Adrian studied the flyer. Tomorrow night. It wasn't much time to plan something, but he couldn't let a golden opportunity like this pass. Taylor could identify him and despite the aliases, he didn't intend to spend the time in prison, or worse, hiding. With Taylor dead, there would be no witness. No one in his guild would dare point a finger at him, he was sure of that.
He sat on the edge of his desk and stared out the window, absently missing the inspiring view from his previous office. Why did things have to be so difficult? So messy. Why did it take so much effort to achieve what he deserved? Half way down the street was a shabby church that had seen better days. It reminded him of the one where his father used to preach. When he was a child, he'd watch his father give his sermon to his small congregation. Part of him had been awed how the church members had hung on every word his father said. Like his father was God. The other part of him would look around at the hundred or so people and wonder why they wasted their time with a loser like his dad.
Couldn't they see that his father had nothing? The house provided for the pastor and his family was one step up from a shack. Adrian once asked why they didn't get a nice house. Didn't he deserve it for running around town helping all the church members every time one of them had a problem? Why did they have to bring meals every time someone was sick, died or had a baby? Nobody brought meals to them when his mom had yet another child. Adrian never understood the answer his father had given him- that the reward wasn't money or a fine house. It was the satisfaction of helping someone.
As far as Adrian could tell, there was no satisfaction to be had in helping anyone. All helping ever achieved was the helper got burned. Adrian remembered the time his dad had made him shovel snow for old Mr. Timmons. It wasn't Adrian's fault if the guy had later slipped on the ice coating the sidewalk. Timmon's could have tossed salt on the pavement as easily as he after the shoveling was done.
His father saw it differently, and had grounded him for a month and made him help Timmons after the old man had come home from the hospital. His dad said it would teach Adrian compassion.
Adrian scowled at the photo of Taylor on the flyer. He was a sucker just like Adrian's father. A do-gooder who probably thought he would be rewarded. Ha! Only a fool believed that nonsense. In fact, wasn't it said that God helped those who helped themselves?
He clenched the flyer, wanting to crumple Taylor's face in his fist and watch him burn in the garbage can, but he took a deep breath and flattened the flyer on his desk. As much as he wanted to crush the man, he could wait one more day and then do it in person.
What would be the best way? Another crucifixion would have sent a powerful message, but there wasn't time for something so elaborate. Still, it should be memorable. An assassination might be fitting. It would be quick and clean. Adrian stood and paced the small room. He wanted some time to talk to Taylor first though – to see the fear in the other man's eyes again. This time, he would discover Taylor's secret. Then he would kill the man.
Taylor cared about other people. That was his weakness. Adrian circled his desk and settled into the chair. How could he take advantage of this weakness? He closed his eyes in concentration. Medea might be the key.
He tilted the chair back, sinking into the fragrant leather.
Four men dragged Mark Taylor through a doorway. He looked frightened, but also angry, his hands were bound behind him. Three of the men physically pushed him to a podium on the makeshift stage. The fourth man stood in front of the microphone. His long greasy hair and scraggly beard were flecked with gray while his robe looked like it had once been white. Reverend Jim. He gripped Taylor's arm, his fingers digging into Taylor's flesh.
"Welcome to our gathering, gentle people. I'm Reverend Jim, and as I promised we have Mark Taylor here as our special guest." He yanked at the struggling prisoner. "He was feeling a little shy, so we had to persuade him to come." Reverend Jim smiled. "Don't worry though, we didn't have to use extreme measures, not like what happened to him last time."
Adrian shifted in the chair. A part of his mind was still lodged in the dream, while the other part realized he was sitting in his office. An uncomfortable feeling pulled at him as he tried to awaken. The pull was too strong and he sank back into the dream.
Reverend Jim spoke about his dream. How Taylor had called out to him. "One minute, I was sleeping in my recliner, the next, I was awake and listening to Mark's prayers. I don't know how he did it, but he drew me there with his mind."
Taylor shook his head, but any protests he might have uttered were lost in the swell of noise from the audience.
