VIII. Realtime Obituary

The Findhorn residence was a corner lot in the suburbs. At fifteen minutes to nine, the detective's car pulled into the drive next to a luxury car he didn't recognise. He didn't notice the two men standing on the opposite street corner.

One was a tall fortysomething with long, graying hair, smoking absent-mindedly. The other looked to be in his early sixties, short and broad with bushy hair and eyebrows of pure white. His large blue eyes swept up and down the street as he spoke.

"So you got the blood back?"

"Mm-hm." The tall man muttered as he took a drag. "I gave it to the boss, then came straight here."

"So you just left him unconscious?"

"Well, I left a note on his chest. It said, 'Remember to use any bargaining chip wisely. I'll explain everything the next time we meet,' then signed it 'Briggs.'"

"You told him your name was Briggs? I was expecting something a tad more creative from you, Darrus!"

"Creativity's your job. I'm just a problem solver, remember?"

"Is that him now?"

The tall one looked up. "Yeah, that's him. Damn, he should've followed my advice. Oh well--his loss." He turned to face the short one. "I'll tell you what's going on, then you tell me what the story that gets out is going to be, okay Nigel?"

"Just as we planned." said the short one.

The pair watched Findhorn's gaze sweep over the luxury car in his driveway.

"He's checking out the car." said the tall one. "He looks puzzled."

"The Detective surveyed the unfamiliar vehicle." said the short one. "Whose was this?"

Findhorn went to the door, found it locked, unlocked it and went inside. The house was dark.

"He's inside. The door was locked and the lights are off."

"The way had been barred; the Detective unlocked the door and entered his darkened home."

Findhorn unholstered his pistol and called out his wife's name.

"He pulled his gun and called to his wife."

"The house looked abandoned. His fear mounting, the Detective drew his weapon--a 9mm sidearm--and cautiously called Maggie's name."

Findhorn heard the floorboards above his head squeak and moved towards the stairs.

"He heard something on the second floor; he's going to investigate."

"Suddenly, he heard something above him. Fearing the worst, he mounted the stairs, heading for the bedroom he and Maggie shared. The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he rose."

The tall one rolled his eyes.

Findhorn reached the bedroom. The doorwas open a crack and he could hear breathing inside.

"He's at the door. He hears her and someone else."

"Coming close to the door, he heard Maggie breathing--and also another. Who was he--and what had he done to the Detective's wife?"

Findhorn pushed the door open and entered the room. A candle on the nightstand showed him everything.

"He's taking it in."

"No...not Maggie. It couldn't be. How could he let this happen?"

The tall one turned and faced his companion. "You don't have to sound so excited about it, you know."

"Just go on." pressed the short one.

Two flashes of light were visible in a second story window, each accompanied by a muffled boom.

A resigned smile spread over the tall one's face, as if he didn't approve of what was occurring but enjoyed it despite himself. "Two left."

The lights in the window came on. For a moment, the fuzzy silouette of a woman appeared, several feet from the closed curtain. With another burst of light and sound, she was gone. Something liquid splashed against the curtain.

"One left."

"Maggie was dead...he couldn't save her." continued the short one. "He resigned himself that he would never let this happen again."

There was one more boom.

"The final blast was brief; the silence lingered." said the tall one.

"Ooo, I like it. That's how I'll end it." said the short one, clapping his hands together. "You see, Darrus, that's the sort of high-calibre thinking I expect from you."

"That's not the end, you know." said the tall one, flicking his cigarette away and lighting another.

"It's all anyone around here will need to know."

"True enough. Go tell the neighbors you heard a fight and some gunfire. Be sure to sound frantic."

"Don't worry, I've done this a thousand times before. What about you?"

"I'm heading back. It's likely we'll have a new friend before sunup, if you get what I mean. I've got a promise to keep."

"Right then. Until next time, Darrus."

"Goodnight, Nigel."

VII. Three of Seven

"Holy shit." breathed Findhorn.

"No, I think it's been pretty well defiled." said Briggs. "Still think my theory is so absurd, Detective?"

