of light or movement north of the 86
th
Street Transverse, either. Everything seems to be centered on the Great Lawn. I’m going to go check it out.”
***
The shock of Dez’s transformation had overwhelmed Joann, not just eliminating but destroying her perceptions about reality and its boundaries. The actual physical change was bad enough, but even worse was the energy emanating from Dez like shimmers of heat in the desert. It filled Joann with despair and hopelessness, with the certain knowledge that the evil she’d faced within the justice system was fueled by something far, far worse, and that something was approaching.
“‘
Quid tu moraris
?’”
Although her mind floated in blissful semi-consciousness, absorbing every iota of comfort before returning to her captivity, she recognized the resonant voice of Faustus.
“‘
Per Iehovam, Gehennam et consecratum aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque cruces quad nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Mephistopheles!
’”
She struggled to keep her eyes closed, to hold onto the comfort of not knowing, but her nature was inquisitive. Gradually her eyelids lifted their weight.
Faustus stood in front of the stage, inside of some kind of design (
Donovan would recognize it,
part of her thought.
Why isn’t he here yet?
), as Coeus knelt shirtless before him. The sorcerer raised his hand high before plunging it into Coeus’s chest. Joann gasped.
That—that
can’t
be possible!
But the night’s events had demonstrated the limitless potential of existence. The knowledge was little comfort as an icy blast of wind came from the circle and Faustus began to withdraw his hand slowly, forearm muscles standing out in cords, as if he was bringing something along with it, something from inside the giant…
Darkness called her again.
***
“—
coming up on the Great Lawn now.
”
The three NYPD monitors had been tied in to Tex’s camera; the other two were left long-range. All across the oval field Donovan could see the two- and three-dimensional flickering of the possessed darting in and out of the chopper’s spotlight.
“
This is unbelievable!
” Astonishment filled Tex’s whisper.
“
Are you getting this?
”
The entire lawn had been stripped of recreational features and turned into bloodstained tundra, with a huge holding pen constructed on the dirt of what normally were softball fields #3 and #5. Its steel wire sides stood eight or nine feet high, and it was filled with people in all stages of panic. Outside it, trees hung heavy with dark, dripping shapes. Gouges had been dug out of the dirt in random spots, as those lucky or dexterous few avoided imminent death for another precious moment. At the north end, a Sigil of Baphomet as big as a helicopter landing circle had been carved into the ground. Donovan could see the detail of the goat’s head, with eyes of shining liquid, inside the inverted pentagram. His eyes unconsciously went to his bandaged hand, and he wondered how similar the scar from Coeus’s tattoo would be to it.
“Jesus.” Captain Seifert rubbed his chin as he watched the screen. “What d’you think? Three, four hundred?”
“Didn’t think there would be so many,” Fullam said.
“At least we know they haven’t killed as many as we first thought,” the older blonde FBI agent, Vicki Matthews, observed.
“
Mother of God…
”
Tex’s voice drew their attention back to the monitors. He aimed his camera towards a mass rising five stories high at the north end of the lawn. At first Donovan thought it was intangible darkness, a trick of reflection and his own tension. As Tex swung the nose spotlight up, however, he saw the two-and three-dimensional flickers swarming over a structure styled in what Donovan could only think of as Gothic Anti-Christ. A huge pointed arch—created and supported by a half-dozen rib arches—served as backdrop, along with needle-like spires, buttresses and miscellaneous edged cornices. Individually they would have been difficult to look at for any length of time. Together they were literally painful to set the eye upon, offending the natural order vision seeks to impose.
“Is it me,” Peter Lo asked slowly, “or is that…
thing
moving?”
The FBI man was right, the entire structure seemed to be trembling with life. Donovan looked closer than he wanted to. Human bodies dangled from hooks and spears, grotesque set dressing for the stage. Blood dripped, black and shiny in the moonlight, congealing into macabre designs to decorate the walls. Those still alive quivered, vainly attempting to relieve the agony of the steel embedded in their flesh as they babbled soundless onscreen pleas for the release of death.
The images stunned everyone until Captain Darenelli voiced their thoughts. “What the
fuck
is
that
?”
“
What do you want me to do?
” Tex could barely speak the words.
Fullam’s stoic manner didn’t keep disgust from his voice. “Nothing. You’ve been in their sights too long. Pull out.”
“
No one’s taken a shot at me yet, and these folks don’t seem the type to hold back. Maybe they don’t even have guns.
”
“What are you going to do? You can’t save—”
“Sergeant Waring,” Clark interrupted. “What’s going on below you?”