Reverend Jim grabbed the microphone. "Folks, quiet down. We're gonna hear from the man himself in just a few minutes, but let me tell ya about a special treat we have planned. We have a representative of the Guild of the Rose here with us tonight. He has promised to show us how he was able to entice Taylor to use his incredible powers to reach out to me. In fact, he reached out to Mr. Kern as well, didn't he?" Reverend Jim grinned at Adrian. "He contacted you through a dream too, didn't he?"
Adrian woke up with a start and almost fell out of his leather chair. He blinked as a ray of sunlight stabbed into the office. He rubbed his hand down his face. It had been just a dream, but so real. He recalled every bit of it, more like he'd been there and walked through a door from the revival to his office -one minute he was there, the next, here. Even as he thought of it, it began to dim. Something about the dream was important. Could it finally be that he'd been given power by Satan?
Although he'd always preached about how powerful he was, he knew his gift was in persuasion, not anything truly otherworldly. This had felt different. While he'd been in the dream, he had felt like he'd been directed by someone else. He yanked open his desk drawer and grabbed a yellow legal pad. He needed to write it before he forgot. Perhaps Satan had shown him the way to seize Mark Taylor's power. It was a better plan than he had, and he just knew it would work. It was as if Satan had planted the scene in his head, it was so vivid. What was even better was that it had worked.
Mark jolted awake and rolled over on to his side, wincing as phantom pain jabbed his chest, a holdover from the dream. He glanced down, half-expecting to find himself covered in blood. Relief coursed through him as the reality sank in that it really had been one of his dreams. He'd expected the dream after viewing the photos, but this one had felt different. It seemed filtered, as though he wasn't quite part of it, but merely watching from the sidelines. It didn't make sense.
The warmth of the sun bathed him in a warm circle of light, and Mark settled into the comforter, loathe to get out of bed until he made sense of the dream. Had it been one of his prophetic dreams? Kern had been so prominent in it, which wasn't surprising, but Mark had the sense of seeing the dream from two perspectives-his own and Kern's. It was crazy. Like he'd had parallel trains of thought going at the same time.
Jim had said Mark should try reaching out to Kern to get him to the revival, and maybe viewing the photos had been enough. Stretching, Mark wondered if it had worked. His head even ached, as though Kern had left a trace of his evilness behind.
Mark shuddered, hoping like hell that nothing like that could happen. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He needed to call Jim. He glanced at the clock. Seven a.m. Well, maybe he'd shower first. The stale smell of fear still clung to him.
Clouds had taken control of the sky and cast the loft in shadows. Mark drummed his fingers on the breakfast bar, glancing around at Jim, Jessie and Lily. His dream had matched the photos, but only to a degree. He had only sketchy details. When he'd first awakened, he'd had the sense of knowing what Kern had been thinking in the dream, but the longer he was awake, Kern's thoughts slipped away. It was like trying to hold onto a handful of slime. The harder he tried to hang onto the details, the more they squirted out of his mind.
"That's it? All you remember is that Kern is wearing a dark suit, has gray hair at his temples, and you didn't see him until just before you were shot?" Jim glared at Mark as though he'd done something wrong.
"I told you reaching out to Kern wouldn't work. All it did was give me a muddled dream." Mark spun off the stool and yanked open the fridge. After staring inside for a few seconds, not sure what he was looking for, he snatched a bottle of water, then kicked the door shut hard enough to make the fridge contents rattle. He shouldered past Jim, and plopped onto the sofa.
The other three carried on a hushed conversation, but he tried to block them out, focusing on the scenes in his dream. He couldn't help if he wasn't shown everything. He got what he got and there was no way to edit in scenes he missed.
Lily sounded like she was scolding Jim and Mark almost smiled. She was the only one who seemed to get away with it. One of the stools clanked, followed by footsteps on the hardwood. Jessie stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the television as she sat on the coffee table.
He tried to ignore what she held, but she pushed the Kevlar vest into his lap. "You have to wear it, Mark. If you refuse, we'll call the whole thing off."
"But now that we know what he's going to try, we can stop him before it gets to the point where he…he shoots me." His mouth suddenly devoid of moisture, he took a gulp of water.
