“Okay,” he said with sudden resolve. “Let’s move on to our next video—the press conference held by Larchfield’s police chief.”
This video opened with Morgan standing at a podium in the headquarters conference room. He was wearing a full-dress uniform with gold chief’s stars on his jacket collar. He was holding a sheet of paper with both hands. His anxiety was palpable. Several rows of chairs were set up facing him. All were occupied.
He began reading, stiffly. “The Larchfield Police Department is currently investigating three local homicides: Angus Russell, age seventy-eight; Mary Kane, age seventy; and Linda Mason, age fifty-one. An APB has been issued for William ‘Billy’ Tate, age twenty-seven, a suspect in all three homicide cases. Tate was initially believed to have been killed in a freak accident, but new evidence suggests that he may have survived.”
Morgan looked up from the paper. “If anyone has any information concerning Tate’s whereabouts, please get in touch with us as soon as possible. A special phone number has been added to our website. You’ll find the number at LarchfieldPDHQ.net. One important caution—these homicides were heinous and unspeakably violent acts. The suspect should be considered extremely dangerous. Do not under any circumstances approach the suspect. If you see him, or know where he is, call us immediately. Thank you.”
Hands were raised. Several voices called out simultaneously. A sharp female voice cut through the others. “How does your medical examiner explain his mistake?”
Morgan was gripping the podium as if steadying the steering wheel of a bus. “We have no comment on that at this time.”
The sharp voice persisted. “There’s a rumor that Tate belonged to a satanic cult. Did that play a part in these killings?”
Morgan shook his head. “I’m not going to comment on hypothetical speculation.”
“What about his alleged history of incest? Is that connected to these crimes?”
It was becoming clear that RAM had been given, in addition to a copy of the mortuary video, inside details of the case. Morgan responded with a deer-in-the-headlights look, and RAM chose that moment to freeze the video clip before switching back to the news desk.
“Wow, a rocky moment there for the police chief,” said Kronck with a smirk. “Those probing questions came from our own Kelly Tremain. Good work, Kelly! Now, let’s go live to Larchfield—to the scene of Billy Tate’s supposedly fatal accident. Kelly is about to interview a controversial local preacher with a reputation for confrontation.”
The scene shifted to the street in front of St. Giles Church, where a thirtysomething woman with blond hair, a red blazer, and a microphone was standing next to a compact man who appeared to be in his late fifties. He had a gray pompadour, shrewd eyes, and an oily smile. Behind them the front of the church was illuminated by a streetlight just visible at the side of the screen. The woman faced the camera with a concerned frown and raised her microphone.
“I’m just a few feet from the church where earlier this week Billy Tate was knocked from the roof by a bolt of lightning and pronounced dead at this very spot by the county medical examiner. Directly across from me, on the other side of this beautiful village square, is Peale’s Funeral Home—where Tate later broke out of his locked coffin and disappeared into the night. Since then, three Larchfield residents have been killed, and the young man who some are saying actually rose from the dead is the prime suspect. I’ve been joined here by the Reverend Silas Gant, pastor of the Church of the Patriarchs in the neighboring town of Bastenburg.”
She turned toward him. “Thank you for joining us on such short notice, Reverend. Let’s get right to it. What we’ve been hearing is shocking beyond belief, and we’re having a hard time getting public officials to confirm or deny anything. Do you have any idea what’s really happening in this supposedly crime-free village?” She held the microphone in front of him.
“I do, Kelly. I absolutely do. But first let me say that I appreciate the opportunity to speak directly to folks who have the good sense to be relying on RAM News—one of the few information sources we can trust in this beleaguered nation of ours.”
Kelly Tremain nodded a proud smile of agreement.
Reverend Gant continued, “The people in power aren’t explaining the situation for the simple reason that they’re not able to. This is so far beyond their understanding, they’re paralyzed by confusion. But the fact is, what’s happening is exactly what I’ve been predicting. Satan is loose in the land. I do not speak metaphorically. I am speaking literally of the Devil—risen up from hell, waging war on the righteous. Kelly, you and I know that this view of the world is not popular in the mainstream media—the media that’s full of lies and false gods, the media that has become the shameless voice and servant of Satan. Satan residing in hell may be out of our reach, Kelly, but Satan on earth, Satan in the flesh, is a proper target for the army of the righteous. This war is ours to win. We are armed and ready for battle. And we welcome to our ranks all who are willing to take up arms in the cause of righteousness.”
Tremain’s smiling agreement was mixed now with a touch of uncertainty. “I must say, Reverend, your determination is . . . remarkable. Let me ask you: Do you see Billy Tate as part of the evil you’re describing?”
“Kelly, Tate is dead. Struck dead in the very spot where we stand. An incestuous boy, grown into a demented man, an abettor of witchcraft. Dead as a doornail!”
Tremain’s mouth was slightly open. The uncertainty in her expression was turning into confusion. “We do have a video of Tate, a video that shows—”
Gant cut her off. “That shows a hooded figure, risen from the dead. But it was not Billy Tate! It was Satan you saw in that video! Satan who is now loose in Larchfield. It is Satan who hides and creeps in the night, slaughtering the righteous. But we will find and destroy him! We will defeat all who harbor and condone him. Armageddon is upon us. Those who give succor to Satan shall taste vengeance at the hand of the Church of the Patriarchs. This attack on godliness will not go unanswered. The battle lines are drawn. We invite all the righteous to join us. In this final hour, those who are not with us are against us.”
Tremain turned to the camera. “The Reverend Silas Gant, founder of the Church of the Patriarchs, speaking with me live here in Larchfield. Back to you, Rory.”
The scene shifted to the news desk. Kronck was leaning back in his chair, as if blown there by a gust of wind. A balding, brown-skinned man with thick glasses was sitting next to him
“Wow,” said Kronck. “Strong stuff. Now, moving along to our own RAM medical expert with a different angle on this shocking story—the strange effects of being struck by lightning. Welcome, Doctor Lou.”
“Thanks, Rory. Glad to be here.”
“We all know that being struck by lightning can cause terrible damage, including death. But I’ve heard in some cases the effects can be truly mind-boggling.”
“Absolutely right, Rory. The examples are few, but they are truly amazing. The tremendous voltages involved—one hundred, two hundred, three hundred kilovolts—can totally rearrange the chemistry of the brain.”
“Possibly for good? Possibly for evil?”
“Either way. Toss of the coin.”
Kronck pivoted in his chair to face the doctor. “So, is it conceivable that the brain realignment caused by a lightning strike could turn an already unbalanced person into a killer?”
“I’ll say this, Rory. Rewire the brain with a potentially fatal electrical jolt, and just about anything could happen.”