A Coming Evil 1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, August 20

A long shadowed head stretched across the length of the basketball court, ending just north of the free throw line at Father Frank McCarthy's feet. McCarthy dribbled the ball on the edge of the shadow head two times before shooting and ultimately swishing the free throw. It was his tenth make in a row—his own version of being _in the zone._ He retrieved the ball and this time went to the near side corner of the court. He didn't look back at the gate. If shadow head wanted to talk, McCarthy thought, he'd only to open the door to the half gate and come on in. Eying the goal, he launched a high arching shot toward the basket. It found its mark perfectly.

The basketball court was half the size of a regulation one and was squeezed into the back parking lot of Our Lady of Faith Catholic Church. A few dozen parking spaces had been sacrificed for its creation, but none of the parishioners, at least not publicly, begrudged their six-foot-eight priest a little recreation area to partake in his favorite sport. Rumor was that McCarthy, a former center on his college basketball team, had had a decent shot at playing professionally somewhere in the world if not for his higher calling.

_Swish! _Shot number twelve, this one from the top of the key, dropped effortlessly through the basket.

"Looks like you're pretty good," a deep baritone said from behind him.

Without looking in the direction of the shadow head, the obvious owner of the deep voice, McCarthy went back to the free throw line, dribbling the ball. "I'm fair, I suppose. Care for a little one on one?"

The door gate creaked open, and McCarthy heard dress shoes clack across the cement. "I'm afraid I'm not properly attired."

Shot number thirteen also found its mark. "Maybe next time then," McCarthy said. After retrieving the ball, he turned to face his visitor. Though not as tall as the priest, the stranger had above average height nonetheless. McCarthy guessed his height to be around six-three. He wore a dark brown suit with a blue tie loosened at the collar. He was young, thirtyish perhaps, with a good mop of brown hair. Judging by his dress, demeanor, and the briefcase clutched in his left hand, McCarthy guessed a government man.

Confirming the priest's mental assessment, the stranger extended his right hand. "Special Agent Dennard Bennett."

The agent's grip was strong. "Special Agent? What's with the briefcase? I don't see many of those."

"I carry one on occasion," Bennett said.

"You're FBI?" McCarthy asked.

"Immigration and Customs Enforcement," Bennett said.

"ICE," McCarthy said. "Well, what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Phillip Beamer."

McCarthy's eyebrows furrowed as if trying to place the name. "Phillip Beamer? Is he an illegal immigrant?"

"No, he _was_ a US citizen."

"Should I know him?"

"I don't know," Bennett said. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"Why don't you just ask him?"

"I can't. He's dead."

McCarthy put the basketball down and nodded toward a bench near the gate Bennett had just walked through. A small tree stretched over the gate, partially covering the bench, and offered a welcome respite from the late summer sun. The two men walked over to the bench. Bennett sat down at one end of it while McCarthy reached into a cooler that had been placed at its other end. He pulled out two plastic bottles of water, handed one to Bennett, and sat down beside him. "Dead? I don't understand."

Bennett put the briefcase down by his feet. He twisted the cap off the bottle of water, and took a long swig. "Man, that's good and cold." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Beamer was murdered."

"Murdered? Well, he couldn't have been a member of my parish," McCarthy said. "I would've heard about a murder."

"The murder wasn't committed here in Philadelphia. It happened in South Carolina."

"South Carolina? Then what brings you here?"

Bennett placed the water bottle at his feet and then picked up the briefcase, laying it across his lap. He opened it, producing a sandwich-sized plastic bag. He opened the bag carefully and pulled out a slip of paper, handing it to McCarthy.

Taking the piece of paper, McCarthy placed his water bottle down on the ground. He read the words out loud. "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End." He looked at Bennett as if to say, "And?"

"Do you know anything about it?" Bennett asked.

"It's Revelation 22:13."

"Anything else?"

"Like what?"

"What does it mean?"

McCarthy looked at him curiously. "What does my take on this passage have to do with the death in South Carolina?"

"There wasn't just the death in South Carolina. There were two others. One in London, and another in Cairo. The verse was found near each victim."

"You're saying the three murders are connected?" McCarthy asked.

"It appears so."

"That's a rather large geographical area for a serial killer, don't you think?"

"I don't think we're dealing with a serial killer."

McCarthy's eyebrows pinched upward. "Oh, then what are you dealing with?"

"I don't know. But that's why I'm here."

"Here? Why here? What could I possibly know about this?"

Bennett reached back into the plastic bag and this time pulled out a business card. He handed the card to McCarthy. "Look at this."

McCarthy took the card from him and handed back the slip of paper. He looked at the card, frowning almost imperceptibly. It was one of his.

_Father Frank McCarthy_

_Our Lady of Faith Catholic Church_

_19 S. 14__th__ Street, Philadelphia, PA 19107_

_215 555 2332_

_FatherMcC _

McCarthy shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I pass these out all over."

"Flip it over," Bennett said.

McCarthy turned the card over. In red scribbly penmanship were the words:

_McCarthy Knows_.

Bennett watched McCarthy carefully as the priest read the words without emotion. "The card was found among Beamer's belongings. You have any idea how he would have gotten it?"

