Midnight passed in front of the car, so silently and stealthily that Tom only vaguely noticed the change. Just another morning shadow, like those coming from the suspension wires. Tom glanced forward lazily, expecting nothing but normalcy. Instead, his eyes focused on a black spot in the road ahead, one that was enlarging rapidly. A man in a trench coat, less than fifty yards away, had stepped into the street. He was still in motion, using long legs to make slow but deliberate steps. Tom’s eyes veered to Ross, his body bracing for the quick swerve that would happen any second. But to his horror, Ross’s eyes were on his side mirror, a sly grin on his lips, as if checking out the driver behind him. Tom looked forward again, hoping the man had already passed their lane. But he hadn’t. Instead, the lanky man had come to a dead stop.
“Ross!”
Ross snapped to attention. He saw the man too, poised like a totem pole against the sunrise. He jerked the wheel, and the whole world jerked with it. Tom heard screeching. Colors shot around him like a tornado. They were spinning through lanes, chopping their way through the dense morning traffic. Other cars honked and swerved, barely missing the Cruiser. Then the guardrail found them and everything fragmented. A walloping thrust as Tom’s chest fused with the seatbelt . . . a deafening bang as the Cruiser’s hood split open and peeled back . . . a single cry from Ross before the airbags overtook both of them.
And then silence.
In the minutes that came next, Tom noticed one thing. The air seemed thicker. Maybe it was the airbag—the harsh plastic smell his nose was buried in—or the chemical odor of leaking car fluids. It could have been any of those things, but as he slowly lifted his head he realized it wasn’t. The air felt more than polluted. It felt different. It felt unnatural. Tiny vibrations slithered over his entire frame, making his heart leap in his chest. The charge in the air had him scanning beyond the broken windshield, looking for fallen power lines. He saw nothing, which should have made him feel better.
It didn’t.
“Ross,” he whispered, his voice dry and cracking. “You okay, Ross?”
Ross didn’t answer. Tom’s fingers quickly located his partner’s arm and then his partner’s wrist. The pulse was good. He was just unconscious. Tom thought about shaking him awake, but then he heard the passenger door open.
“Hey,” a woman said. “Hey, are you all right?”
Tom turned and saw a lady standing next to him. He could see her car parked a few feet away. Other cars were coming to a stop as well. The whole bridge would be clogged in moments.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” he said, hoping he wasn’t lying. “Can you help me out of here?”
The lady nodded and let him hook an arm around her shoulder. Tom pushed away from the airbag, every muscle in his chest groaning. Sounds were coming into sharper focus now. The rumble of dozens of engines filtered through the air, joined by a similar rumble coming from the river below. That’s all it is, he told himself. The cars . . . the rushing river . . . they’re making me even more jumpy. Nothing unnatural about that. As his feet hit solid ground his vision began to spin. He grabbed the roof of the Cruiser to steady himself.
“What happened?” the lady asked, her hands shaking worse than Tom’s. “I watched you guys veer off the road.”
Tom stood up straight, his spine cracking. “There was a man,” he mumbled, remembering. His eyes widened. “That man.”
In the midst of the lines of cars stood the trench-coat man. His frame shifted back and forth like a pendulum, though his eyes were fixed squarely on Tom. Wispy black hair fluttered around his shoulders. His face was long, and his complexion—dear God, his skin looked gray.
“Don’t worry,” the lady said. “I called the police on my cellphone. They’ll be here soon. Why don’t you sit down and take it easy until they get here?”
That man’s eyes. Bloodshot with clammy white pupils. And they were drilling deeper into Tom with every passing moment.
“Just a second,” Tom said, ignoring the fading dizziness. He stepped into the throng of cars. Cool steel found his hand, and Tom realized his hand was already on his .38. It was still in its holster, but his fingers were around the grip, ready to draw. In all his years on the force, he had never gone for his gun. Yet something about this man’s crazed stare told him he was going to need it this time. The certainty of it chilled his insides.
He got in line with the man and stopped, still twenty feet away. For a moment, his gaze was pulled from the man’s face to his trench coat. The coat stretched to the ground, hiding the man’s feet. Every button was buttoned, and it looked thick on him, as if the man had several layers of clothes on underneath. Tom thought about pulling his badge, then decided not to. He had the man’s attention already, so Tom spoke.
“Why did you step into the street?”
The man smiled, revealing a set of half-decayed yellow teeth. “Do you know how long I spent preparing the sacrifice?” he said in a gravelly voice. “Three years I prepared the sacrifice! Three years I used the serum. Three years I performed the ceremonies. Yet the master had no use of my sacrifice. The master had already chosen another.”
Tom pulled his badge and held it up. “I said why did you walk into the street?”
The man clicked his teeth, baring purple gums. “So what good am I now? If I cannot provide the vessel of the master, how can I serve him?”
