“Could be,” Oliver replied. His preoccupation with the tower persisted. “But I don’t think anybody actually works there.” He held his wife’s hand. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, honey.”
“I really wish you hadn’t done that, Oliver,” Elaine replied. “You scared me half to death! Who knows what could have happened to you? Whoever drove that van may have had a gun or been running from the police. Then where would we be? In a matter of seconds, you’d be dead, and I’d be a widow. I don’t want that to happen to us, Oliver. The world is full of dead heroes. I’d prefer you not be one of them.”
“Of course. You’re right,” Oliver apologized. “From now on, I’ll let the police chase the bad guys. Deal?”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good,” Elaine said. She folded her arms, looked out the window. “We can watch the rest of the fireworks from up here.”
“I have a better idea,” Oliver said. He put his arm around his wife, pulled her close, kissed her gently on her forehead. “What do you say we head back home and set off a few fireworks of our own?”
As Oliver placed the key in the ignition, his cell phone rang. He answered the call. “Dr. Prescott speaking.”
“Beautiful night, isn’t it, Doctor? Sky is clear as a bell. Not a cloud for miles. And just look at those fireworks! Really something, aren’t they? Just exploding all over the place! It must cost a fortune to put on a show like that. What do you figure… fifteen, twenty thousand bucks? I can’t recall a Fourth of July show as spectacular as this one for a long time. Can you?”
Oliver struggled to place the caller’s voice. “Who is this?”
“I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. It’s been a few years. But I’ve never forgotten you.”
“Do you realize this is a private number?”
Elaine looked at him anxiously.
“Just listen to us, talking in circles,” the caller continued, his voice jeering, contemptuous. “This is no way for old friends to get reacquainted.”
“Old friends?”
“Perhaps skipping the formalities would be a good start. Yes, the more I think of it, addressing you professionally seems a little too formal. How about Oliver? May I call you Oliver? I suppose we could get real familiar and I could call you Ollie, but that might be overstepping the line a little, don’t you think? Before I forget, how are the wife and kids? What are their names again? Let me think for a minute. Oh, yes. Now I remember. Your wife’s name is Elaine. Quite a looker too, if you don’t mind me saying. And there were two kids. Both girls, right? Amanda and Claire. How are they doing? They must be just shooting right up there by now. Has Claire graduated from medical school yet?”
“Who the hell is this?”
The caller dismissed Oliver’s angry tone. “I bet she’s become quite a beauty too, just like her mother. Guess it’s true what they say then. The proverbial apple never falls far from the tree. You’re a pretty lucky guy, Ollie. Gorgeous wife. Big house. Successful practice. Fancy-ass Porsche. And to top it off, another doctor in the family soon. You’ve just got life by the short and curlies, don’t you? Pretty much everything a man could ask for.” He paused. “Such a shame about Amanda, though. Two years of waiting and wondering. Is she alive… is she dead? Not so much as a phone call, email, or text. But don’t worry. She’s quite alive. I’ve taken good care of her.”
A sudden rush of adrenaline seized Oliver. His heart banged in his chest, as though a thousand tiny scalpels were busy at work, cutting here, slicing there, leaving him gutted, speechless. He struggled to regain his senses as the caller’s words whirled in his mind.
“What did you just say?”
“Oh Ollie, please! No need to get yourself all worked up. Fair is fair, wouldn’t you say? You stole my life. I took your daughter. Seems like a fair exchange to me. But don’t worry. She’s fine. Grown into a lovely young woman. Hell of a lay, too.”
“You son of a...”
“Careful, Ollie. Now you listen to me! You took me from my family, had me locked away like an animal in a psychiatric hospital for five years. Five long, fucking years Ollie!”
Oliver’s mind raced to place the voice on the end of the line. Conversations and faces from the past flashed lightning-quick through his mind as he struggled to identify the voice. In an instant, his memory became clear.
“Krebeck. Joseph Krebeck.”
“Very good, Ollie. Nice to see you haven’t lost your edge.”
“I remember your case. But I thought you were dead. Killed in the hospital by another patient.”
“It was an asylum, not a hospital. Let’s be clear about that, shall we?”
“It was where you needed to be,” Oliver said. He recounted the details of Krebeck’s case. “You murdered three hundred people, Joseph. Every one of them died at your hand, directly or indirectly. You had them bathe in gasoline and rub paraffin over their bodies, then gave them some poisoned concoction in the name of Holy Communion and left them for dead. Then, while they lay writhing on the floor from the poison rushing through their bodies and begging for you to help them, you left your church. You nailed the doors and windows shut and set the place on fire. Remember the trial, Joseph? The testimonies from the families of the victims who followed your prophecy. Your failed prophecy? You were not their saviour, Joseph. You were their murderer. Nothing more, nothing less. It was a callous slaughter of innocent and misguided souls with you masquerading as Messiah.”
“I didn’t kill them. They gave themselves to a higher power. They sacrificed themselves willingly.”
“You lit the match.”
“I ascended them!” Krebeck screamed. “They were desperate for spiritual sustenance and I fed them. They were in a spiritual slumber and