"Just put the damn thing on, Taylor. I don't understand why you're arguing about it."
Mark swiped his arm over his mouth and craned his head to see Jim. "I just think the vest will show. If it does, it could alter what happens. If he sees the vest, he might do something differently than what he did in the dream."
Jim paced the loft, passing behind the sofa. It was making Mark nervous.
The pacing stopped. "Okay, so it's not the vest you object to, just that he might see it?"
Mark nodded. Jessie moved over to the chair beside the sofa, and he knew they both thought he was being pig-headed, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Kern was still there, still inside his head and privy to his thoughts. He tried to keep his uneasiness under wraps and pretend like this was a routine save.
"Be straight with us. Jessica and I get the feeling you're hiding something."
Mark sighed and massaged his forehead. "I'm not hiding anything. You saw the photos the same as me and Lily. I told you guys the whole dream, but I can't explain how I feel. It's like there's this…" He circled his hand in front of his face, "this feeling like Kern is here. I keep smelling rotten eggs and burnt popcorn, and for some reason, I think of him when I smell it. It's crazy, I know."
Lily perched on the other end of the sofa, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "I bet Kern's soul smells more like shit than-"
The remark was so unexpected, Mark burst into laughter, cutting off whatever Lily said next. Jessie chuckled too, but then turned thoughtful. “Mark, what if you wore a robe like 'Reverend Jim' here plans on doing?"
Mark smiled at the hint of sarcasm in her Reverend Jim reference. When Jim had first told them his plan to be the Reverend and guide the revival, he and Jessie had almost laughed it off. Jim was the least religious person Mark knew. In fact, if the guy practiced a religion, Mark wasn't even sure what it was.
Lily had spoken in Jim's defense, saying it was perfect. Jim would be on the stage, or altar, as she'd called it, and would be able to see the crowd. As an added bonus, his robes would hide his gun.
A robe? Mark couldn't see himself in a robe. It would feel silly, but it could work. He didn't think that what he wore, as long as it wasn't a visible vest, would make much difference to Kern. "Can we find another robe on such short notice?"
"No problem." Jim had his cell phone out and began arranging it before the words were out of Mark's mouth.
Jessie moved from the chair to sit beside him on the sofa, resting her hand on his knee. "Listen, I know this whole thing has you spooked, but we won't let anything happen to you."
"I guess I'm not doing as good a job as I thought of hiding my fear." He chuckled as he twisted and untwisted the cap of his water bottle.
"Jeez, Mark, you have a good reason to be spooked. I know if I dreamed my own death by the hands of that monster, I'd be a basket-case."
Mark shrugged. "I just want it over."
"By tomorrow, it will be." Jim put his phone in his pocket, and grinned. "It's all arranged. Don't worry, Mark. I got my best guys on this. Kern is on a lot of wanted lists, and now we finally know when and where he'll be, thanks to you."
Mark paced the small office of the warehouse. He'd been sequestered since shortly after their meeting in his loft. Jim had wanted to beat the crowd so he wouldn't have to walk a gauntlet to enter the building. The office led out to the back of the altar, so he'd never have to go through the crowd. Mingling with the crowd was his second biggest fear. Kern, at least, was a known danger, but the crowd, even if they meant well, terrified him almost as much as Kern and his gun.
He'd been wired with a small ear piece. He wouldn't need a microphone hidden on him. With his cell, and a plainclothed cop right outside the door, he was safe enough for now. Now, it was a matter of waiting. He padded from wall to wall, absently rubbing his shoulder. He'd worn the sling for most of the day, but had chosen to remove it for the revival. The tight quarters reminded him of his cell, and the fact that he couldn't leave, added to the impression of being a captive. Rationally, he knew he wasn't, but the feeling wasn't rational.
Sounds filtered to him from within the warehouse. Jim expected several hundred people to turn out, and had chairs set up for that many. His estimates came from what they could see of the crowd in the photos and from what Mark recalled from the dream, but they had mere snapshots of the event.
