Covenant (30 page)

            “I see.  So Thorne is still alive?”

            “Affirmative, sir.”

            “You’ve spoken very highly of your agent, this Noah Cutty.”

            “He’s fully capable, one hundred perfect faithful,” the Director said.     

            “But Thorne lives.”

            “Thorne is an extraordinary target, your grace.  He’s got considerable military training.”

            “Our agents are highly trained as well, yes?”

            “They’re the best,” the Director said with obvious pride.  “Our man Thorne happens to have a vendetta he’s willing to die for.”

            “ ‘A life is not worth living until you have something to die for,’ ” Bishop Prince said.  “Dr. Martin Luther King Junior once spoke those words.  Thorne has allowed Satan to mislead him, but he believes fully in his purpose, as we’ve witnessed.  That makes him most dangerous.”  

            “But not invincible,” the Director said.  “Cutty has never failed us.  He will succeed, sir, at whatever we command him to do.”

            Bishop Prince turned to regard his old friend.      

            “I want to ensure that he does,” he said. 

54

            At the sound of rapping on a door, Anthony snapped out of sleep as quickly as if he were casting off a blanket.  He grabbed the revolver from underneath the pillow and panned it around the shadowed room. 

            Beside him, Lisa had awakened, too, and had her hands on her gun.

            A closer listen revealed that the knocking was at the door of a nearby room.  A woman called out, “
Housekeeping
,” in Spanish-inflected English.

            He pushed out a heavy breath, lowered the gun.   

            “Aren’t we quite the pair?” Lisa said. 

            He glanced at her.  “You woke up fast.”

            “I guess you’ve rubbed off on me.”

            The clock’s green numerals read a quarter to nine.  They had slumbered only about two hours, and the alarm wasn’t scheduled to sound until ten.  But the compressed period of sleep had rejuvenated him—some of his old military habits had finally returned.

            “I’ve slept enough,” he said.  “How’re you feeling?”

            “Like getting to work.”

            “Then let’s get to it.”  He switched on the lamp, cut off the alarm, and pushed out of bed.  “I’ll get us up and running online.”

            “It doesn’t look like they have room service,” she said, paging through a hotel guest guide and tossing it back onto the nightstand.  “Just in-room coffee.  I’ll brew a pot—it should hold us over until we have a chance to grab some food.” 

            He clicked on the desk lamp.  A laminated placard with instructions for how to access the Web via the hotel’s wireless network stood on the corner of the desk.  He powered on his laptop, followed the directions, and soon was online.

            Lisa placed a mug of steaming coffee at his elbow, and pulled up a chair to sit beside him at the desk.  Crossing her legs Indian-style, she took a sip of her own coffee.

            “What’s the plan?” she asked.                     

            “The first thing I want to do is check out the message Mike sent me about Kelley Marrow,” he said.  “Based on whatever that tells us, we can go from there.”

            He logged onto his Jarhead account and found a private e-mail waiting for him from Mike, screen name, IronMike707, which had been sent at 2:13 in the morning.  The subject line read, “Kelley Marrow.”

Yo AT,

Been Googling Kelley Marrow.  I found an obituary from this past March that I think might be hers.  The link’s below. Check it out.

            Peace,

            Mikey

            Anthony clicked on the link at the bottom of the message.  Another web browser opened, transporting him to a page on an obituary-archival Web site called “GeorgiaLegacy.com.”

            He and Lisa leaned forward in their chairs, reading.  There was no photo of the deceased, only a single paragraph of text.

Kelley Ann Marrow, age 13, of Kennesaw was called home to the Lord on March 19.  An honor-roll student, Kelly loved singing in the church choir, spending time with family and friends, horseback riding, and playing with her family’s two dogs.  She is survived by her loving mother, Susan Marrow, an older brother, Tommy, and a host of extended family.  Funeral services will be held 11am, Saturday, at Covenant Funeral Home, Kennesaw.

