Wheeler fled from the Millerick house.  Formative years spent in America meant that even though he'd driven his Nissan Micra for four years in this country now, driving it still felt anathema to him - the left side of the road felt<span style="font-style: italic">wrong</span>, but for once he climbed in and scooted off without a moment's hesitation.  He glanced back in the rearview mirror but of course saw nothing amiss - the horrible vision displayed before him had not been real; the Millericks were not blood-soaked wraiths but a hale and whole family, commiserating the disappearance of a loved one.  And yet what of the warning he'd been given, in the form of young Becca Millerick?<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"...You won't find him, Servant.  You won't find peace..."</span><br/><br/>The words followed Wheeler as he drove back toward home - somehow both chasing and leading him as he pondered their meaning over and over.<span style="font-style: italic">Who</span>wasn't he to find?  Marcus Millerick?  One missing man in a train compartment composed of missing men?  Wheeler had had no intention of searching for Marcus at all, even with the elder Millericks being members of his congregation - until the vision had seemed to call him off.  Now some human obstinacy within him seemed to require him to search for this Marcus despite the admonition he'd received.  And what of this peace he was purported to be denied?  What peace did he even seek save for the strength of will that the Holy Spirit gave him, the strength of will to carry the Paracletian message throughout the city?  Surely the missing train car occupants were in no way tied to Wheeler's peace of mind?  His salvation?<br/><br/>And yet he didn't drive home as he normally did at dusk's approach, subconsciously fleeing the night.  No, instead he drove deeper toward old London, following the Thames like a guiding angel.  He soon arrived at Smithfields Meat Market, the largest wholesale meat market in the UK and one of the largest in all of Europe.  Although the listed building catered only to retailers - businesses, farms, butchers, supermarkets, restaurants and hotels, Wheeler had done enough business over his few years in the city to earn him some leniency.  Added to which one of the floor bosses owed him a considerable favor after Wheeler administered the exorcism of the man's ailing daughter.<br/><br/>Not half an hour after parking his car, Wheeler was once more on the move, this time with a live young sheep standing awkwardly in the back seat, head obstructing Wheeler's rear view.  Dusk was well and truly arrived, and the night was in full swing by the time Wheeler arrived back at the Living Word Christian Centre.  He made his way to the church with the lamb in tow by the short rope lashed loosely around its neck.  Checking that he was truly alone, and locking the facility's doors behind him, Wheeler prepared for the ceremony.<br/><br/>"Behold the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world," he intoned as he placed the young sheep, its hooves now bound fast, on the altar.  Wheeler had lit all the sanctuary's candles before dimming the lights, even though his deep-seated fear of the dark did not hold sway within the safety of the church.  Small shadows flickered about the altar, dipping into the various folds and crevices like searching hands, dappling Wheeler and his sacrifice in both light and shadow.<br/><br/>"Have mercy on us."  In one hand he held the Paracletian texts, bound in leather and bound from all eyes save those of the Latter Rain priesthood, that hidden sect within his church of which he was an ordained warrior-priest.  In the other hand Wheeler held the sacrificial dagger, six inches of slender, serpentine steel set in an ivory handle.<br/><br/>"On my knees before Thee, I offer myself body and soul to Thee, the Eternal Holy Spirit..." here the lamb's gentle bleats were silenced by his blade.<br/><br/>"I adore the brightness of Thy justice.  Thou art the strength and Light of my soul..." blood collected in the bowl set within the altar, but the lamb's feeble kicks splashed Wheeler's robes deep red as well, staining them.<br/><br/>"In Thee I live to move and am.  Mercifully grant that I may listen to Thy voice and follow Thy graceful inspirations..."<br/><br/>On and on Wheeler spake, half reading from the heretical texts he revered, half reciting from memory.  He'd only performed the sacrificial rite a scant few times in the past, but the experience lingered with him always, and in truth he likely didn't need the texts at all to follow the performance correctly.  With each sentence uttered his hand dipped into the pool of lamb's blood and made arcane symbols in the air before him, like a man signing a second language to underscore his speech.  As the rite went on Wheeler felt ancient power stirring about him - reckoned he heard a phantom rumbling like a lion rousing from slumber.  When he was a child he'd visited the Children's Discovery Museum in San Jose, California, and had been fascinated by the feeling of latent power idling through him as he touched a Van de Graaff generator, causing his hair to stand on end as static electricity crackled within him.  He felt that same sensation again, though a thousand upon a thousandfold more euphoric.<br/><br/>The power and protection of the Holy Spirit draped itself about Wheeler like a shroud or mantle, bestowing on the priest the<span style="font-style: italic">charismata</span>- divine gifts of the Holy Spirit to aid Its warrior-priests in their battle against evil.  He saw, he felt, the world around him in a different way now, as though color had been restored to a monochromatic sufferer's vision.  He sensed auras, felt flows of power warping and weaving around him.  Within the church was naught but positive energy, save for the besmeared altar that was black before him like a heat sink - and outside the walls of the church Wheeler could feel the empty dreadful air hanging about the city like a miasma.<br/><br/>Full to the brim with the divine protection of the Holy Spirit, the Pastor Wheeler hurriedly cleaned his altar of his sacrifice before leaving the Living Word Centre and making his way on foot toward the nearest underground station.  Where before he feared to walk in the darkness alone, now he walked like a man on the mission.  Let whoever would deny him peace try to stop him from finding the cause of the train passenger disappearance...<br/><br/>The priest, anointed in the white fire of the Holy Spirit, made his way to the scene of the crime.  He wore no armor save for the black pants, black short-sleeved button shirt and white clerical collar of his priesthood, yet strode with the set purpose of a medieval man-at-arms.