Arise (Book Three in The Arson Saga) (2 page)

Hypocrite!

“The days of flirting with the devil must cease.”

Schemer!

“The secrets in our hearts will spill out one way or another.”

And yours will run red first.

He carried on for the next half hour, ignoring the ridicule tormenting him from the inside. He spoke of prophecies and the end of civilizations, borrowing from ancient Hebrew texts like Isaiah and Daniel and Malachi, along with various passages in Revelation. His sheep were engaged, even if many were taken aback by his harsh approach. Some became frightened, he could tell. But he didn’t care. This message was more for him than for the deaf and stupid. He didn’t know it, though, when he prepared the sermon over the course of the last six days, during which time he snuck in liquor and lied to his wife. Of course, Joel didn’t have the guts to come clean, not now, not about any of it. He couldn’t dare break down and tell Aimee that he was getting drunk or that his lack of faith was pulling him apart at the seams.

Then everything blended. The last twenty years of his life. His pursuit of the ministry. A dying marriage. Raising a daughter who liked hiding behind a mask. So abundantly clear. He was here, now, dropped on this rock to live and breathe the gut-wrenching fear this sermon inflicted. But would there be salvation for the weakest among men?

Joel’s throat was dry again. The clock at the back of the sanctuary ticked even louder, it seemed. Every time the hand moved, a tremor shook his chest. His nerves split him, crumbling the façade he’d kept on display with precision. Joel blinked, flaring his nostrils and loosening his tie.

“Friends, either it’s true or it isn’t.” His eyes glazed over. He reached for the glass of water that sat on one of the podium shelves, but it spilled. The water soaked into the rug. Joel perceived it to be blood, spilling deeper into the fabric. Thick, red blood.

As he knelt down to dab the carpeted altar with his handkerchief, the bottle of whiskey that he’d kept close to his heart fell out.

‘The day is coming; it will burn like a furnace. The arrogant and evildoer will be stubble, and the day that is coming will set them on fire.’

A startled curse exploded through the speakers when the bottle hit the platform with a soft thud. His words sent a chill over the sanctuary. They’d overlooked his creative use of profanity in the context of a compelling albeit meandering sermon, but this was too much. He was as still as a dead man on the altar, his mind replaying the last five seconds on repeat. Joel’s hair had shifted out of place. He attempted to brush it back with jittery fingers, skin turning the palest of colors—white, bloodless. The members drilled him with stunned, critical eyes. He’d fallen, for good, hadn’t he? He’d lost the path. How on earth had he been so careless as to expose his little sin to a crowd of people who desperately looked to him for answers?

Joel felt his spine click when he reached down to retrieve the bottle. “It’s just a silly thing, really. Such a silly, little thing that can turn you, that can fill your heart with fear.” Suddenly, the light that shined upon his stage showed a frightened and tortured actor, unsure of his next cue. Embarrassed, Joel slowly tucked the bottle back into his jacket pocket and tapped his chest. The raised brow of his assistant pastor, Carl, stuck out to him from the murky sea of faces. Unspoken tension was born within the space between their eyes. He would pay dearly for this.

“God forgive me,” he said, waiting for his heart to beat.

Dawn.

Joel didn’t like the eerie quiet that came over the shabby, unkempt motel room. He wasn’t able to sleep either, which meant his mind ran in circles. His eyes longed for sleep, but his body refused to grant it. He just wanted that beating in his chest to subside.

Joel existed with the quiet. He came to know it intimately. So much could come to life when not even a whisper was there to be heard. But he wished the quiet dead still, wished it a hundred times. If only he’d never stumbled into that college bar, maybe the regret now subsisting off his failures would have found another soul to haunt. He often wondered if being the son of a closet alcoholic assured he would evolve into a suitable replica. But there was more to him than regret. Joel had to believe that, in spite of everything, a fracture of hope remained. Kyro, loud-mouthed street hustler that he was, had summed him up just hours earlier. The little punk had been right about him all along. “I spent years living off the faith and hope of others, letting my own run dry,” he finally admitted.