McCarthy handed the card back to Bennett. "I don't know. It's like I said before. I pass these out all over the place. It's just another way to spread the gospel." He smiled uneasily.

Bennett put the card back into the plastic bag alongside the slip of paper, and then put the plastic bag back into the briefcase. Next, he took out a picture and held it up for McCarthy to see. "Do you recognize him?"

McCarthy studied the picture levitating in front of him and then slowly shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't. Is that Beamer?"

"It is."

McCarthy cleared a little phlegm from his throat and looked away from the picture. "Does he have any family in the area?"

"We haven't been able to locate any next of kin. So far, you're the only lead."

"Lead? Well, that's quite unfortunate. It makes me sorry that I can't be of more help."

"What is it that you know, Father?" Bennett asked. He placed the picture back inside the briefcase.

McCarthy bit his lower lip, shaking his head negatively. "Nothing of this, I'm afraid."

"Have you received any phone calls or emails from Phillip Beamer?"

"Doubtful. I get a ton of email. But the name doesn't ring a bell. I'll certainly go through my email this evening and let you know if the name shows up."

"Mind if I check your computer?"

McCarthy chuckled reflexively before realizing that the agent's request had been a serious one. McCarthy shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, but I do. You must understand that many of my emails are from members of my congregation. Most of the emails are of very personal and private natures. I don't think the authors would like any eyes outside of mine viewing them." He retrieved his water bottle from near his foot and drained it. Afterwards, he tossed the empty bottle into the open-top metal trash barrel a couple of feet from the bench. "I wish I could be of more help. I really do. But I have no idea why a Phillip Beamer would have my business card with those words written on the back. And I certainly have no idea how three people a world apart from each other would reference the same biblical quote. I suspect it's probably all mere coincidence."

"That's a helluva coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"Maybe. But then again, maybe this sort of thing isn't so unusual after all."

"Meaning?" Bennett said.

"We're a lot more connected due to the internet these days. It's possible that the individuals were linked in that way and were no closer than so called Facebook friends."

Bennett took another swallow of water. "I guess anything's possible. But there's something else you should know, Father."

McCarthy tilted his head. "And that's..."

"All three victims had been suspected in the plotting of terrorist acts. Plots in Cairo and London were thwarted last year. A plot in South Carolina was averted just last week. Three foiled plots, three dead terrorism suspects."

"You're certain these victims were involved in the planned attacks?" McCarthy asked.

"Investigations are still ongoing," Bennett said. "But I will say in relation to Beamer that evidence of a planned attack on a federal building was found on his computer hard drive. He was killed before the attack could be carried out."

"Maybe that too was a coincidence. Maybe his death didn't have anything to do with terrorist intentions."

Bennett chuckled this time. "You're a big fan of coincidences. Humor me for a moment and assume, for argument's sake, that all three deaths were related and all three murders were committed by the same individual or group. Why quote that Biblical verse? Why place your business card with the cryptic message 'McCarthy Knows' on the body of the last victim?"

"I don't know," McCarthy said with an air of irritation. "I suppose it's another mystery of life. Forgive me if this sounds somewhat callous, but if three people are dead who were planning to murder hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent people, then would that not be a good thing?"

"Killing someone is not necessarily a good thing, Father."

"I believe some capital punishment advocates would disagree," McCarthy said solemnly.

Bennett placed his briefcase back down onto the bench and then stood up, carrying the water bottle to the trash barrel. He stared down into it for a second before dropping the bottle inside it. He turned back toward McCarthy. "We can't have people conducting their own terrorist investigations, certainly not to the extent of sentencing people and then ultimately executing them. We need to find out who's behind these killings and how they're getting their information. Now personally, I don't really care how these vigilantes are finding out about terrorists, be it psychics, fortune cookies, or freaking images found in a jar of mayonnaise. What I do care about is people taking the law into their own hands. They should hand over whatever information they have to the authorities."

"And once this information is in the hand of the authorities?"

Bennett returned to his spot on the bench. "We'll analyze it for relevance and proceed accordingly."

McCarthy stood up. The sun had shifted positions and now his shadow was cast over Bennett, engulfing the agent in a blanket of darkness. "It seems Mr. Bennett that someone has elected to cut out the middle man. But I will be of little to no use in helping you find this someone. I don't know anything about any terror attacks or dead terrorists. I'm a Catholic priest. I know about the Trinity. If you come to Mass on Sunday, I'll be more than willing to share with you all that I know on that particular subject."

Bennett peered up at the priest. "You sure there's nothing else you wish to tell me, Father?"

"I'm afraid not," McCarthy said. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few more minutes of recreation time."

Bennett looked casually over at the court. "Sure, Father. But there's one other thing." He reopened the briefcase and this time pulled out a couple of 5X7 photos, handing them to McCarthy.

The priest took the pictures, looking at them reluctantly. They were crime scene photos. His mouth opened immediately.

"Beamer's head was nearly decapitated," Bennett said. "A sick bastard did that. Most of those stab wounds you see there were done postmortem. And the words, 'McCarthy Knows,' on the back of your business card were written in the victim's blood." He paused as if intending to drive the ominous point home. "If you know something, Father..."

McCarthy cut the detective off, pushing the photos back into his hands. "I don't," he said simply, and turned, walking quickly back onto the court.