He paused his pacing long enough to cock his head and listen. It sounded like a lot more than a few hundred people out there. His stomach did a backflip. Why had he agreed to this? Mark pulled out the notes from his speech, but after staring at them, crumpled them and tossed them into a wastebasket. He was a terrible speechwriter. He'd be better off winging it.
There was a short, hard knock on the door, and Jim entered. "We have standing room only. In fact, we had to turn some folks away at the door, and they weren't too happy about it."
"How many is 'standing room only'?"
Jim shrugged. "Our permit allows for only a thousand people, so once the count hit that, we had turn folks away from getting inside, but a bunch decided that just being near the building would be better than nothing. They're hoping to hear your words of wisdom through the open doors."
Mark groaned. "I feel like such a fraud. I don't get why you can't just arrest him as soon as he shows up."
"You're not a fraud. Besides, remember the goal. Convicting the bastard. You can claim he was the one, but there's no physcial evidence of Kern being present, and he'll get a dozen people from his group to put him somewhere else the evening you were abducted. Even if we arrest him, it'll get tossed out for lack of evidence. We need some kind of admission. As soon as Kern takes the bait and comes on stage. I'm hoping he'll slip about what happened before."
"Should I say anything about it? Try to incite him?" As much as he hated the idea of seeing the man again, getting a chance to confront Kern might be just what he needed to do.
Jim helped himself to a bottle of juice from a table full of refreshments Lily had sent over. She'd wanted to participate, but Jim didn't want any non-law enforcement, and with her red hair, she would be easy to recognize as Mark's business partner. She hadn't been thrilled with being regulated to providing the snacks.
Jim tilted the juice, draining the small bottle, then tossed in the trash. "It depends how you do it. I think if you outright accuse him, he's going to clam up. It might be better to play it quiet until we hear what he has to say." He glanced at his watch. "Okay, I guess it's time for us to hit the stage." He pulled a length of rope out from beneath his robe. "Sorry about this, but we have to make it look real."
"Yeah, I know." A wave of shivering overtook him. He tried to still it, but it was beyond his control.
Jim must have seen him shudder because he circled in front of him. "Mark, look at me."
Mark raised his gaze.
"We're not going to let anything bad happen to you. This is not going to be like before, understand? Do you trust me?"
Swallowing hard, Mark tried to quell the waves of shivering. Did he trust Jim? A year ago, he'd have laughed at the notion. Tonight, he nodded and put his hands behind his back. "Do what you have to do."
Jim tied the rope around Mark's wrists, and Mark took a deep breath.
"I didn't tie it too tight, did I? How about your shoulder?"
The rope pinched, but Mark could live with it. "It's fine." The discomfort was the least of his worries.
As they entered the short hallway behind the stage, three of Jim's men flanked him. Mark wondered if they'd fool anyone. He thought they looked like FBI, but maybe it was just because he knew their real identities. Their clothing was thrift store bargain basket. One had a shaved head, the other two had long hair.
Bright lights bathed the stage and Mark didn't have to fake it too much as he instinctively balked as his guards pulled him in front of the crowd.
Kern fought the urge to push to the front of the crowd. The old guy had done it. He had Taylor.
"Welcome to our gathering, gentle people. I'm Reverend Jim, and as I promised we have Mark Taylor here as our special guest." He yanked at the struggling prisoner. "He was feeling a little shy, so we had to persuade him to come." Reverend Jim smiled. "Don't worry though, we didn't have to use extreme measures, not like what happened to him last time."
Kern scowled at the crowd around him, but no one seemed to notice. Their eyes were fixed on Taylor.
Reverend Jim pulled out a knife and Taylor's eyes grew huge, but all the reverend did was cut the binds. "There you go, Mark. I hope you don't have any hard feelings towards me. I just knew once you were here, you'd be eager to speak to my flock. Or your flock. They are all ready to do your bidding."
The crowd cheered their agreement. Taylor rubbed his wrists and glared at Reverend Jim as he was pushed closer to the podium.
"Come on, Mark. Share your wisdom with us. We are eager to learn from you." The reverend turned to the crowd, making motions for them to shout their agreement. They complied, and Adrian tried to shut out the screech from the woman on his right. The dream, so vivid upon waking, had faded throughout the day and he tried to hang onto bits and pieces. He'd been so sure that he'd seen the future in the dream, but now it was out of focus.