The Bible felt strange in his grip, but he held it tight. This weathered thing had kept him alive; he knew that now. Ancient words and ideas and full lives stretched across thin pages; they possessed power to breathe new existence into cold veins. It was not without a sense of irony that he stumbled upon the passage of Revelation. He’d preached on it a few years earlier, during his last sermon, before impolitely being asked to leave the church, but never had the concepts hit him with such power.

A deep breath retreated from his lungs. Kyro’s snoring had been dormant most of the night, but the sounds suddenly returned the second Joel closed the book. Aimee must’ve been in a deep sleep not to wake. He envied her ability to rest at a time when he thought his chest might literally erupt. Staring at her now, he thought only of the kiss they shared, and while the Scriptures had unquestionably empowered him with a sense of hope, their real job was to suppress the compulsion to revisit old desires. Among Kyro’s few redeeming qualities, acting as third wheel on a rescue mission to bring Emery back didn’t seem to make the cut. Things got a little weird when the penny street hustler wandered back hours ago to find Joel’s hand sliding up Aimee’s shirt. The slight lack of discretion notwithstanding, an inescapable splinter of guilt now circled the fear at the pit of his stomach. For whatever reason, attempting to round second base with his own wife was the stuff of psychological scandal.

Soon to be ex-wife
.

Joel rubbed his lips, torn. “Maybe it’s not the end yet,” he whispered to himself. He blinked and swallowed, more awake than he’d ever been.

A peculiar anticipation lurked cautiously on the inside. Running his fingers through his hair, a greasy, unclean mess, Joel placed the Bible on the mattress beside Aimee’s ankle. He’d been sitting in one spot for hours, waiting for the sun to rise. Would he find Emery or—upon entering this alleged experimental facility—would he discover that he was too late? Discover that his Emery had been mutilated even more, hurt and ruined beyond repair?

“God, if you are still there…if you care at all, about any of this, please help me find her. Let her be all right. Allow me to fix this. I want so badly to fix this.” Joel wept into his tired hands and clenched his teeth. “I want things to be different. I tried.” He scratched the creases in his forehead, felt the lines that reached from the edges of his nose to his lips. “I’m just a man. Please save my child. I want to see her face again.”

Kyro mumbled in his sleep. He mentioned something about getting revenge on all those evil scumbags, and how they had stolen his grandfather’s crucifix, how he’d never be right again. Joel empathized. The kid was lost too, just looking for his way.

Joel dried his face. Perhaps it really had all come to this. To one choice. One day. One life.

Aimee lay like a mysterious angel on her side. He saw her, really saw her, for the wonder she
could
be, the person whose light had been stolen by his secrets and lies. She wasn’t perfect, but neither was he. His wedding band felt tighter the more he studied her body. Heavier. With his left hand, Joel stroked her cheek, and, eyes shut, Aimee’s lips stretched into a smile.

Seconds later, Joel wandered into the bathroom, flipped on the light switch, and stared at his reflection for a long moment. In the mirror he saw a man who looked like him, maybe even
was
him once. He examined the figure’s profile—eyes, mouth, hair, skin. So very similar, but they were not the same being, not anymore. The man in the mirror was dead. A corrupt, egotistical, self-righteous creature who had no faith to truly call his own.

He
was the real Joel Phoenix, not this imposter. He would be the father Emery needed, the man Aimee had fallen for.

Joel removed his clothes but not before glancing one last time at his mirror image, to be absolutely certain he was right. And he was. The old figure was gone, and a new peace flooded his lungs. A sliver of light cut through the motel curtains about fifteen feet away, breaking into the darkness of this room from the outside. He could see it now, maybe for the first time. A beautiful, supernatural light.

Chapter Two

R
edd Casey’s sight stretched
across the horizon at the rising sun. Vibrant splashes of color pierced the grey winter clouds, and for one miserable second, the city looked almost peaceful, almost beautiful. She couldn’t help but smirk in spite of it. “The world’s just a whore with bad makeup,” Lamont had impressed upon her over coffee one regretful night, the first and last time she’d ever indulge him. Sickest part was that he firmly believed his words. Like her colleagues, she’d developed a severe distaste for him, but it was rather amusing, maybe even a little ironic, that the Neanderthal had somehow grasped that splinter of truth over the course of his forty-some-odd years. Before today, she just never got it.