Bennett called after him. "If you don't mind, I'd like to sit here a while. My flight doesn't leave for a couple of hours."

"Stay as long as you want," McCarthy said. He retrieved his basketball and went back to the free throw line. Looking mournfully back at Bennett, he opened his mouth to say something, but then smacked his lips shut without saying another word.

At 10:05 p.m. that same evening, McCarthy finally received a return call from Bishop Richard Boland. Boland was the Catholic Church's ranking stateside representative in the Alliance of Initiates (A.I.). A.I. was a subgroup of the United Religions Organization (URO), which had been modeled after the United Nations and had a single goal of uniting all the world's religions into one global organization. When the call came in, McCarthy was sitting alone in his office with his feet propped up on his desk, his gaze rotating from his desktop phone to the framed, vintage Larry Bird poster displayed prominently in the center of his office wall. He'd placed the call over five hours ago, getting Boland's voicemail. Unsurprisingly to McCarthy, his initial concern after the ICE agent's visit had not been about whether he himself was being deemed a suspect in a capital murder case, but rather what his negligible connection to Beamer's murder would mean for URO and its offspring, A.I. Was this but the first shoe to drop in the possible unraveling of one of history's longest held and best kept secrets? As he'd waited for Boland's return call, he'd realized that his initial concern may have been a bit superfluous.

For 99.5 percent of mankind's present and past, A.I. wasn't even a figment of the imagination. It simply did not exist. Even amongst the initiated, the organization's history and origin was shrouded in as much mystery as the combined histories and origins of the Bible, Koran, Torah, and the tenets of Buddhism and Hinduism. Although its mother group, the URO, had its coming out party in the year 2000 (five years after announcing its intent to form a religions organization patterned after the United Nations), there would be no such coming out party for A.I. The organization still believed, as the URO had for many years, that the world was still not yet ready for certain truths. It was the very reason for URO's self-concealment throughout its history. The organization, despite its fairly recent announcement, had actually been in existence well before the birth of the United Nations. In fact, some of the senior members of URO routinely bragged amongst themselves that the UN was actually based off of it rather than the other way around.

For years, neither URO nor A.I. kept written records. The only people who knew of the existence of either were its members. And these were individuals who'd been gleaned from the rolls of the world's varied religions and were used to keeping secrets. But after its year 2000 public outing, URO made a fair amount of information about itself available on the internet. Outside of race and nationality, religion remained the most dangerous bastion of separation amongst people. Worldwide, more people were still being killed in the name of religion than for any other reason. URO's self-disclosure was its effort to start the tides of change. But A.I., for the foreseeable future, would remain as it'd always been—nonexistent.

The full criterion for acceptance into A.I. was a closely guarded secret, kept by a small handful of its elders who only passed it on orally to longstanding members of A.I. who'd been chosen in a manner more rigorous and selective than the initial selection process to get into URO. However, the first step was a relatively cut and dried one—acceptance into URO. Afterwards, potentials for A.I. were observed and tapped for membership by a sitting A.I. member who'd confirmed the individual's enlightenment and could verify the individual's correct decoding of the allegorically hidden messages in the individual's chosen religion's documented history, e.g. the Bible, or Torah. And subsequently, but perhaps more importantly, the individual's categorical acceptance of the truths thus revealed.

After a quick exchange of greetings and niceties, Boland said, "Your voicemail sounded tense."

"I was visited by an ICE agent today."

"With regard to?" Boland asked.

"Phillip Beamer."

"Phillip Beamer," Boland repeated sourly. "What brought an ICE agent to Philadelphia concerning a death in South Carolina?" The bishop was formerly of Philadelphia but now lived in an oratory in Rock Hill, South Carolina. He'd ordained McCarthy twenty years ago, bringing him into A.I. ten years later. Although McCarthy would never admit it publicly or privately, he trusted Boland more than he did the Pope.

"My business card was found on Beamer's body."

A bit of spit had obviously risen up in Boland's mouth; McCarthy could hear him swallowing it back down. "Your card? He's getting clever."

"Well, that's one way of putting it," McCarthy said.

"And you have another?"

"Desperate. Conniving. But I feel he's up to something else."

"Such as..."

McCarthy leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. "I don't pretend to know more about Rememberers than what A.I. has shown me. I know that they have the ability to remember past life cycles. I know that we're able to use that ability to document major disasters and tragedies, including terrorist attacks that have occurred in the previous life-cycle. And by doing so, A.I. has been able to prevent some of those tragedies from occurring in our current cycle, and thereby saving countless lives. I know that not all tragedies are created equal. For reasons known only to A.I., some have still been allowed to happen. I don't question the reason for the discrepancy as I've never questioned A.I. Mainly because I know that there are still some truths that I'm still not privy to. And I imagine that A.I.'s reasoning for the discrepancy is based on those truths. But I still maintain that the altering of history or the future is dangerous. I feel he is going to show us how."

"I see," Boland said.

"Our rogue Rememberer doesn't care about reasoning. I believe his intent is to create chaos. If we don't find him soon, he will accomplish whatever he's seeking to do. And whatever that is can't be good for mankind."

"We mustn't panic."

"He's taunting us," McCarthy said strongly. "The Bible verse, the card, the mutilations."