With a final dark look aimed at the reverend, Taylor tilted the microphone and tapped it, testing the sound. "I, uh, I don't know why I was brought here, and I doubt I have any wise words, but I'll tell you all this. I'm not some kind of savior, but then, I don't think any of you need a savior. Your savior is the person you see when you look in the mirror every morning. Every day is a new start. A day when you can choose to help someone or do nothing. What kind of choice will you make? Ask yourself that as you comb your hair or put on your make-up."
Taylor orated from a makeshift stage, and a hush settled over the crowd. The guy was so goddamn believable. Adrian bit back a scowl at the 'amens' shouted when Taylor finished speaking. Reverend Jim led the chorus of 'amens, a grin stretched from ear to ear.
Adrian eyed the old man, disgusted at his unkempt appearance. Why did fanaticism go hand-in-hand with bad personal hygiene? Adrian smoothed his hand down the front of his suit. For today's event, he had carefully chosen his best suit. It went well with the glasses and dark hair with just a touch of gray at the temples. He looked like a lawyer, banker or commodities trader – benign, but distinguished.
Adrian moved from his place at the back of the warehouse. He picked Medea out of the crowd by her jet black dye job. The goth makeup completed her transformation. She glanced over her shoulder at him. Kern nodded. Nobody noticed him. Things were progressing exactly as they had planned, despite the fading dream. He'd done it. He'd attained the power to see the future. Taylor wasn't the only one now. Adrian felt a wave of anticipation. In just a few minutes, he, Adrian Kern, would be the sole person alive with the power to dream of the future.
Reverend Jim nodded to Kern, their prearranged signal for Adrian to take over the show. Taylor stood awkwardly on the stage as Reverend Jim moved forward and gave him a hug. Adrian raised an eyebrow at the slight stiffening of Taylor's posture. The man was uncomfortable with the hug, but the crowd loved it. They surged towards the stage, as if they wanted to hug Taylor too. This was too perfect. As though watching a pre-recorded movie, Adrian glanced over at Medea, knowing what he would see before he'd even picked her out of the mob.
Medea moved with the crowd. Adrian saw the gun in her hand. She was going to go through with it. He'd been worried she would flake out, but now that everything was preceding exactly as he'd seen it, he merely smiled.
Mark blinked against the bright lights. The faces in the audience appeared blurry, and he couldn't pick anyone out. His dream was hazy in his mind, and he felt a rush of panic. What would happen next? The photos of him on the floor only showed the end result, not exactly when it would occur. The dreams were supposed to fill in the blanks, only his dream had been watered down and faded with every passing second.
Within three feet of the stage, a woman lifted a pistol to her head and shouted, "Please, Mark, I need you to forgive me. After what I did to you, I don't deserve to live!"
He knew that voice and he squinted into the lights, finally picking her out of the crowd. She'd dyed her hair, but he recognized her. "Judy? Put the gun down. I don't have any powers to grant forgiveness. Besides, I have a feeling you were coerced. Please put the gun down, Judy." Mark glanced around, looking for Jim. What was he supposed to do now? If this had been in the dream, he had no recollection of it.
Medea shook her head. "I can't. I did an awful thing and I can't live with myself unless you forgive me."
Jim sidled closer to Mark. "Do as Mark says, and put the gun down, miss."
The agents who'd escorted Mark onstage closed ranks around him. The crowd had scattered, leaving empty chairs around Judy. Was that Jessie and Dan easing towards her?
Judy's gaze wavered, but Mark had the impression it was in reponse to something else, not him or the officers approaching from behind. The gun remained planted firmly against her temple. Where was Kern? Was he here? Jim must have had the same thought because he dipped his head and Mark caught Kern's name mentioned as Jim fired off orders into his hidden microphone.
Mark tried to recall if this had been part of his dream. There had been a photo with Judy in it. Lily had tentatively ID'd her, but with the dyed hair and not much left of her head, it had been hard to know for sure. Was he supposed to stop Judy from committing suicide?