She bit down hard, seeking resolve. She had miscalculated everything.

They were never supposed to make it this far. The authorities had dropped every search, and all possible locations of the asylum had been eradicated from any police or municipal record. There was never even supposed to be a
they
. She’d done her research. Joel’s callous wife had duties in Connecticut: a job, a supposed lover. And the run-down minister had no business wandering the streets of Boston on his own, especially considering her strict but politic caveat that doing so would be a waste of time.

But she had been gravely mistaken. A smart-mouthed street thug that made her feel all measures of uncomfortable had been thrown into the tornado she once believed to be under her control. In under seventy-two hours, nearly all her confidence in her strengths had wavered. The parents of Subject 218 had been grossly underestimated. As were chance and fate, cruel players in this game of blood.

You shoulda killed ’em…when you had the chance.
Lamont’s phlegmy growl always waited for her to feel weak—human—before breaking into her subconscious. She wished his perversion of reality—or was it his acute but ill perception of it?—would stop twisting her thoughts.

How had she let this slip through her fingers? Last night was a complete mess. Joel’s mouth touched hers. His hands unbuttoned her blouse then took in the sweet fragrance coating the back of her neck. Their bodies swayed beneath the sheets.

Wait
…

None of it had
actually
taken place. It was all so dangerous a thought, one scripted by something missing in her. And these thoughts were becoming more and more regular because she was growing weary of the vicious plans created by sadistic men. Nevertheless, any unharnessed emotions she now harbored toward this pitiful, desperate father were now the sum of a fantasy she had no business entertaining.

The real mess lay on the other side of this motel door. Three individuals who needed to be removed from the equation.

The gun was still heavy in her grip. She swore it was made of the burden of a human soul, if such a thing existed and could be measured. This endeavor had become one mammoth screw-up. Why hadn’t she eliminated them before the possibility of finding Subject 218 arose? Why had she refused to realistically calculate and anticipate these sorts of glitches? Murphy’s Law was a law for a reason. How dare she enter this arena like an untrained adolescent girl.

She’d done it before, and well too. She’d taken out accountants, politicians. She’d even allowed herself to brutally gut a Columbia University professor and her family while at their home in Westchester. It was a November night, just a few years back, before Salvation and the other nameless institutions had begun to manufacture the God gene into food products and medications. Once the men to whom she and Hoven answered had retrieved what was necessary from this professor and the other expendable souls, Redd—the Destroyer—entered the equation. As a necessary, vital part of the elite echelon, she prepared the way for their new world.

At least, she believed that once.

Her hands were guilty of dark miracles. The unlucky fat man, who hanged by the throat in her dingy motel bathroom this very second, was sick, reassuring proof that the twisted nature she’d been feeding since this all began lingered still. She could always feel the tremors left by the regret of what she had become. In fact, she could still taste the tears and sweat in Professor Mort—
No, she doesn’t have a name. None of them can.
But these faces invaded her mind far too many times for her to count. The screams of the professor and her husband had slid down the glass of their luxurious study when Redd finished them off one at a time. Blood-curdling cries that still echoed inside.

But maybe they were expendable mirrors of what would become the true race. Mirrors; that’s what Lamont, Hoven, the empire she helped create, would have her believe. Maybe they didn’t deserve to have it anyhow. None of them deserved to be members of the new world. The new, perfect city. Not the professor. Not the professor’s frightened husband. And not their far-too-curious son. Who knew a six-year-old could stare at you with eyes that had the power to crush a stone? But killing him was a sin she’d never find forgiveness for.

Her wrist rattled the gun.
Just nerves
, she told herself, knowing full well it was more than nerves aggravating the steel grip. Cold metal against even colder skin. She swallowed. There were no curtains that could hide what she had been preparing all night to do. Her eyes shifted from right to left. If she couldn’t escape the eyes of God, she had to be sure no human eyes could see.