Boland groaned noticeably. "Mutilations?"

"Yes, apparently he visited Beamer after our man left. What he did to the body is unspeakable. I think it's his way of letting us know that he's no longer content with us beating him to the punch. He's an egotistical maniac. And he's sending us a message that he's about to up the game."

"What message?"

"On the back of the card, he scribbled 'McCarthy Knows' in blood. That was for us."

McCarthy knows?" Boland repeated.

"The agent wanted to know if I knew what it meant."

"This agent, does he suspect you're somehow involved?"

"It's hard to say. But he didn't fly all the way up here just to say hello. I imagine the authorities had nothing before and now finding my card on Beamer's body gives them something. Between the card and the cryptic message, the rogue is accomplishing exactly what he wanted to."

"And that's?"

"Putting the authorities on our trail will get us off his. At the very least, it'll slow us down. I believe it's also his way of letting us know that he's upping the ante."

"Upping it to what?" Boland asked, his tone indicating he hadn't fully accepted that proposition. "Doing his own terrorism?

McCarthy stared absently at the Larry Bird poster and didn't immediately answer. "That's a possibility. He knows what we know. We know what he knows. He could have warned Beamer that we knew about him. He could have gotten him to change plans, to blow up something at another time and place. But he decided not to. Instead, he allowed Beamer to be killed, and then he goes behind us and mutilates the body, placing my business card on it. Why?"

"I admit it's curiously sadistic. But, he's a madman. The ability has affected him. There's much we still don't understand about it. Perhaps seeing tragedy even before it actually happens has warped him somehow."

"I think there's more to it than that," McCarthy said. "He's up to something. I know it."

"What does our man say about this theory of yours?"

"I haven't discussed it with him," McCarthy said flatly. "I called you first. You should advise A.I."

"I will. But you should fill him in."

McCarthy took a deep breath. "He's closer to you."

"In proximity only," Boland paused. "He's your mentee."

"Yes, I know."

"Hmm," Boland said. "I sense your reluctance to talk with him."

McCarthy took a deep breath. "I have another thought. Only I'm not sure how to say it."

"You simply say it," Boland said.

"I think we should pull him off of this."

"Pull him off?"

"Yes," McCarthy said slowly, measuring his words. "He hasn't been the same since London. He's different."

"How is he different?" Boland asked.

"It's hard to explain. But even still, maybe the way we're using Rememberers wasn't God's intent for the ability in the first place. Maybe it's like you said—affecting. Maybe it's a disease to be eradicated with the rogue being the first to be infected, with the others soon to follow. We're giving Rememberers too much power. We're eliminating people based on their information. We're allowing them to play God. We're allowing _him_ to play God. It's dangerous."

"You worry too much," Boland said.

"Someone has to," McCarthy retorted.

"It doesn't have to be you," Boland said glibly. "A.I. is much stronger than you think. And they're impressed with him. Taking him off this is not an option."

McCarthy stiffened, bracing himself for the impact of his next statement. "I'm not saying just take him off this. I think he should be removed from A.I. altogether. Put him back with the other two on the URO level."

Boland literally shouted. "Are you mad? Need I remind you that he's your submit in the first place, a very unique find I might add. A.I. was most thrilled with your submission. We once again have a bona fide Rememberer within our ranks. Do you understand the significance? It's due to a Rememberer that A.I. even exists in the first place."

"I'm aware of the history," McCarthy said irritably.

"Then you're aware of how important the remembering ability is to A.I."

"He'll still be a part of URO, just like the others. We'll still have access to his ability."

"It's not the same," Boland countered.

"A.I. is bigger than one being," McCarthy said. He was down to clichés now, not a good sign, but he pressed on anyway. "He's too unpredictable, as ironic as that may sound. I believe he could be more dangerous than the rogue."

"I disagree. He's young, brash, and maybe even a little cocky. But he's not dangerous. Youthful vigor is no threat. It only needs to be tamed. You should rein him in, not stifle him."

McCarthy rubbed his forehead with one hand while gripping the receiver harder with the other. "Rein him in without stifling him? You know his history. He could have a little of his father in him. How am I to rein that in?"

"Oh my, mentee, have you not learned anything in all our years together? The apple doesn't necessarily fall close to the tree. Don't let jealousy guide you."

McCarthy was silent for a moment. This was classic Boland, quick to sucker punch. But McCarthy wasn't biting. "My only concern is for the Church."

Boland feigned ignorance. "And what concern is this?"

"If the feds were to dig and were somehow able to unearth our association with A.I., we could quite possibly have a monumental crisis on our hands, making the sex abuse scandal look like jaywalking."

Boland laughed faintly. "I never imagined you to be melodramatic. But let me soothe your concerns. Although A.I.'s beliefs may be somewhat unconventional and hard for the average person to grasp, they will eventually be known and accepted by all. Truth is truth. But in the unlikely event that the feds were to dig up a connection between A.I. and the Church, and the Church deemed the world still not ready to accept truth, then I, you, and a very small minority in the Church's hierarchy as a result of those findings would fall on our swords. The Church would quickly disavow any knowledge of A.I. as well as dissociate itself from the activities of obviously roguish members of its clergy. The Church would ultimately survive and would no doubt emerge as strong as ever. Remember, it's been historically adept at handling scandals of all sorts. Besides, it's like you'd said before—some decisions are made based on certain truths that you're not privy to."

