“You’re going to have to slow down a little.” I lean back in the chair, feeling dizzy again.
“I believe you’re one of the many prophets throughout history,” Miss Granger says. “It’s an honor. You join a noble tribe. Jesus had a vision of the dove when baptized in the book of Mark. Visions of afterlife in the martyr’s account of Perpetua and Felicity. Constantine’s vision of Christ’s sign. Even René Descartes had a series of dreams that set the course of his life in science.”
“No. You don’t understand.” I grit my jaw. “I’m not seeing God, or light, or things for the good of mankind. I’m seeing death and destruction and blood and … filth.”
“You can fight it. We can deal with it, if we know what’s happening. We can find the things that trigger the visions—maybe it’s a feeling that comes over you when you have them. Some people see a halo of light, some get shaky, some hear a hum. I can help you. Together, we can end this.”
“How do you even know about all this?” I glance up at the wall. “The six chosen ones. The marks.”
She scratches the side of her head and then fixes her bun. “Because it’s happened before.” She pulls out an old photo album.
“Beirut. Philippines. Prague. Belize. And most recently, Mexico City in 1999.”
She turns to a news clipping: TWO MISSIONARIES AND FIVE CHILDREN ARE FOUND DEAD AFTER A BRUTAL ATTACK AT THE CHURCH OF GRACE.
“But how did you know it was coming to Midland?”
She turns the page to a set of disturbing autopsy photos. “Each child had the mark, the upside-down U with two dots above and below, on a different part of their body. The surviving child had it on their scalp. But these were the marks that were left on the missionaries. They weren’t burns or scrapes; the lettering was raised from the inside, like someone carved the numbers from inside their bellies. A reverse etching … like Braille.” She runs her fingertips across the photo. “There was a distinct marking—35.0264 on the man’s torso, 99.0908 on the woman’s.”
“What do the numbers mean?”
“At first, I thought they were Bible verses. I checked every scripture—New Testament, Old … nothing fit. It wasn’t until we were sailing from Haiti to Miami to investigate a case last year that I realized they were coordinates.”
“To where?”
“Midland, Oklahoma. More specifically, the breeding barn at the Neely ranch. And when I saw the story in the news—”
“‘Mooder in Midland.’” I sigh.
“I knew we’d found the place of his next attack.”
“So, you’re telling me Midland’s the gateway to hell?” I drag my hands through my hair.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I do. I mean, I want to, but this is a lot to take in. You’re going to have to give me some time.”
“Unfortunately, that’s something we don’t have. Whether you believe it or not, if we don’t act swiftly, they’ll die. One by one, the Devil will pick off the weak, until only one remains.” She takes the album away from me.
“There must be a way to stop this.”
“Only an exorcism will cleanse them, stop the cycle. And in order to do that, we need information. We need proof to get this sanctioned.”
“Sanctioned? What, by a priest?”
“By the Church. This isn’t something we take lightly.” Her gaze turns to the photos on the wall. “The demons are putting Ali and the others through their paces as we speak … trying to decide the best route. They’re all vulnerable right now.”
“How long do they have?”
“A month, a week, a few days … it varies, but once the cycle starts, the Devil’s influence will spread like poison.”
Ali stirs. We both glance back at her.
Miss Granger whispers, “She doesn’t realize what’s happening to her.”
“We have to tell her. We have to tell everyone.”
“No.” She looks at me with pity. “This is bigger than you and me. He could have disciples all around us. And no one would believe you. They’ll only put you away, send you to Oakmoor. You won’t be able to help anyone in there. She’s going to need you.”
“It’s hard to explain, but when I’m near her … when I touch her, I feel a darkness.”
“We all have darkness, Clay. She’s still Ali. The girl you love.”
I feel an embarrassed flush creep up my neck. How did Miss Granger know about that? Was I that obvious?
“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?” I ask. All those hours we spent together … every day for the past year … you think you could’ve mentioned something?”
“I kept waiting for you to change … to join the others. I tried to tell you today, but, well, that didn’t go exactly as planned.”
“I’m sorry about that … about the way I acted.”
“We all have a purpose, Clay. It’s time you fulfill yours.”
“Why us?” I ask, looking up at the photographs.
“That I don’t know. But I intend to find out, and you can help me.”
“How? What can I possibly do?”
“You said Mr. Neely invited you to the Harvest Festival, to take your place on the council, the team. You need to do that.”