Lisa was shaking her head.  “Thirteen years old.  So young.  Her family must’ve

been devastated.”

            “I wonder what happened to her,” he said.            

            “Could’ve been an illness.  Or an accident.”

            “And her name happens to be in the Bible that Bob gave me?  I’m not thinking she died by accident or illness, Lisa.  That’s a tad bit too random to me.”

            “Maybe.”  Her gaze narrowed; he could see the gears in her mind working toward the same conclusion he had drawn.  “But we don’t know for sure that we’re talking about the same person.”

            “Then let’s be sure.”

            He turned to the laptop again.  He entered the Web address for a site called Omega Search. 

            Unlike Google, which was a search engine for finding virtually everything known to man, Omega Search was a free search engine exclusively for finding people.  It pulled data from public records and government sources: court documents, county and state property records, and so forth.  In the Information Age, nothing was private anymore.

            He’d become aware of Omega Search and similar sites when conducting research for his suspense novels.  Ghost was a savage fighter, skilled with firearms and old-fashioned fisticuffs, but what made him so deadly effective was that he was equally adept at using technology to locate clues.  To write credibly about such a character, Anthony had needed to educate himself on the capabilities of the information-gathering world.

            In the name entry field at the top of the Web page, he typed “Susan Marrow” and specified the city and state as “Kennesaw, Georgia.” 

            Within seconds, the site returned an address and phone number for Marrow—including a date of birth that revealed she was thirty-seven years old. 

            “Bam,” he said. 

            “Wow,” Lisa said.  “That was so easy it’s scary.”

            “Easy to find her, but the next step might not be so easy.”

            “Which is?” Then she blinked, gave him a knowing look.  “Wait.  Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

            “You know I am.  We’ve got to convince her to talk to us.”

55

            As the morning sun burned off the last traces of the night’s storm clouds, Cutty piloted the Suburban along the smoothly paved roads of the New Kingdom Church Campus.  He had a nine o’clock meeting with the Director, and he didn’t dare arrive late. 

            Hours earlier, he had dropped off Valdez at the women-only servant dormitories.  Their parting had been awkward.  After a night of frenzied searching for Thorne and his wife, Cutty regarded the summons back to the campus, his mission incomplete, as profoundly humiliating.

            Valdez’s eyes had been full of pity for him, not the admiration to which he had grown accustomed.  He wondered if she would request a re-assignment with a more capable partner.

            With time to spare, he’d sought refuge in his studio apartment in the men-only barracks reserved for church security agents.  Confining himself to the tiny closet with a flashlight, pen, paper, and Bible, he copied a verse repeatedly that best expressed his ignominy, Psalm 69:7. 
Because for thy sake I have borne reproach; shame hath covered my face. 

            He might have continued his transcription ritual until nightfall if his wristwatch alarm had not beeped, signaling that it was time for him to depart for the meeting.    

            As he drove, Valdez’s sweet fragrance lingered in the SUV, mocking him with the fantasy of sensual pleasures he would never know.  The Prophet would not grant blessings to one who had failed him.  Although the Director had not communicated the purpose of their imminent discussion, and though he’d assumed the Director had given him until 0800 that morning to eliminate Thorne, apparently the Director—never known for his patience—had grown frustrated with waiting for results, and would be taking disciplinary action.

            To soothe his spirits, Cutty took enjoyment in observing the ordered grace and wholesomeness of the Kingdom Campus.  

            Red crepe myrtle trees in full bloom lined the road, blossoms rustling in a soft breeze.  People jogged or walked on the sidewalks, alone, accompanied by canine companions, or in small groups.  All wore proper Kingdom attire.  There were no women in low-cut shorts or revealing shirts, no bare-chested men, nothing that would offend one with a sense of decency.  Everyone was smiling and bright-eyed and energetic, too, happy to be among God’s chosen people. 