McCarthy went silent again. Then, after a few moments, he said, "You're right. He's young. I'll rein him in."

"Good," Boland said. "But don't stifle him."

"Wouldn't dream of it," McCarthy said.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, August 24

Detective Jeremy Stint looked absently at the clock on the wall of his office. He was vaguely aware that it was 7:30 p.m. But his mind wasn't on the time. He was thinking about Phillip Beamer's murder. The murder, which had been committed in the first week of August, had been the first murder in Buckleton in nearly a decade. Murders in Buckleton were as rare as a truth-telling politician. The town was located in a sweet spot in South Carolina about halfway between Charlotte and Columbia. It was off the beaten path for drug runners, therefore drug traffickers and the peripheral trouble usually accompanying them tended to avoid it. It was a town made up mostly of the elderly and middle agers with small children. Young people, considering it the boondocks, high-tailed it out of town as soon as their parents and the law allowed, never looking back, which was just fine by Stint. He'd spent twenty years working homicides in Richmond, Virginia, where murders had seemed to occur as often as hands got dirty. The cities could have their mass population's largess of crime. He'd take the slow pace of Buckleton any day of the week.

The rarity of murders in Buckleton made the occurrence of one more horrifying for the town's citizenry, especially since with Buckleton being a small town, the victim was usually known by all. Strangers were as rare as murders in Buckleton, which made Phillip Beamer's death doubly concerning. No one in town had known the man. It was as if he'd dropped into the town out of the clear blue sky.

Stint reread his notes on the Beamer case. The victim's landlord, Mabel Jones, had nearly tripped over the victim's body on the morning of August 6. It was five o'clock in the morning and Mabel was leaving the house on her way to her second business. She was the proprietress of Belle's Cafe. Beamer had been left on her front porch, stabbed to death. Mabel had been up since four and hadn't heard Beamer leave the house. She thought he was in his room, which was on the house's second floor along with the rooms of her three other borders, all of whom had been sound asleep, hearing nothing.

"I tell you that man was as quiet as a church mouse," she'd said to Stint during her first interview at the station. "He'd barely make a sound. I hardly knew he was there. Unlike those other three who clunk around like show horses."

She'd rented a room to Beamer just two weeks earlier. He'd passed her background check and had excellent credit. He'd told her he was a freelance writer and was working on his first novel.

Mabel sipped from the cup Stint had brought her. Drops of coffee trembled down the cup's sides, lightly dotting the table around it. "He said he needed a quiet place to work. And you know there's no quieter place than Buckleton. Even the wind tiptoes around here. I had no reason to doubt him. Everything had checked out. He was so nice and he paid me six months in advance." When she finished, she looked weakly at Stint as if seeking his forgiveness.

Stint remained stone-faced, but he didn't begrudge the woman's making of a buck, nor did he fault her for harboring a bad apple. Background and credit checks were the staples of the industry and were often a landlord's best and only defense against weirdoes and deadbeats. But they weren't foolproof. Heck, even reference-checking didn't always expose poisonous fruit. There was simply no surefire way for landlords or employers to keep a potential Ted Bundy or Jonathan the Bum from entering their places of business or humble abodes. It was impossible to know everything about everyone. Sometimes personal baggage moved in silent lockstep with applicants. "Did he have any visitors?" Stint had asked her.

"Nary a one," Mabel said. "Like I said, I hardly knew he was there. He was as quiet as a church mouse."

Church mouse, Stint thought somberly. It had been a morbidly fitting analogy. Beamer's head had been nearly decapitated, as if his neck had been snapped off by a human-sized mouse trap. Crime of passion perhaps, he thought.

There was a light rap on the doorframe to his office.

Stint looked up and saw the ICE agent standing in his doorway, holding a briefcase. After the Beamer murder, the agent had shown up at his office unexpectedly. Stint had no idea what Beamer's death had to do with national security. But then again, he didn't know what the death had to do with anything. "Agent Bennett, come on in."

Bennett stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. Stint offered him the client seat in front of his desk. After an exchange of pleasantries, Bennett sat down in the offered seat and laid his briefcase across his lap. He opened it, pulling out the plastic bags containing the business card and crime scene photos. He handed the items to Stint. "I appreciate you letting me borrow these."

Stint laid them on his desk. "No problem, just professional courtesy. I'll put them in our storage safe. Would you like to share with me why you needed them?"

"Let's just say I wanted to gauge the reaction of a little birdie."

"A suspect?"

Bennett bit his lip. "It's hard to say."

Stint waited a moment to see if the agent was going to add to the short statement. When it was clear that he wasn't, he said, "We don't get much violent crime here. You can imagine the stir this one has caused. If there's anything you could share to help me solve this thing..."

"You're not going to solve it," Bennett said.

"How's that?" Stint asked, his dandruff rising. "I know we're a smalltime outfit, but there's no cause to..."

"That's not what I mean," Bennett interjected. "You're not going to solve it because the murder had nothing to do with Buckleton."

"Well, even a random act of violence happening in my jurisdiction is still my responsibility," Stint said.

"This wasn't a random act of violence."