He tried to push through the agents, but they didn't allow him through. Shoulder to shoulder, they pointed their guns at Medea, which made no sense to Mark. She already held a gun against her head. He was taller than they were, so he settled for looking between them, and re-establishing eye contact with Judy. Jim could deal with Kern if he was around.
"Judy, listen to me." Her eyes pulled from whatever she'd been focusing on and settled on Mark.
"That's it. You don't need to do this. Set the gun down. Just put it right there on the stage. Whatever role you played in my kidnapping, we can talk about later. I'm fine now. It's not too late for you to come forward and talk to the police. You have to understand-it's not up to me to forgive anyone. You go to the police and if you do, I bet you can work a deal. I'll do whatever I can to help, okay?"
Judy bit her lip and tears welled in her eyes. "Why?"
"Why what?" Mark pushed the agents from behind, urging them a little closer to Medea, but they held their ground and he couldn't blame them for not wanting to get too close to the gun.
"Why would you help me, after what I did?"
Mark wished he had time to think of a good answer, but he didn't. "I have no idea, Judy. I just know that none of this is worth dying for. Kern isn't worth dying for. We have to move on-both of us. Kern used us. Do you want to let him win this time too? Do you want the press to forever paint you as the girl who was Kern's puppet?" He sensed movement in his peripheral vision, but didn't tear his attention away from Judy.
Judy's eyes narrowed. "I'm nobody's puppet."
"That's right, you're not. That's why you have to cut the strings. Do what you want to do. What you feel is right."
She nodded and slowly eased the gun away from her head.
Mark took a deep breath, but before he could let it out in relief, Jim shouted, "Behind you!" He saw Jim rushing the stage, his gun in hand, but he bypassed Judy without a glance and Mark whirled.
There was no time to duck, and barely time to register Kern standing with a gun pointed before something slammed into Mark, as he staggered back, two more impacts sent him flying onto his back.
Pain ignited in his chest, and he couldn't breathe. Dimly, he heard another shot, but the edges of his vision closed in.
His awareness returned by degrees, but he didn't know if he'd been out seconds, minutes or even hours. He blinked, wanting to see what was happening, but the agony in his chest kept him motionless. At least he wasn't dead, and his breathing returned even if every inhalation felt like someone was stabbing him.
He turned his head. One of the agents lay several feet away, his face contorted as he clutched his right thigh. Blood oozed between his fingers. The other agent was nowhere to be seen. Where had Jim gone? Shouts, the clang of the chairs, and feet running across the stage penetrated his brain. He curled onto his side with a groan, but bit back the sound as he took in the scene before him.
Kern stood with his back to Mark, holding Jim in a headlock with a gun digging into his temple. Beyond Kern, Jessie and Dan stood at the edge of the stage, their guns aimed at Kern, but neither would be able to take the shot without the risk of hitting Jim.
"Reverend Jim is a fraud and a murderer! I saw him pull the trigger. He shot Mark Taylor. Then that young sweet girl ended her own life when hope of forgiveness died with Taylor."
Mark stifled a moan of pain as he rose to a sitting position, fighting the darkness that encroached on his vision as he sat and waited for his sight to clear. The lack of blood on his robe, and the fact that the pain was easing reassured him that the vest had done its job even if it did feel like he'd been kicked by a mule. As he put his hand down to move to a standing position, he felt something cold and metallic. The agent's gun. He picked it up, not quite sure what to do with it. Not only had he never fired one, he'd never had reason to point a gun at another human being.
Standing, he blinked, getting his bearings before he straightened as much as his aching ribs allowed. If he could distract Kern, Jessie or Dan might be able to take him out. He aimed the weapon at Kern's back. It crossed his mind to shoot the man, but he didn't trust his aim, and didn't know if the bullet would pass through Kern into Jim.
"Kern." He'd wanted to sound strong and forceful, but he hadn't been able to take a deep enough breath to add volume so Kern didn't hear him above the sound of his own shouting. His second effort was louder, and Kern pivoted sideways, yanking Jim along with him. A trail of blood welled from a groove along Jim's head. It explained the glassy look in Jim's eyes and how he'd been captured.