She put her ear against the motel door and held her breath. She listened to Aimee’s voice; how grating it was. She listened to Kyro’s groans as he moseyed around the room. She listened for Joel. She was ready to finish it, wasn’t she? She had no choice. Protect the subjects. Protect Salvation. At all costs. She’d sworn the oath when Hoven welcomed her into the new design of humanity. To monitor these cases and, when necessary, execute certain individuals. Redd found purpose in Salvation.

She readied the gun for use. Every joint in her body felt enflamed. Blink. Deep breath. Blink. She finally knocked on the door.

Just kill them
, she thought
.
Redd was a chipping, soulless statue. Any second, Subject 218 would be made fatherless. A bullet between the eyes or maybe two to the gut. Aimee would watch with a shock-lit stare and a gaping mouth. Redd would insert the lip of the gun between her teeth and fire off a clean, silent shot through the throat. But, before finishing off the whore, she’d put her on the bed and tell her how worthless she was. How hell was waiting with wide jaws to devour her piece by piece. And how she was dead already. That would make eliminating them easier. If she could convince her mind that these bodies were wicked and dead already, the regret and the guilt would no longer exist.

Redd swore she would keep her eyes open when she did it. She’d glare into Aimee’s confused face, cock the gun, and pull the trigger, no pulse involved at all. The mattress would swallow the bullet. Kyro would be there, nudged against the wall like a cornered rat. He’d probably piss himself, imitator tough guy that he was. She wouldn’t use the nine millimeter on him. There was a blade she kept tucked up her sleeve, tied to her left wrist. He wouldn’t even see it coming. She’d thrust it into his side and drive the razor edge across the kid’s shuddering ribs. In seconds, he’d collapse in her arms, and she wouldn’t feel a thing.

It would be quick and easy. Saul Hoven would be satisfied. This problem would be contained. And Salvation would continue.

She knocked on their door again. Maybe they hadn’t heard her the first time. Or maybe she had needed a moment of clarity to rethink the plan. Maybe
she
wasn’t ready.

A sharp wind cut past the long fringe that cascaded down the sides of her almond eyes. She glanced back at the skyline, and for the first time in months, she didn’t imagine it ending. She didn’t picture a city burning. She didn’t see mothers weeping as their children were scorched or forced to freeze to death in a harsh winter storm. She didn’t see sisters separated from their brothers, families divided because of some gene shoved into their bloodstream. She only saw a city illuminated by the dawn.

Redd turned back and faced the door. She shut her eyes. She was human still, wasn’t she? But she wouldn’t cry for him. Not for any of them.

Make a choice. Remove them before Hoven removes you.

She could hear the lock coming undone from the other side. The handle beginning to turn. Her heart raced then suddenly seemed to stop altogether as she breathed the city air. She remembered the carnival, the tears. The pain she felt that night. The fear for her brother.

It wasn’t always like this.
She
wasn’t always like this.

Redd engaged the safety switch and tucked the weapon into the small of her back. She wasn’t ready to end them. Not yet.

The door creaked open. Joel invited her in with a smile, but she lingered in the entryway.

“Didn’t sleep much, did you?” he asked.

“Knowing the day ahead of us, could you?” Safe response. He wouldn’t suspect a thing.

Joel shrugged.

“Morning, Mrs. Phoenix,” Redd said, noticing Aimee brushing her teeth. She studied Joel’s nerves. “Did my being here in your room last night make things awkward for you two? If so, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Aimee’s been all over the place mentally for months. So have I, actually. But I feel like things may finally get better. I think today’s gonna change everything. Today we bring Emery home.”

There was such a pale hope in his face. Redd didn’t have the heart to come between this frail man and his dreams. She couldn’t kill him, but Hoven wasn’t going to let them inside the Sanctuary, not even if an archangel were with them.

Joel rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Are we almost ready?”

“Ahh,” Kyro groaned, each lethargic movement slower than the last. Redd attributed the lethargy to a tired body and upset stomach, indicated by the many candy wrappers littering his mattress. “You’re all nuts. Only chumps get up at the butt crack o’ dawn, Cass.”