Stint snatched up the plastic bags and stood up. He walked over to a floor safe tucked into the back corner of his office. He turned the combination lock and popped open the door. He paused and turned to face Bennett, holding the plastic bags up in the air. "Don't you think one professional courtesy deserves another?"

There was a brief pause, and then Bennett said, "Is this place secure?"

Stint just looked at him. Buckleton had a two man police force. Stint was the police chief and lead detective—well, only detective. The other member of the force, Raymond Johns, was home, probably just about ready to tuck his five-year-old son into bed.

"Okay," Bennett said, obviously catching the detective's drift. He nodded for Stint to return to his chair. The police chief placed the plastic bags inside the safe, closed the door, and readjusted the combination lock. After he returned to his chair, Bennett said, "Phillip Beamer was also known as Abu Dawood. He was an American citizen with ties to Al Qaeda."

"He was a terrorist?" Stint asked.

"He was a sleeper cell, planning a terrorist attack against America. He and a group of his cohorts were going to blow up the Strom Thurmond Federal Building in Columbia. We'd been tracking his email communications for a number of years. We'd known about Beamer or Dawood since 2001."

"Who took him out? Was it us?"

"By us, you mean the US government?"

Stint nodded.

"No," Bennett said. "There were no plans to take Dawood/Beamer out. We would have prevented the attack, but he was worth more to us alive than dead."

"Then who?"

Bennett's face drew in as he slowly shook his head. "We don't know."

"But you have a theory," Stint said.

Bennett looked at him curiously for a moment as if trying to gauge his aptitude for hearing the absurd. "Yeah, I do. It's a wild one, maybe even too wild to mention."

"I've been in law enforcement over twenty years. I've just about heard them all."

"A psychic," Bennett said in a matter of fact tone.

"A psychic?" Stint repeated.

"I think someone knew what Dawood/Beamer was planning to do, and then either they or someone they directed killed him before he could carry it out."

"Huh," Stint said. He was skeptical, but not dismissive. He'd known stranger things, like the man who'd thought his dog had commanded him to kill. "What about his cohorts?"

"What about them?" Bennett asked.

"Were any of them killed, too?"

"No," Bennett said. "We have a couple of the ones Dawood/Beamer communicated with via email in custody. But they, too, were sleeper cells and hadn't actually met him."

"Why would someone kill only this Dawood/Beamer character?"

"Because he was the leader. Killing him ended the planned terrorist threat. Dawood had been the lead domino. The other cells were to follow his instructions like trained seals. They knew none of the particulars of the assignment, only their specific roles in it."

"Okay," Stint said. "Let's say a psychic was involved. You have a vigilante on your hands that killed a known terrorist who was planning a horrific act of terrorism against the US. End justifies the means, right?"

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Bennett asked.

He didn't. Vigilantism was just another form of law breaking. To allow it would jeopardize the rule of law in society, ultimately leading to chaos. Not to mention the very real possibility that a vigilante could kill the wrong person. Stint didn't say any of this, but he didn't need to. He could tell Bennett recognized a slip of the tongue when he heard one. "So why do you think he was killed here in Buckleton?"

"Because he was here. His death wasn't connected to the town in any other way."

I guess that's good to know_,_ Stint thought. The last thing Buckleton needed or wanted was someone targeting its citizens. "What's your next step?"

Bennett poked the inside of his jaw with his tongue and looked away. "There isn't a next step. Right now, we wait."

"What should I do about my investigation?"

"Unless you're a glutton for the punishment of an unsolved murder, I'd table it. Beamer's killer is most likely a world away from Buckleton."

Monday, October 5

Kallie Hunt slowly opened her eyes and held her breath. Lying on her back, she looked expectedly up at the ceiling. She was in her bedroom at the house she shared with three other college students. She waited another minute before turning her head toward the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was 6:57 a.m., three minutes before the alarm was set to go off. She turned back toward the ceiling again. After another minute passed, a feeling of relief washed over her and she finally exhaled. There was nothing unusually familiar about this morning. There was no déjà vu sensation. For the fourth time in as many days, she awoke without the sense of redundant weirdness that had engulfed her for nearly two straight weeks. It appeared she was back to her old normal self again. Yes, that was the word, normal. For whatever it was worth and for whatever it meant. She was beginning to feel normal and not as if she was the star of a real life twilight zone episode, where she'd known everything that would happen to her right down to the slightest nuance. But thankfully this morning, there was none of that. Normalcy was such a great concept.

She smiled, sat up in bed, and stretched. Normalcy, even of the perceived variety, never felt so good. Now, what do normal girls think about? She asked herself playfully. "Boys," she answered immediately, her smile widening. But a smart normal girl_,_ she chided herself, particularly one who didn't have any boys in her life right now anyway, would be wise to think about the history exam she'd be taking in just a little over an hour from now.

As soon as her feet touched the floor, the alarm went off at its appointed time. She tapped the side of her fist against it, silencing it. She scuttled to the bathroom, thanking the heavens that it was clear. It was one of the benefits of scheduling eight o'clock classes. Usually none of her housemates rose before ten.