"Hell, no. I have to report this." replied Findhorn, reaching for his radio.

"One favor, Detective. Give my another fifteen minutes to find what I'm looking for."

"No can do. It's my duty as a police officer to get a forensics team back here and identify this body."

"I'll trade you the time for some advice."

Findhorn hesitated.

"In fact, I'll give you some now and some more before I leave." Briggs offered.

Findhorn thought for a moment. Fifteen minutes wasn't long... "Deal."

"Right then." said Briggs, walking to the rack that held the remaining barrels. "The odds are against me choosing the only barrel with something to hide. My advice is to have your forensics teams examine each of these barrels.

"Now move, I'm going to see if there's anything behind this."

Findhorn stepped back and watched with muted fascination as Briggs dragged one end of the rack away from the wall. The structure easily weighed a ton--the metal screamed against the basement's concrete floor, leaving deep grooves in its passage. There was the sound of snapping joints as a mechanical contraption mounted behind the far barrel splintered into pieces.

"Ah ha." said Briggs, looking at the device's ruined pieces. "This must've been how they moved this rack. So there must be something back here..."

"How did you do that?" Findhorn asked, awestruck.

"It's all in the wrists." said Briggs, exploring the wall behind the rack. "What have we here?"

Findhorn edged around the rack and found Briggs holding a handle set into the wall. He pulled on it, revealing a door disguised among the wall panels. Briggs went inside and flipped on a light switch.

"Bingo." he said.

Beneath a single ceiling light stood a hexagonal altar with an inverted cross at its center that looked to be made of solid gold. In front of the altar was a white basin with gold inlays of inverted crosses and the number 666, dotted with pink smears. Atop the altar stood a small, transparent vial filled with a red fluid.

Briggs went up to the vial and picked it up. "This is what I've been looking for."

Briggs heard the sound of a gun cocking from the doorway.

"Put it down." Findhorn's voice wasn't loud, but it was forceful. "Gently. That's evidence."

Briggs turned to face Findhorn. The Detective's gun stayed trained on his skull.

"I see you remembered the safety this time." he said.

"Drop it or I swear I'll shoot."

"Oh, I know you will. Just like back in '22 when you shot that seventeen-year-old trying to break into your apartment. Or the two suspects fleeing from that convenience store robbery in '23. Or when you cracked open the skull of a would-be rapist with a tire-iron in '31. Not to mention the pet kitten you deliberately buried alive when you were just ten years old."

"Drop it. This is your last warning." Findhorn's voice didn't waver, but a tear had formed on his cheek.

"You like to think that being a good, uncorruptable cop makes up for it. But you know, deep down, that you're a killer. You like it, and you're damn good at it--"

Two shots echoed off the walls of the small chamber. Inexplicably, the lights went out.

Findhorn stepped back, trying to find the door. His heartbeat seemed so loud that it echoed; his breathing was all he could hear over it.

He grabbed the knob, but a hand clamped down on his wrist. Maybe it was Findhorn's own heightened body temperature, but the hand seemed too cold--room temperature, no more alive than the pickled boy in the next room.

"But you're not good enough to kill me." rasped Briggs.

As the smoke from the gun dissipated, Findhorn realized he could smell Briggs. For the first time, the scent of cigarette smoke had faded enough to smell what was underneath. It didn't smell like sweat, or breath, or skin. Briggs smelled awful, like rotting eggs.

Or sulphur.

"I have what I want, and I'm leaving. But a deal is a deal. The last piece of advice I have for you is this: there is a very good chance your wife will be shot dead before the sun comes up. You should take your time getting home, so you'll avoid the violence."

Findhorn raised his gun, guessed where Briggs' head would be, and fired.

"That's three shots fired. You have four left in your magazine." said Briggs. With that, another cold hand came down over Findhorn's face. For a moment, he saw a vision of a wall of fire--then everything went black.

VI. Earthly Remains

The setting sun framed the site of Hosanna of Bethany Church. The empty sign out front had "Went here K-4 You let us down" spray-painted on it.