            A shuttle bus passed by in the opposite direction, transporting servants to the Kingdom Market, a store so massive and comprehensive it would have made Wal-Mart look like a convenience store.  Loud speakers posted on a series of poles broadcast godly music from Kingdom Radio.

            On a great hill in the distance, overlooking the land, loomed the Prophet’s mansion, like a castle floating in the clouds.

            The Kingdom Campus had been conceived by the Prophet as a self-sustaining city, the seat of the empire that would soon envelope the entire earth.  Cutty knew servants who had not ventured off the grounds in years.  There was no reason to leave, as everything one could possibly need and desire was provided there.

            If it had not been for his servant’s calling, he doubted he would have ever wandered beyond the Kingdom walls, either.  When he’d lived on the commune with his family, he’d never left, and not only because Father had forbid it.  Simply put, living among God’s people was more fulfilling than interacting with the immoral, filthy secular world.    

            The Armory, the headquarters of the Armor of God, stood on the western boundaries of the campus.  A low slung, battle-ship gray, windowless, concrete building that covered several acres, the Armory resembled a top-secret military command post.  True to the spirit of the structures it recalled, the majority of the work done there took place underground, in a vast warren of corridors and rooms so heavily reinforced they could have withstood a nuclear assault.  

            After going through a sentry-manned gate, he plunged into an underground parking garage that ran seven levels deep.  Their fleet of custom-equipped vehicles—sedans, SUVs, vans, sports cars, motorcycles, even a few RVs—occupied many of the parking spaces. 

            When speedier travel was required, they had the use of an airstrip, hangar, two Gulfstream jets, and several Bell helicopters, all located on their private airport.          

            He parked at the garage’s bottom level and strode toward the glass double doors at the far end.  An intricately detailed seal, the same emblem stitched on their uniform jackets, was emblazoned on the doors in shimmering gold, black, and white paint; the motto beneath was, “Defending God’s Kingdom.”

            He laid his thumb on the fingerprint scanner station, and the doors swung open, admitting him into a brightly lit lobby.  A long, wide, stone-tiled corridor stretched ahead, ranked with doors without windows.  Each level of the complex was named after a book of the Old Testament, and small signs beside each room bore labels based on that naming convention.      

            A couple of agents ahead crossed the hallway and entered a chamber.  Neither of them paid attention to him.  He approached a bank of elevators near the entrance; they carried one deeper into the bowels of the division, or to the higher levels above.

            He took the elevator down another three levels, and entered a more dimly lit, shorter corridor than the one above.  There were three doors—one on the right, two on the left. 

            He approached the door on the right, where the sign read “Exodus A.”     

            Before going inside, he checked his watch.  It was exactly nine o’clock.  The Director could not berate him for tardiness.

            He bowed his head, uttered a short prayer asking for divine mercy, and opened the door. 

            But he did not find the Director waiting for him at the oak conference table.

            He found the Prophet, Bishop Emmanuel Prince.

56

            Susan Marrow lived in Kennesaw, a suburb on the northern rim of metro Atlanta.  All Anthony knew about the town was that a Civil War battle had once been waged near Kennesaw Mountain—and that a local ordinance required all heads of household to possess a registered firearm. 

            Marrow’s home was in an established neighborhood of bungalows and ranches with verdant, well-tended lawns.  Anthony cruised along the tree-lined street in the Volkswagen, while Lisa, riding in the passenger seat, searched for the address they’d found on Omega Search.

            The morning sunshine was bright, the sky a clear turquoise canvas.  It gave him a more optimistic mood than he had any logical reason to have considering their circumstances.  On a balmy June day such as that one it was easy to believe that everything would work out in their favor.

            Lisa pointed to a home coming up on the right.  “There it is.”

            The Marrow residence was a quaint bungalow with white clapboard siding, blue shutters, a veranda, and a detached garage.  The small yard was a lush green, neatly maintained, and a bed of hydrangeas basked in the sun.