The shower was quick, but revitalizing. Once finished, she stepped out and went to the sink. Standing in front of the mirror, she brushed her teeth and washed her face. The girls at Bengate College would no doubt seethe with anger-juiced jealousy if they knew that her total bathroom time was less than ten minutes. Only a third of which was spent looking at her reflection in the mirror, just long enough to make sure she had no toothpaste crust at the corners of her mouth or any nestling eye buggers. She didn't wear makeup, and the only thing that ever touched her lips was lip balm during the winter months. She was a natural beauty with a perfectly symmetrical face, big bluish-green eyes, and smooth olive-brown skin. Though her long brown hair was malleable and easily accepted most styles, she would often, as she did this morning, simply twist it into a ponytail. Her grandmother often said she'd inherited the best physical characteristics of three races. Her mother had been African-American and Native American and her father, whom she'd spoken to exactly three days her entire life, was Dutch-Irish.

After finishing up in the bathroom, she returned to her bedroom where she laid blue jeans and a short-sleeved red blouse on the bed. Though it was October, the weather felt closer to summer than fall. Temperatures were expected to be in the high seventies for at least another week. Fall months were tricky like that in North Carolina. Before the end of the month, her daily ensemble would most likely include thick sweaters and corduroy pants. After getting dressed, she snatched up her cell phone from the nightstand and headed to the kitchen to devour her typical morning feast of cheese toast chased with a big glass of orange juice.

Outside, the morning newspaper dangled perilously off a hedge. Stepping onto the morning-dewed lawn, she caught the newspaper just before it fell to the ground. Evidently, the newspaper guy had an aversion to porches and driveways. Just once, she'd like to retrieve the paper with only a simple kneel-down on the way to her car. What nineteen-year-old reads the paper religiously anyway, her housemate Maggie's voice rang in her head. "Tsk," she answered in reply. Her mother had gotten her started reading the newspaper when she was eight years old. It was now an ingrained habit and hard to kill off.

Her cell phone chimed as soon as she opened the door of the Civic. After throwing her book bag and the newspaper onto the passenger seat, she checked the caller ID screen. It was her grandmother. She tapped the accept icon. "Good morning, grandmother," she said with as much cheeriness as she could muster.

"Well, you sound better this morning," her grandmother said.

"I'm fine, grandmother, honest."

"I didn't ask," her grandmother said.

Kallie nestled the cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she resurrected the engine and slowly backed the car out of the driveway. "It's why you called, isn't it? You want to know if I experienced it again. You want to know if your only grandchild, in fact, your only living relative, is still on the precipice of a nervous breakdown."

"Stop that kind of talk, child. I don't think you're having a nervous breakdown. I think you're stressed about being behind in school and I think you're still grieving."

"It's been a year, grandmother," Kallie said.

"Some people do not get over the death of loved ones in only a year's time, especially their mother's death."

"I'm handling it."

"I know you're handing it," her grandmother said. "But maybe you should have sat out another semester. Maybe started back in the spring. Especially since..." her voice trailed off.

"I know tomorrow makes it exactly a year since mom died. But that would have been the case whether I was here at college or home with you."

"It's at times like these that I wished Janie had more children. Perhaps if you didn't have to go through this alone."

"I'm not alone, grandmother. I have you."

"I know you do, sweetheart. But Janie was my daughter and I miss her terribly. But you," she paused, "losing your mother at your age..." Her voice trailed off again as if she couldn't bear the thought.

"I'm nineteen. I'm not exactly a baby."

"I know you're not. Still, if you had an older sister or something!"

"Honestly, grandmother. I'm fine and I don't think that having a sister would've have made the situation any better."

"Maybe, maybe not, but she could have better understood those déjà vu sensations you've been having."

"I don't know if she could've helped with that either, unless she were a therapist or shrink," Kallie said. She wished now that she'd never mentioned the sensations to her grandmother because the old woman was going to worry herself silly about them. But the sensations had been unsettling. Kallie had experienced the first one about three weeks ago. For the two weeks after that, she'd had at least one a day, mostly in the mornings. And then late last week, they'd stopped as suddenly as they'd appeared. During the sensations' onslaught, she'd researched deja vu on the internet and found some interesting facts about it on the Wikipedia website.

Deja vu meant "already seen" in French. It was a phenomenon of having the strong sensation that an event or experience currently experienced had been experienced in the past, whether it had actually been or not. When she'd been in elementary school, Kallie used to get the sensations every now and then, but they'd never lasted longer than thirty seconds and there was never anything freaky or unnerving about them. In fact, through her research, limited as it was, she learned that children between the ages of seven and nine were the most likely to experience the sensations which seldom lasted as long as a minute. Of course, Kallie wasn't nine and her recent sensations had generally lasted longer than thirty seconds. But yesterday had marked the fourth straight day she hadn't felt any sensations. And with this morning's nonoccurrence, she was optimistic that she was well on her way to a full week of normality. Maybe whatever had caused the sensations previously had now resolved itself.

"It's not natural to have those types of sensations as much as you've had them."

"Maybe not," Kallie said, bringing the Civic to a stop at the end of a long line of cars waiting at a traffic light. Since over half its population was associated with its namesake college in some form or fashion, morning rush hour in Bengate mainly consisted of a herd of cars dashing in the same direction toward the campus. "But I'm fine now," Kallie continued. "I haven't had any sensations for almost a week."

