A Book of Spirits and Thieves

“Have you been told anything about what we do here?” Markus asked.

“No, sir. Nothing.”

“But you are aware that this organization must remain hidden from the world at large.”

“Yes, sir.”

“These people”—Markus spread his hands out toward the audience—“are essential to my life’s mission. They have seen the truth that my existence brings with their own eyes, and they know it is important, that it is the most crucial gift I can contribute to this world.”

Adam didn’t reply right away. It was, after all, a rather cryptic statement.

After a moment, he found his voice. “What is it that you do, sir?”

“My purpose . . . my mission, Adam . . . is to help protect this world from evil—true evil—that would do irreparable harm without my interference. Eradicating that evil helps to shine a light on that which is good. You’ve heard much talk of that already tonight: charity balls, politics with purpose, the building and nurturing of strong relationships. We take a stand, collectively and separately, to do what we can to make a positive difference in this city and also work toward protecting the world at large. And what we do here, at these meetings, is essential to bringing us together as one mind, one heart. One purpose.”

He paused, as if leaving space for a question. Had Farrell been unaccustomed to how Markus spoke, he would have likely laughed out loud at such grandiose speeches that didn’t answer any questions in a completely satisfying way.

Perhaps Markus had been a politician in a previous life.

Adam’s brow was furrowed. “How exactly do you protect the world from evil, sir?”

Markus nodded as if to acknowledge an excellent question. “When I first came to this city sixty years ago, I met a man who befriended me when I was alone and had no one. By the time I met him, he had already begun undertaking the insurmountable task of protecting this city. Together we formed the Hawkspear Society. A hawk, because it watches from high above. It sees all—nothing escapes its attention. And a spear, the weapon that, to us, represents protection and defense. We are an organization committed to truth and justice.”

Adam sent an uncertain glance at Farrell, who nodded, trying to will strength toward his brother.

You can handle this, kid. Don’t be nervous.

“Watch,” Markus said. “Observe. And then decide if you are ready to be a part of my mission from this day forward.”

Two of Markus’s helpers—perhaps they were also part of his inner circle, Farrell thought—led a bound, gagged, and blindfolded man to the center of the stage. He had black hair that was graying at the temples and wore a dirty T-shirt. His face had a week’s worth of stubble on it. One of the helpers removed the gag and blindfold. The man’s dark, glittering eyes scanned the silent audience with both confusion and outrage.

“Where the hell am I?” he demanded, squinting at the bright spotlight.

“Tonight,” Markus said, walking a slow circle around him, “John Martino, forty-eight years old, appears before us. A man who has been in and out of prison since he was eighteen.”

“So you know who I am.” John eyed Markus with disdain, then glared at the two men who stood on either side of him like silent sentries. He turned back to Markus. “Who are you?”

Markus ignored him, keeping his gaze fixed on his audience. “John is an executive in a very profitable industry—the illegal drug trade. Twenty dealers work under him. He supplies them with product, which they push on the streets to addicts and other victims of substance abuse. One of his recent shipments of ecstasy was laced with arsenic—”

“I had nothing to do with that!” John protested.

“—which caused the deaths of six people, including the daughter of one of our loyal members. After an investigation by the grieving father, her possession of the drug was linked to you, Mr. Martino. My loyal colleague asked that you be tried for your crimes here, tonight, so you will not harm anyone else in the future. Do you deny what you’ve done? Do you accept your guilt and your punishment? Only then can you be purged of the evil that taints your mortal soul.”

“Who are you?” John’s expression had grown even more wary. “You’re not the police. This isn’t a court of law.”

“The girl who died—the girl you murdered—had a bright future. She wanted to be a doctor, who would have made a difference in this world someday. She was only fifteen years old.”

“She was the one who swallowed the pill. She made her choice.”

“And you’ve made yours—over and over again.” Markus paused and then turned to address his members. “How many murders is this monster responsible for? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? And how many more will he be responsible for if we were to set him free without answering for his crimes?”

“Just give me the chance,” John snarled. “You’re next, you son of a bitch.”

“Pass your judgment,” Markus instructed the audience.