He’s just a nut wandering the street. Tom didn’t buy it, though. This man seemed deeper, almost calculating. Tom’s fingers tensed around his weapon. Just a wanderer, Tom. Just a mental-case wanderer.
“Who is the master?” Tom tried, hoping to take over the conversation.
The man’s eyes blazed. “The master! The eye of the storm. The center around which all darkness orbits. The master is almost here, and when he arrives he’s going to kick the shit out of this world.” The man cackled. “He’s going to kick the shit out of you, too, Officer Pillar.”
The gun came out of its holster. It was pointed at Mr. Trench Coat in less than a second. “Who are you?” Tom yelled. “How do you know my name? Were you waiting for us to drive by? Who are you?”
The man’s eyes turned skyward. His hands rose in the air, palms up. Tom noticed the inside of his wrists. Black syringe holes dotted the skin like swarms of bees. “So how can I serve the master now? How can I make my sacrifice worthwhile?”
“Damn it! Who are you?”
“I know!” the man cried. “I can give the sacrifice to my master’s enemy. I can give my sacrifice to the legendary Pillar. My lamb will not be wasted.”
The man’s hands dipped to his chest. “Hold it!” Tom yelled, but the man began unbuttoning his trench coat. Tom stepped forward. He was going to take this bastard down. He heard sirens in the distance. They would be here in minutes, and they could cuff the madman and take him downtown. Tom only had to hold him until then. Keep him from doing something cra-
The man flipped open the trench coat.
Tom froze. Huddled against the man was a small boy, no more than seven. His back was to Pillar, his arms clinging to the man’s legs like a lifesaver. Large blue eyes squinted at him. Tom wasn’t focused on the boy’s face, though. His gaze was stuck on the row of sticks duct-taped around the boy’s midsection.
Dynamite.
A car honked at that moment, making Tom’s heart skip. The cars. Cars were everywhere. All three lanes were at a standstill. He glanced quickly to his sides, expecting a panic to break out amid the rows of traffic. Nobody was seeing this, though. They were all absorbed in their own little worlds. Radios were turned up and cellphones were activated. Even the woman who had helped him from the car was busy inside the Cruiser, trying to rustle some consciousness out of Ross. Maybe a few of the drivers close by were listening, but no one dared to look at them, especially if it meant becoming part of this insane conversation. For all intents and purposes, Tom was alone on this one.
The man smiled another grotesque smile. “Go to him, my son. Go to the Guardian.”
The boy trembled but turned, like a trained animal, and moved toward Tom. His heart froze as he saw the boy’s chest. An electronic readout hung over the dynamite. Numbers ticked away on it—00:58, 00:57, 00:56.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tom said, his voice feeling small.
“He’s yours,” the man offered. “He’s your sacrifice.”
“No, he’s not,” Tom said, pleading. “Come on, turn off the bomb. We don’t have to do this.”
“Oh we do,” the man insisted. “The whole world has to do this.”
00:41, 00:40, 00:39 . . .
Tom lifted his gun. “I said turn it off! Do it now!”
The man cackled again. His arms lifted upward in worship. “Master! Look to me and let my act please you!”
00:32, 00:31 . . .
Tom’s eyes jumped from the rows of vehicles to the child with his arms outstretched, walking toward him. He had realized a moment before that he was alone on this one. Now he wished he could be so lucky.
00:25, 00:24
“You’ve got one more chance!” Tom yelled desperately. “Turn it off!”
The man dropped to his knees, his hands still raised. “Let the Jesottunea begin.”
00:17
Tom ran forward, scooping the child up in his arms. He heard a car door nearby open. As he passed the man in the trench coat he heard a deep chanting in foreign words. It barely sounded like a real language.
“Hey, what’s the holdup?” someone said.
Tom kept running, weaving through the cars, moving out of the lanes. He reached the railing and glanced down at the readout.
00:10
“Close your eyes,” he whispered to the boy. “When you wake up this will all be better.”
Tom lifted the child above his head. God, forgive me. Then he flung the boy, tossing the child with everything he had. Somewhere a woman screamed. That scream was quickly matched, though, as the young boy found his voice. The child’s face flashed through the air and then disappeared beyond the railing. The tiny scream pitched downward, toward the sun-drenched river below. Tom stood petrified, listening to the sound fade, waiting to hear the splash or the explosion—whichever came first.
A splash. The terrified cry of a seven-year-old snapped off in an instant.
Thomas Pillar didn’t move. As the seconds went by he stayed right where he was, the walls of his mind imploding. The timer. It had already run out. It ran out before the boy even hit the water. The truth—the truth that punctured his heart—was much more simple. The bomb had never been armed. The timer had only been there to fool him. The boy had fallen to his death needlessly.
A tremor ran through Tom’s soul. He couldn’t move. His feet were dead. His lungs seemed insufficient. His stomach was hollow.
And somewhere behind him a man in a trench coat cackled like a lunatic.