"That's good news. But maybe you ought to still speak with somebody."

"You mean a shrink?"

"Stop calling them that," her grandmother said. "Anyway, I meant you should speak to your pastor."

"I don't think that's necessary, grandmother. My pastor's a very busy man."

"No pastor is too busy for a member of his flock, which reminds me… You've never told me the name of your pastor or the name of the church you joined."

There's a good reason for that_,_ Kallie thought. In the next moment, the car in front of her suddenly slammed on its brakes, almost causing Kallie's Honda to rear end it. Luckily, she was able to slam on the Honda's brakes just in time, avoiding a collision, but not from uttering the expletive that her grandmother clearly heard.

"What did you say child?" her grandmother asked.

Kallie, straining her eyes ahead to see what had caused the car in front of her to stop like that, didn't immediately answer. She saw the squirrel scampering across the street and into the parking lot of a church. A freaking squirrel_,_ Kallie thought. She looked ahead and met the eyes of the other driver in the car's rear view mirror. The driver, a red-haired woman, simply shrugged her shoulders and drove on.

"Kallie," her grandmother said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, turning back to the squirrel that'd now darted up the side of the monument that announced the name of the white-brick church.

_New Vibe Community Church_

_Pastor Johnny Swag_

_Sunday services 10 a.m. &amp; 6 p.m._

_Bible study Wednesdays, Noon &amp; 7:15 p.m._

"I said my pastor's name is Swag, Reverend Johnny Swag," Kallie said.

"Swag, huh? It sounded like something else. Reverend Johnny Swag. It doesn't sound like a preacher's name."

"Well, it is. He's the pastor of New Vibe Community Church."

"New Vibe? Is that a Baptist church?"

"What difference does it make, grandmother? You wanted me to go to church and I'm going to one."

"I don't want you joining a cult."

"A cult? Honestly, grandmother! You're too much," Kallie said. "My church is not a cult. Besides, I'm not weak-minded enough to ever step foot inside a cult. Okay?"

There was a long pause, as if her grandmother was really considering the possibility. "Well, all right," she said finally. "I want you to call him."

"Call who?"

"This Reverend Johnny Swag. Tell him about these sensations you're having."

It was easier to humor the old lady than to argue that preachers weren't doctors or psychologists or psychiatrists. Johnny Swag would be no more able to tell her about her sensations than that squirrel scampering across the street would. "Yes ma'am, I will. But I have to go now. May I call you later?"

"You know you can call me anytime, dear."

Kallie parked in the student parking section and hurried to class, trying to forget the lie she'd just told her grandmother. Kallie didn't like lying to her, but her grandmother thought going to church was a cure all. The truth was, Kallie hadn't stepped foot inside a church since she'd left her grandmother's house. It wasn't that she'd lost faith in God. She still had as much or as little as she'd ever had. But God and religion just weren't a priority right now. Besides, Kallie honestly felt better, and she was confident that the déjà vu and whatever had caused it were now gone. She hated she'd told her grandmother about it in the first place, needlessly worrying her.

Five minutes before the start of class, she took a seat at the front of the room. She started to reach into her book bag for her notes but decided against it, instead zipping the bag back up and placing it down by her feet. If she didn't know the material by now, a five minute cram session wasn't going to tilt the scales one way or the other.

At exactly eight o'clock, Professor Sampson sauntered into the class with a wide Cheshire cat grin on his face, as if he harbored the world's biggest secret. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a stack of exam papers nestled in his other. A short, plump man with a hairline that had retreated to the areas just above his ears and the nape of his neck, he reminded Kallie of a fat small-town mayor from an old black and white television show. "I gather that we're ready for our little exam today," he said, eliciting a collective muffled groan from the class. Apparently satisfied with that response, Sampson dropped his briefcase down beside his desk and then moved in front of Kallie's desk where he thrust a siphoned off portion of the exam stack at her. "Take one and pass the others back."

As Kallie reached for the stack, she saw some movement out the corner of her eye. Thinking it was her classmate's pencil rolling off his desk; she instinctively leaned over and placed her hand on the floor to catch it before it hit the floor. But when she did so, she immediately realized that the pencil had yet begun to move. The realization temporarily froze her in place, which kept her hand on the floor when the pencil finally began its descent five seconds later, landing securely in her palm.

Observing her mistimed, yet successful pencil rescue, the professor's eyes widened. "Woman's intuition?" he asked, lightheartedly.

Kallie didn't answer. With her pencil-clasped hand still on the floor, she looked anxiously down her row of desks. None of the students seemed to be paying her the least bit of attention. Chances were they hadn't even seen what she'd done. Yet, she felt as if all eyes in the class were on her. Slowly, she sat up and handed her classmate his pencil. Of all days, Seth Winters would choose today to sit beside her. She avoided his brown eyes, focusing instead on his lips, which didn't help at all. His lips were moist and curved. She felt weak and silly. He mouthed something, but Kallie couldn't make it out. She felt as if she'd been sucked into a soundless vacuum. She looked around once more and suddenly felt a tightening in her chest. She snatched up her book bag and bolted out of the room, nearly knocking over a tall cactus plant standing soldier-like near the door.


End file.

A Coming Evil, Fantasy, Supernatural