CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After today, it definitely wouldn’t be enough.
The staff sergeant manning the gate hopped onto the bus.
Everyone pulled their military IDs out. Most of the bus riders were young Marines fresh out of boot camp here to visit Marine Corps Headquarters before deploying.
These were the dedicated grunts, the ones who had either enjoyed no success in their social lives and had nothing but the Corps to fall back on or so loved the idea of being a Marine that they could think of no better way to spend their time than to remind themselves how awesome the Corps was.
The rest were a scattering of people from other branches and a few civilians who had military IDs because they subcontracted on the base. Walter Brennan was a fairly well-known speaker, and the sizable Baptist population in Washington often flocked to hear him speak.
The Apostate showed his ID, keeping his face calm. He had created that ID just before burying his ID printer behind his cabin and leaving the woods for good. It looked legitimate, but if the sergeant punched the number into his system, it would come back invalid.
The sergeant’s eyes flicked over the ID with all the interest of a junior NCO assigned gate duty. In other words, none. He handed it back to the Apostate and moved on.
The Apostate stifled his sigh of relief and waited for the bus to move on.
It did a moment later, carrying fifty-eight passengers to the base chapel where Walter Brennan would hold a special memorial service for the two chaplains the Apostate had killed.
He wondered if this service would differ from the memorial his daughter had delivered the night before or if both would peddle the same bullshit.
False prophets. Both of them. The Antichrist and the Whore of Babylon.
The Apostate’s hands curled, and he caught himself, breathing steadily. He couldn’t let his anger show. Not now. It was crucial that he stay in control.
The bus stopped, and the passengers disembarked. The Apostate hesitated when he saw the military police officers in front of the chapel door. He hadn’t expected security.
How the fuck do you not expect security, idiot? Of course there’s security. You tried to kill a woman here less than twenty-four hours ago.
A hand tapped his shoulder, and he stepped down, smiling apologetically at the woman behind him. Inwardly, his mind was reeling.
He glanced at the door, heart thumping. When the MPs ignored the people walking in save for brief, cursory glances, he felt a rush of relief. They weren’t searching anyone. He was okay.
He mingled with the crowd, moving slowly. He resisted the urge to smile at the MPs. Better to stay completely off their radar.
The crowd was already sizable by the time the Apostate entered the auditorium.
He frowned slightly when he saw that. He had hoped for a seat near the front, but the only pews available were some seventy feet from the front and perhaps another twenty from the pulpit. Much too far for his weapon to reach.
He pressed his lips together and took a seat in the fifth pew from the back.
A young woman of maybe twenty-five or -six sat next to him.
She smiled and blushed at him, but he didn’t think she was flirting, just awkward about sitting so close.
She confirmed that a moment later by scooting a foot further away and turning her shoulders so she faced slightly away.
She looked at him again, her face suggesting that she wondered what it was about the Apostate that repelled her.
Some people had good instincts. They could sense death even if they didn’t understand exactly what they were sensing.
A commotion sounded behind him, and the Apostate turned toward the door.
His breath caught in his throat, and his jaw went slack.
Two FBI agents had entered the auditorium, accompanied by a massive German Shepherd.
The dog’s white muzzle betrayed his advanced age, but his movement and muscle tone suggested that white fur was the only thing about him that was old.
The dog stopped in the back of the auditorium and sniffed. Then it looked directly at him.
Oh God, please no.
The Apostate turned casually back to the front, hiding the thumping in his chest from his face. He heard the soft patter of the dog’s footsteps as it approached, heard one of the FBI agents say, “What is it, boy? What do you smell?”
God, please, he pleaded, oblivious to the irony of his choice to cry out to the God whose servants he murdered. Not now. I’m so close.
A part of himself chuckled at his fear. What did he expect?
He wasn’t going to survive tonight. He was planning on killing a man in cold blood in front of a lot of people.
At best, he was going to be caught and sentenced to death.
More likely than not, the MPs would kill him immediately after he killed Brennan.
But he needed to kill Brennan. He needed to slay the false prophet. It was the only thing that could make his certain death worth it.
The dog’s breath was audible now. It sniffed and growled low in its throat. Sweat beaded on the back of the Apostate’s neck.
A shadow fell over him, and he nearly jumped to his feet and made a break for it when a rotund woman with a beehive haircut shuffled past him and plopped into the pew between him and the aisle.
She was covered in a thick, cloying perfume, and the Apostate could have kissed her full on the mouth right then.
The dog stopped right next to the rotund woman. He looked down the pew, brown eyes drawn up in confusion. He was sure he had smelled something.
The overweight woman beamed at the dog. “Hi!” she said in a loud, obnoxious voice.
The dog looked up at her irritably, sniffed, then winced, overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume. The Apostate resisted an urge to laugh. His own cologne had nearly done him in, but this woman’s perfume had overcome his overzealous application. It was a sign that God really was on his side.
He stifled a laugh and ignored the dog.
“Come on, Turk,” the FBI agent said, her nose wrinkling at the overpowering odor of lilacs and peaches.
The dog—Turk, apparently—snorted and trotted along. The younger FBI agent whispered something to Turk’s handler, and they both laughed.
They spoke to a well-dressed couple at the front of the auditorium.
The couple looked annoyed, but at a hard look from the older FBI agent, they sighed and yielded their seats.
The FBI agents sat in the front row, and the Apostate breathed a sigh of relief.
They wanted to be close to Brennan to protect him.
That was a mistake. They should have sat in the back so they could watch the entire auditorium.
If the Apostate had a chance, he could sneak close to the false prophet and kill him before the FBI agents noticed.
A recording of organ music started playing. The congregation fell into a hush and looked at the pulpit in rapture. Pathetic. Like goddamned rats hearing the Pied Piper’s goddamned flute.
Then the false prophet himself appeared.
The Apostate was struck by his appearance.
It had been only three years since he last saw the man, but he deemed twenty years older.
He had gained considerable weight and lost much of his hair.
His bright green eyes had lost their light, and his head hung slightly as he approached the podium.
The Apostate felt a surge of pride. You’re afraid for your daughter, aren’t you? You know that I hurt her, and you’re afraid.
He allowed himself to smile. Everyone was smiling now. Just not for the right reasons.
Just wait. I’ll get my chance. I’ll kill the false prophet. Not the way I wanted to, but this will do.
Oh yes. This will do.