"Well look here. It's a bonafide miracle!" Kern eyed Mark, his mouth twisting into a sneer. "You're not dead."
Jessie took a tiny step to her left, indicating to Mark with a subtle gesture that she wanted him to keep talking. Mark shook his head at Kern. "Nope. As you can see, I'm very much alive, so you can release Reverend Jim. He didn't murder me."
"You think I can just let him go and everything will be fine?"
Before Mark could answer, Kern tightened his grip, and Jim's eyes went wide as he clutched at the arm across his throat, his fingers digging into Kern's flesh.
"What do you want, Kern?"
"I want you. More specifically, I want your power. Reveal it to me, and I'll let this old man go."
A couple of dozen audience members still huddled on the floor where they must have dropped when the shooting began. Several lifted their heads, curiosity replacing the fear in their eyes.
"I don't have any power. Don't you think I'd have given it to you the last time we met if I'd had anything to give?"
"At first, I didn't believe you had any powers. I was just using the media hype to inspire my followers."
Mark felt bile rise, and swallowed convulsively. His hands shook, his aim wavering. The whole ordeal had been just a ploy for Kern to look good in front of his pathetic group of followers?
Kern shrugged and continued, "But now, I'm a believer. How else do I explain the dream I had last night? I saw all of this, and I know how it ends. I heard your speech and everything. The only thing different, is you were wearing a blue shirt, instead of that robe. I haven't figured out why that's different, but the rest of it-it's exactly the same."
A chill swept Mark. So Kern had been present in the dream. He wished he could somehow cleanse his mind and wash out any lingering trace of of the evil man.
Jessie was almost behind Kern.
He had to keep him distracted just a moment longer. "You're delusional."
Kern hiked Jim higher as he moved a step closer to Mark. His face twisted in rage. "I'm delusional?" He chuckled. "I'm not delusional, Taylor. What I am is your fiercest believer. Who do you think will spread the word on you when you're dead?"
Mark ignored the fact that Kern seemed to think he was bestowing a great honor upon him. "I'm nothing to believe in, Kern. Save that for God."
Jim appeared to have regained his awareness of what was happening as his right hand inched behind him. Mark hoped it was for another gun, but he tried not to watch, not wanting to signal Kern with his eyes.
"Speaking of God. Are you ready to meet Him?" Kern pulled the gun from Jim's head and pointed it at Mark.
At the same time, Jim spun and ducked, escaping Kern's grip.
Almost simultaneously, four shots sounded. Mark flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for an impact that never came. He risked a look when something hit the stage with a loud thud.
Kern lay motionless on the stage, his eyes open and unseeing. Mark took a step back and glanced at the gun he held. Had he shot Kern? He bent, releasing the weapon to clatter to the floor. Had he killed a man?
Jim knelt, his weapon still pointing at Kern, but his other hand rubbed his throat. Jessie and Dan rushed the stage.
Dan said something into his shoulder mic, then went to Jim. "Lie down and let me get a look at you."
Jim shrugged him off. "I'm fine." He moved to a sitting position though, despite his protests.
Jessie checked Kern for a pulse, then turned to Mark. "How about you?"
Mark had a hard time tearing his gaze from Kern's body, sickened that it had come to this. "I don't know." He rubbed his chest, even though it did no good through the thick Kevlar. "I'm okay, I guess. I think I've used up my lifetime allotment of miracles though." He gave a strangled laugh.
She nodded and came to him, her arms opening. He pulled her into a hug. Jessie tilted her head, her eyes locked on his as she said, "When the shots came and you went down, I thought you were dead." Her voice shook.
"Me too." Mark gave her a gentle squeeze, then grunted when she returned the favor with a little too much feeling.
She stepped away. "Sorry." With a deep breath, she seemed to regain her composure, her bearing once more that of a detective. "Let's see the damage."
Mark tugged the robe over his head with a grimace. Three slugs remained embedded in the vest, flattened into a mushroom shape. He willed his hand to stop shaking.
"We'll need the vest for evidence."
"Here, you can have it." He ripped open the Velcro straps and shrugged out it.