A lone car pulled up to the yellow crime scene tape surrounding the building and two men got out. The taller of the two lit a cigarette as they approached the tape.

"So, this is the place." said Briggs. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"None other. Come on, I want to get this over with." said Findhorn, ducking under the tape.

Briggs hesitated. "Look, there are some...rules I have to follow. Just...invite me in."

Findhorn shook his head. "Look, this crime scene is two months cold. No cop in New Liberty is going to bother you for exploring it in the presence of a senior detective."

"It's not that...it's just, well, you know. Places like this...they deserve a certain amount of...respect. I'd really appreciate it if you'd invite me in."

Findhorn sighed. "Fine. I invite you to accompany me to this crime scene. No can we get on with this?"

"Invitation accepted." said Briggs. He climbed under the tape, holding his breath as if bracing for impact. He stood on the lawn for a moment, then let it out.

"Oh, and put that out." said Findhorn, gesturing to Briggs' cigarette. "No smoking on enclosed crime scenes."

"As you wish." Briggs flipped the cigarette onto the pavement beyond the car.

Findhorn noticed Briggs tense up as they walked inside, then let out another sigh of relief.

The foyer of Hosanna of Bethany looked normal enough. Briggs' hand went to his forehead once Findhorn had shut the door behind them.

"The altar. Where's the altar?" he asked.

"This way." Findhorn led Briggs through a pair of wooden door into what had once been the sanctuary.

The pews remained, but pentagrams had been carved into them. The edges of a mural were visible on the ceiling, beyond the edges of the numerous swathes of red paint that had been applied over it. The altar itself had been torn from its foundation behind the stained glass window at the far side of the sanctuary. It now sat at the center of the room, blocking the aisle. It had been turned to face away from the sanctuary doors, and a pewter pentagram a foot across sat at its center.

"No." said Briggs. "This is wrong."

Findhorn scoffed, looking around. "No kidding."

"No, I mean this is wrong for worship of the Devil. Altars of Christ face East, but there's no doctrine for which ways altars of Satan have to face, so it doesn't make sense to go to the effort of moving the altar. They wouldn't use pews, either; they kneel during their ceremonies. But the big thing is that Satani don't use this as a holy symbol!" Briggs knocked the pentagram on the altar over.

"I thought Satanists used pentagrams like a cross." said Findhorn.

Briggs blinked at Findhorn, then shook his head. "Satanists and Satani are not the same thing."

Findhorn simply looked perplexed. Briggs turned to face him.

"Look, during the 20th century, some guy--called himself Anton LaVey--founded a lifestyle called Satanism. Satanism is so named because its dogma is the opposite of Christianity--it emphasizes holding the self above all others, being completely selfish at every opportunity and never giving a care about the plight of others, versus the selflessness and subservience to Christ that Christians preach. He chose the name Satanism mostly to piss off the Christians of the day.

"Satanists use the pentagram as their symbol, but it's Pagan in origin. Popular culture likes to think that it's the symbol of the Devil, but religiously speaking, these," Briggs gestured to the overturned pentragram, "are about as significant as a men's room sign."

Briggs began to pace while he spoke. "Satani, on the other hand, have been around for millenia. They're normal, everyday people except when they pray. They're the ones who worship the Devil. Human and animal sacrifice, ritualistic abuse, you name it. A Satani sermon is always brutal. Their holy symbol is an inverted cross, not a pentragram. From what you told me about that tape, Carter and his lackeys were Satani."

"That tape showed them molested right here." said Findhorn.

"Then it was a ruse. Satani rituals are between them and their master; there's no need to leave records of their deeds behind. I think this whole thing was planned, was a sham. They kept updating the camera so it looked authentic, putting just enough atrocities on film to leave a bad taste in everyone's mouth--just enough to make this an open-and-shut case, to keep anyone from figuring out what really went on here."

"Which is..?"

"I'm not sure. We'll have to find the real altar to figure that out."

"I hate to burst your bubble, but the forensics teams have already been over this place with a fine-tooth comb. This is the only altar on site."