Donovan looked at the bottom of the monitor. Onscreen, Valdes herded three hostages from the holding pen out into the center of the lawn. The hostages—two women and a man dressed in an NYPD uniform—were forced to kneel in the open, as though Valdes wanted no obstruction to the show he was producing. Donovan watched him step behind them and, keeping the gun trained, draw a long knife from under his coat. The blade caught a shaft of firelight and flashed through Tex’s camera into their eyes.
“
Looks like—oh no!
”
Valdes raised his head deliberately, gazing at the helicopter as he seized a handful of the first woman’s hair, jerked her head back and slit her throat. A fountain of red sprayed. Without pause he repeated his actions with the other two, movements simultaneously implacable and chilling. As a final insult, he wiped the knife on the uniform shirt of the police officer he’d just murdered. Fullam cursed under his breath. Before disappearing into the dark, Valdes looked back at the helicopter. He didn’t smile, he didn’t laugh, but one eyebrow twitched as if to challenge observers to stop him from doing it again.
“
That son of a bitch!
”
“Get back here, Tex.” Fullam said numbly. “We’ve seen what we need to.”
Everyone started talking at once. Donovan turned away, puzzled and angry.
Why? Those weren’t sacrifices to any deities. Those weren’t ritual killings. Why did he do that? Cutting their throats did nothing for him from a paranormal perspective…
The television crews were pushing at the sawhorses, anxious to get their gallon of guts for the news cycle. For the moment, they were being handled by uniforms. On the edge of the crowd he saw a cab pull up and Father Carroll climb out, clutching a gym bag. He still wore black but without his priest’s collar. Donovan caught his eye and started walking away from the media. On the other side of the barricades Father Carroll followed, until they reached a spot near where Donovan had parked.
Father Carroll embraced him, then looked past Donovan to stare at the swirling darkness cloaking the park. “My God.”
“Yeah.”
“My God,” he repeated. “Donovan, this is…formidable.” As though realizing there was no point to belaboring what they faced, he looked away from it, changing topics in mid-thought. “Sister Mary Faith has taken Josie in. For the moment, she’s safe.”
Donovan nodded and gestured at his throat. “Good move with…”
“My collar? Oh, yes. I removed it in the taxi when I saw the television cameras. I felt it prudent not to open the police up to ridicule and speculation.”
“Definitely the right choice.” He gestured at the gym bag. “I hope you found something useful at your apartment?”
“One or two things.” The priest eyed him. “Are you all right?”
“Frank sent a chopper to get some visuals and intelligence on what’s going on. Valdes saw it, trotted out three hostages and cut their throats. Right there, out in the open. No negotiating, no demands to stay away. The only thing that seemed to matter to Valdes was that we saw—” Donovan stopped, eyes narrowing as he put it together. “He
wanted
us to see. Why would he want that?”
“Perhaps to elicit the very reaction he has gotten from you. To make our side charge in without being properly prepared. Against the heliophobic, that would be suicidal.”
“How are we supposed to prepare them?”
“That,” Father Carroll replaced his priest collar, “falls upon your shoulders.”
“Me?”
“These are men of secular protocols and rules. They would never take me seriously. It seems you,” he gestured at the ID tag Donovan wore, “have already been introduced.”
“Frank asked me if I could give them intelligence, but that’s background, not tactics.”
“If not you,” Father Carroll said plainly, “then who?”
“I can’t go tell a bunch of cops and FBI agents how to fight those things! I mean, I could. I know how. But…that’s insane. They’d never listen to me. I told you I wasn’t as good a politician as Joann, remember?”
“And I believe my response was ‘you’ll have to learn.’ All things are possible through the Lord.” Father Carroll’s eyes lit up and he crossed the street, heading for the stack of black-painted fence spires. “For instance, iron is a powerful weapon against the diabolic, iron like these bars. These will be most effective against anything Valdes and Faustus have conjured up, especially after I’ve blessed them.”
“But you see? That’s what I’m talking about. How do I tell
them
that? ‘Leave your guns holstered, boys. I got something better against those things—a skinny piece of iron!’” Donovan looked towards the FBI truck. Fullam broke from the pack and waved him over. Donovan’s heart beat faster. He ran his bandaged hand through his hair. “I don’t see how it can work, but if I can’t do this, they’re going to get slaughtered.”
“I agree their training leads them to certain conclusions, and their lives encourage ignorance in many facets of reality.” The priest knelt to root through his gym bag. “
Your
life, conversely, has not. If mixing the two realities is the source of your concern, the solution is simple. Don’t approach your explanation from
our
side, but from theirs.
“Put it in terms they understand.”
TWENTY-TWO
THE APOCALYPTIC CULT
W
ith a nod of satisfaction, Valdes watched the NYPD helicopter fly away.
“Valdes.” Faustus called to him. He was breathing hard and his face looked drawn. “Thy presence is requested.”