"Just put it on top of the robe. Then sit down until the paramedics check you over."
"I'm fine." He lifted his t-shirt, examining the ugly bruises, two on the left side of his chest, and one on the lower right. "I think I was just stunned from the impact."
"It's standard protocol, Mark. You could be bleeding internally and not know it. Besides, you were out for several minutes."
The implication slammed into him. "So for several minutes, you thought I was dead?"
She shrugged, but avoided making eye contact. It hit him full force why she'd left him. The pain in his chest had nothing to do with the shots he'd taken. He nodded. "I understand."
He knew Jessie caught the meaning behind his words because her eyes flew to his and her lip trembled before she bit it and returned the nod.
Police and paramedics swarmed into the warehouse, some approaching them on the stage, but a few tending to people on the floor.
"What happened while I was out? I kind of remember another shot. What did he," Mark inclined his head towards Kern's body, "mean about some innocent taking her own life?"
Jessie darted a look at a group gathered around someone on the floor of the warehouse, just in front of the stage. "It's Medea, although we don't have a positive ID yet."
Like another mule had tattooed him, Mark staggered. "She killed herself?"
"I don't think so. I think Kern shot her on purpose after he shot you. It was pretty chaotic though, so I can't say for certain. We'll have to watch the tapes to know for certain."
He pushed past her to the edge of the stage. Judy Medea lay crumpled, a paramedic in the act of covering her with a yellow blanket, but he caught a glimpse of her before it settled over her face. His stomach flipped, and it was all he could do to hold onto its contents.
Mark backed away, pointing towards Medea. "Two people are dead, Jessie. And for what? I don't understand." The shaking that had been present since he'd come to, intensified. "It's so damn pointless!"
"You're in shock, Mark. You need to sit."
"I don't want to sit. I want to get the hell out of here."
She reached for his arm, but he shrugged her off, and made for the back of the stage. He ignored her calls to come back and heard Jim tell her to let him go. Back in the office, he ran both hands through his hair, bent at the waist as he tried to choke back the anger and sorrow. It didn't help. The pain intensified and he sagged to sit on the edge of the old desk. He was supposed to have stopped this. It was why he had the dreams, but it hadn't worked. Their attempt to manipulate the dream had failed.
Voices approached the office. Why wouldn't anyone just leave him alone? He straightened and grabbed his jacket before pushing out the door and into the alley. Instead of the solitude he sought, he found police cars, flashing lights and dozens of people. He turned to the front of the building, intending to find a cab or walk to the 'L', steeling himself to pass through the throngs of people and police.
"Mark Taylor!"
As soon as the crowd spotted him, he didn't have a chance to escape unnoticed. The crowd closed in. Police reacted quickly, corraling the people behind a cordon of yellow tape. News vans already parked along the street, their blinding lights focused on the warehouse. It was a madhouse.
"Mr. Taylor, could I speak with you for a minute?"
The voice was familiar and Mark turned, seeking it out. A woman waved him over. He recognized her from somewhere, and he started towards her. When he was close enough, she stuck out her hand. "Hello Mark. I'm Denise Jeffries. We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago."
Mark stopped dead. The reporter. His throat tightened. So many images flashed through his mind. His crucifixion, the crowds pawing at him and Medea lying dead in the warehouse, her brains splashed across the floor.
"You!" Ignoring her hand, he pointed at her. " You did this! You wanted your story, and didn't give a damn who got hurt. Well, now you have an even bigger story. Congratulations."
He didn't wait for her to respond, but turned and shoved his hands in his pockets as he stalked past the crowds, glowering at anyone who came near.
A block later, the crowds were gone and the street all but deserted. He headed for the closest 'L' and climbed the steps to the platform. It was empty and he wasn't sure when the next train would come, but it didn't matter. Eventually, one would arrive.
Mark eased down to sit on the bench, holding his ribs. It was as quiet as night time in Chicago ever got. Distantly, sirens wailed, a door slammed and the ever present hum of traffic filled the air. A shudder coursed through him. With nobody around to see, he allowed the sob, stifled for so long, to escape .