"I seriously doubt it." said Briggs. "The best way to keep something to hidden is to make everyone think they know where it is. You didn't find the real altar because you thought you had it right here.

"Does this place have a second floor?"

"Just the balcony that held the organ and choir."

"What about a basement?"

"There's a storage room downstairs."

"It must be there." Briggs seemed to be getting excited. The change in his demeanor since their arrival at Hosanna of Bethany was making Findhorn uneasy.

"There are plenty of rooms on this floor, if you really want to make a search--"

"Offices. They'd be locked. Locks breed curiosity about what they're hiding that makes it worth being locked in. What I'm looking for will be hidden in a place that no one would think to investigate, not one that invites investigation."

Briggs quickly walked to the foyer. Findhorn followed, then led him to the stairs.

By his looks, Briggs couldn't be more than five years younger than Findhorn. Factoring in his heavy smoking, Findhorn couldn't understand how the tall man could move so quickly. He was at the bottom of the stair before Findhorn had even mounted them.

The basement's primary function looked to be storage. A haphazard stack of boxes filled a corner--they'd been searched and had contained nothing of use to the investigation. Two dozen barrels of sacramental wine lay in a metal wrack along the far wall.

"Has anyone checked inside these?" Briggs asked.

"We tapped a few of them. They're full of sacramental wine."

"So no one opened them up?"

Findhorn shrugged. "Wasn't necessary. Church records said they were full of wine and a tap proved it."

"I'm not debating they have wine in them." said Briggs, hand on his chin. "I'm just wondering if there might be something else in there."

"Like what?"

"One way to find out." said Briggs. He pulled one of the barrels off the rack and stood it up in front of him. Findhorn marvelled--the oversize barrel had to weigh more than 200 pounds, but Briggs had dragged it off the rack as if it were nothing.

"Detective, pass me that crowbar on the wall rack behind you."

Findhorn passed Briggs the crowbar, saying, "You're nuts, Briggs. Why would someone go to all that trouble just for a big fake? What could be worth all that time and effort?"

Briggs pried off the cover of the barrel and peered inside.

"Covering this up." he said.

Inside the barrel, the body of an adolescent boy floated, pickled by the wine.

V. The Distance

A few minutes past six, Findhorn made his way to his car. As he came near it, he smelled cigarettes. His hand went to his gun.

Briggs loomed like a gargoyle from the other side of Findhorn's car, a cigarette smouldering from his lower lip.

"What are you doing here?" Findhorn demanded.

"Just checking to see if you followed my advice." came the raspy reply.

"I did, and I think I figured out who you are."

Briggs chuckled in the gloom of the parking garage. "Did you, now?"

"First you told me where to find a prominent insurrectionist. Then you help me dodge a blast that all signs show was caused by a remote missile, piloted by insurrectionists. In fact, Raven Fist is one of the insurrectionist groups that's claimed responsibility for today's attack, and McAllister was one of their top guys.

"I think you're a higher-up in Raven Fist who wants out. You're helping me because we both want the top guys in Raven Fist out--me because I'm a cop and it's my job to bring 'em in, you so you can slip away in the chaos."

Briggs shrugged. "Not a bad guess, Detective. The thing is, there are a lot of variables in this equations that you haven't considered--or even realized are variables."

Briggs pulled the open the passenger's side door. Findhorn always kept it locked, yet it seemed to open for Briggs. Findhorn put it down to a lockpick.

"Let's go for a ride." said Briggs.

"Why should I take you anywhere?" demanded Findhorn.

"The way I see it, you owe me one. If I hadn't told you to head to the break room a little early, the Department would be replacing more than just your chair, if you catch my drift. Personally, I think a human life is worth a little more than some dirt on a child molester."

Findhorn sighed. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Where do you think?"

Findhorn's hand went for the door handle. Briggs started to get into the car. Seizing the opportunity, Findhorn pulled his gun and pointed it at Briggs' head.

He found himself staring down the barrel of another weapon. Findhorn had no idea how Briggs could have reacted so quickly.

"Your safety's on." said Briggs. "Now put that thing away, you're not impressing anybody."

