Aaron Jeffrey Kincaid’s jet pulled to a stop on one of the corporate runways skirting the edge of the Tri-Cities Regional Airport in northeast Tennessee. It was a small enough airport for him to bribe his way in without the proper paperwork, yet large enough to handle his jet. And it was close to Asheville, less than a ninety minute drive.
He stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac. Drank in the damp autumn air.
This was the last time he would ever use this plane. Well, it had served its purpose. Just as the ranch had. As Rebekah and Caleb had. As Jessica had. As his family had. Everything had a time and a place and a purpose. That was what destiny was all about.
David stood beside him, pocketing his cell phone. “Father, the house is ready.”
“Good. It’ll give us a chance to rest and prepare for tomorrow’s activities.”
Just then a van appeared on the edge of the runway and pulled to a stop a few feet from the hangar. The driver’s door swung open, and a slim, worried-looking man with trendy glasses stepped out, bowing reverently. “Father.”
“Theodore,” said Kincaid. “Has everything been arranged?”
“Yes. The uniforms are waiting at the house.”
David edged toward the van.
“And the shipment? Has it arrived?”
“Already at the hotel, Father.”
“Good.” Kincaid scratched at the scar on his wrist. “Now I believe it’s time to discuss Bethanie. She wasn’t dead when you left her, Theodore.”
A slight pause. “Yes, Father. I know.”
David slid into place behind Theodore.
“I gave you specific instructions.”
“I’m sorry, Father.”
“And so,” said Kincaid, “now you have a choice.”
He bit his lip. “A choice?”
“Would you like to do it yourself or have David help you?”
Theodore swallowed hard. “Father, please, I did my best.”
Kincaid waited silently.
“Please I-”
“All right, David then.”
David stepped forward and unleashed a barrage of tightly controlled kung fu moves that broke ribs, crushed the windpipe, and then snapped the neck of the young man who’d first invited him to join the family. It was over in a matter of seconds. Helping people make the transition was, after all, David’s specialty.
Kincaid watched the pulverized body twitch on the damp runway.
Thought back to the pavilion.
To the ones who lay down and never stood up again.
To the whirlpool.
To Jessica.
To the words of the Reverend Jim Jones: “To me death is not a fearful thing, it’s living that’s treacherous.”
“Put him in the back of the van,” said Kincaid. David and the other men obeyed, dragging the fresh corpse over to the back of the vehicle and hoisting it inside.
“Hide the plane,” said Kincaid. “Lock it in the hangar.”
Then he climbed into the van with his family and set out to fulfill his destiny.