“He likes that name, doesn’t he?” Redd commented to Joel.

“Morning, she-witch.” Kyro yawned.

Redd bit her bottom lip.

“Casper, get your old lady to hurry it up in there. I gotta drain the vein, son.”

“I woke you up a half an hour ago, but once I’m in here, suddenly you’re in a rush,” Aimee shouted from the bathroom. She was blow-drying her hair. Redd couldn’t see the point in doing such a trivial thing.

“Nerves are working on her pretty bad,” Joel said.

“I can imagine.”

“She’ll be ready soon. Wanna head down to the lobby and grab a cup of coffee?”

“No,” Redd replied abruptly. She didn’t want to risk changing her mind about letting them live for the time being. “I’m tense already. Last thing I need in my system is caffeine.”

“Of course.”

“All this small talk is whack, man. Makin’ a brotha wanna hurl.”

“Look, Kyro,” Redd began, “I know you and I got off on the wrong foot yesterday—”

“We’re from different worlds, you and me,” he interrupted. “Get that straight. We ain’t posse. We ain’t partners. So whaddya say we keep the back-and-forth chit-chat to a minimum and focus on bustin’ their daughter outta that joint?”

“Ease up,” Joel said in a stern voice.

“Whatever you say, Cass. You da boss.”

“Is he gonna be a sarcastic thorn in my side the whole time?” Redd asked under her breath.

“Mmhmm,” Kyro answered with a not so subtle cough. “It’s who I is, baby.”

Aimee stepped out of the bathroom moments later, and Kyro darted in. He seemed to care more about relieving himself than securing any privacy.

“Kyro, close the door,” Aimee said, slamming it shut.

From the other side, she could hear him snicker. “Hope you snuck a peek.”

Aimee shoved the few bathroom items she had been using into her suitcase and zipped it shut. “So, private eye, what’s the code of behavior in a situation like this? How exactly do you suggest we approach this asylum?”

“We’re going to walk in and demand to see our daughter,” Joel replied.

“I was talking to the
professional.
”

Redd knew Aimee intended the word to come across as an insult. “We’re going to enter calmly, by the book. I’ll request to speak with Saul Hoven, Salvation’s director of operations, and hope he allows us to search the patients individually. We’ll look for Emery, but there are a lot of patients. I just want you to be clear on what we’re getting into.”

“Hope he allows us to search? I’ve wasted enough time hoping. I want to see my daughter.”

“And God willing, you will see her, but I can’t make any guarantees. We have to follow protocol. If Hoven decides to get nasty, then maybe I can get creative.”

Aimee’s hands dropped to her hips. “
Get creative
. What does that mean?”

“Aimee,” Joel interrupted, “please, don’t.”

“Whatever. How do you know this guy Hoven anyway, Redd?”

“She’s investigated this facility in the past,” Joel returned. “Relax.”

“Yeah, Mrs. P. Relax.” The door to the bathroom flung open, and Kyro strutted out. “She’s a seasoned vet when it comes to finding people. A pro. She’s got the connections. We ain’t got nothin’ to fear. Nothin’ at all. Ain’t that so, Lil’ Redd?”

Redd was sick of his crude remarks.

“’Fore you came along, we was just a bunch o’ stupid pigs, ready to storm the gates o’ hell looking for the big bad wolf. So glad you came along to offer us your services.”

“Joel hired me to find Emery before you forcefully entered his life! I’m still wondering what you’re doing here. Joel, you might wanna check this kid’s pockets before you let him out of your sight.”

“First of all, trick, I ain’t a thief. Second, stop calling me kid. I’m a grown man.”

“A grown man who forgets to tie his shoes?” Redd shot back with rolled eyes. “Right.”

Kyro glanced down at his Nikes. He flexed his jaw, lifted up his left leg, and tied the laces.

“I think I’ll wait outside,” she said.

“Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea. Hey, Cass, ain’t there some kinda rule against invitin’ vampires in?”