Findhorn didn't budge, dumbfounded.

"My safety is off, Detective." prompted Briggs.

Findhorn blinked and lowered the weapon. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"What's wrong?" asked Briggs, tucking his own gun back into his coat.

Findhorn holstered his gun. "I could've sworn I heard screams, but way off in the distance. Lots of them, along with something roaring the background, like a bonfire."

Briggs took a drag from his cigarette. "Imagine that."

They got into the car and Findhorn pulled out. The smell of car exhaust lingered, mixing with the smoke from Briggs' cigarette and one more scent--sulfur.

IV. Blood, Honor, and Broken Glass

At 3:50PM, Findhorn's watch alarm went off. Briggs had been right about the grocery; as off a chance as it was, Findhorn was determined to follow the new advice. Besides, the worst case scenario was that he would recieve some minor chastisement for breaking too early.

Findhorn leafed through the Hosanna of Bethany file while he sat at the break room table, absent-mindedly sipping his coffee. There'd been a time in his life when he didn't need a caffeine boost to make it through the afternoon, but he was within a few months his fifty-second birthday, and had long ago come to terms with the fact that his body was not what it used to be. He was in reasonable shape for a man of his age, but there was no denying that he'd slowed down since those early days on the force.

Things were different then--he'd worked for the State of Ohio, not Lawrence Rehnquist's worldwide regime. He'd joined the force at the age of twenty-three, spent a few years as a beat cop. Then it all got shot to hell.

It was the fall of 2231. He and his wife, Margaret, were celebrating their anniversary with dinner at a five-star restaurant followed by a night at the opera house. The evening had gone well, but on the way home the rear left tire of the car went flat. Findhorn got out to fix it.

While he was behind the car, he heard shattering glass and Margaret's voice. Looking up, a man had broken open Margaret's window and was reached for her. Without thinking, Findhorn ran at the assailant and beat him with the tire iron.

Findhorn later found out that the man had a .38 revolver tucked under his coat. The would-be rapist never got to use it. Findhorn gave in to his rage, beating past arms that tried to protect a face he would eventually smash beyond recognition. He had stopped the attack, protected his wife, but at what cost? A man was not only dead but defiled at his hands.

The other cops never looked at him the same after that. It had been ruled that his actions had been in self-defense, but the lengths he had gone to were considered extreme by many and dangerous by most. It seemed that his superior's were afraid that he might release this violence again. Findhorn had been assigned to one desk job after another, kept off the streets.

Four months later, the United States of America faced demands to surrender it sovereignty to the regime of Lawrence Rehnquist. After they refused, synthetic plagues ravaged the country's major cities, destroying the economic infrastructure and sending the country's leadership into disarray. Washington DC and New York City had been wiped off the map during World War III, seventy years before, but the three largest remaining cities--Los Angeles, Chicago, and the new capital of Seattle, Washington--were so devastated that they became ghost towns. This time, the US surrendered--the greatest country the world had ever known fell without a shot fired.

Once his new superiors were installed, no one much cared about what Findhorn had done to some scumbag in a back alley one night.

Findhorn was knocked from his reverie by the building shaking. Alarm bells rang and the radio came alive as dozens of voices shouted over one another.

"Detonation confirmed--"
"Identified as a remote projectile--"
"Stay calm--"
"Paramedics inbound--"
"Repeat, impact and detonation, Sector 4, level 3--"
"Office of Lieutenant Ramirez totally destroyed--"

Cold sweat appeared on Findhorn's brow. His office was on the third floor of Sector 4, right across the compound from Ramirez's office. He walked past the place everyday.

As he approached his office, debris and dust filled the air. A chot barred his path, but when he explained his office was near the blast, he was allowed to pass.

Findhorn unlocked the door and stepped into his office. The blast hadn't touched his wall of the building, but the force from the blast had shattered his window and sent shards of glass flying into the room. Dozens of them had pierced his desk chair, some of them as large as six inches long. They were exactly where he would have been sitting, had he not gone on break.

Just then, his watch beeped for the hour--his usual cue to go on break.