The darkened basement closed in around him, and the room spun in time to Matt’s heartbeat.
“What…?”
Slowly, Fredericks rose, his shoulders slumped, his head drooping slightly, as if some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He stretched his neck to either side, giving the bones in his spine a little ‘pop’ and staring down at Matt with crazed indifference. “For the longest time, I didn’t know what to do,” the Pastor continued, idly shaking his head as though they were talking about inclement weather, “I thought I knew the pieces, see, what I’d need, what I had to do. Captain Dawn, of course, he was obvious, waiting, waiting, ready, and then the twins I eventually discovered, turn over enough rocks. There are so many secrets,” he hissed, “So much supposedly kept hidden in this world which you can learn with sufficient coin. And then I had two. But then of course Klaus Heydrich turned out not to be dead, and I was as shocked as anybody, and I thought for a moment he might be a good candidate… cruel, true, but it does not matter, not the temperament, merely the goal…”
“But then she came. Then she came. Wreathed in gold. And I knew, in that moment, I knew, I knew I gazed upon her, where I had despaired mere moments before, mourning Dawn’s loss. But there she was, and she had it. And she was one of them, a blessed vessel, and I knew, and I knew she’d found another one. Because I’d always suspected. Tinkerer, tailor, watcher, weaver, spin your little web. A glaring oversight, seemingly, in the allotment of gifts, it hardly made sense. But then Jane. I knew. That lie about the hair could not hold water, it was shockingly obvious… Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ One more test, on national television, and it was proven. There was no way she could have seen that shooter; yet suddenly she turns away the gun.” The Pastor motioned his hand before his lips, the kiss of some deranged chef. “Only one explanation. Only one now. She went back. She stopped it. The power of time. The power of time!”
“Then, of course,” he continued briskly, voice dropping its husky fervour as quickly as it had been raised, “All that remained was moving pieces. Break her home. Make her fear for you. Deploy the twins.” The Pastor scoffed. “Their asynchronous complementary manifestations were clearly a distribution of an original, unbroken whole, though those Harvard incompetents remained blind. It was clear an empath could combine them. Split pieces of a single orb. I tested. I tested.”
He clicked his tongue. “From there it was just a matter of synchronisation. A situation she could not yield from. A situation you could not live through. The time power is incredibly hard to account for, but the Child was there, the Child guided. He knows she is an amateur. Though that will change…”
The madman paused. “It’s simple really,” Fredericks said, “Less complex than you might think. Just four little pieces. Four.”
“Four pieces of what?” Matt whispered, the darkness spinning, lightheaded. He almost feared to understand. But Fredericks didn’t seem to hear him.
“The power to control time,” he murmured, unfurling his back, rising to his full height, staring at the empty shadows with eyes full of grim, determined madness, “Limitless energy. Control of matter. Power over life and death. Four powers. Four pieces of the Divine. I told you Matt Callaghan,” he said, and with swaying delirium Pastor Fredericks looked down at him and smiled, “I told you this was not about you. I told you.”
The darkened world stood silent.
“There is no God,” the man of faith repeated: “There must be a God.”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Matt’s breathing stopped.
The Pastor laughed, peeling away, swinging his arms in circles either side of his broad shoulders like some demented swimmer warming up. Matt sat in the darkness, eyes wide, head pounding, trying to think, trying to move his brain. So much didn’t… but it didn’t… it couldn’t…
“Wait,” he said slowly. He raised his head to look at Fredericks, as his kidnapper bounced on his heels in the cellar corner. “Wait. You said control over matter. Jane can’t control matter. That’s only three.”
In the darkness, the false priest smiled. “We’re at the end now Matt Callaghan. Dawn of the final day.”
And suddenly, reverberating through the basement and the entire complex, a booming voice rang out.
“PASTOR PHILIP FREDERICKS. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”
“Oh,” the madman muttered – and for the first time since he’d started speaking his rambling insanity, he actually looked mildly surprised. Fredericks shuffled over to a far wall and lifted up a louvre, peeking out through a vent into sudden rays of sunlight. The Pastor paused, frowned, then snapped the vent back into place and strode once more over to Matt. He gazed down, his mouth split into a knowing, giddy smile.
“Well,” the Pastor said lightly, “Sooner than we thought.”
*****
“If these disasters could stop happening in such quick succession,” Natalia muttered to Wally, as they stood watching the SWAT team move into place, a slow, shrinking circle about the Eastborough Baptist residence, “That would be fantastic. My pores are dreadful.”
“Hush,” snapped Wally.
“Hush yourself. I actually care about my appearance.”
“Yeah, that’s all you-” The words suddenly dropped dead in his mouth. “Someone’s coming.”
The front door of the complex opened, and from the depths of the house a man emerged. Towering, stony‑faced, he walked forward slowly, his hands in the air, unarmed – showing no hint of powers.
“Azleena,” Wally whispered, “You seeing this?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Nothing on him.”
“HANDS IN THE AIR!” one of the police officers shouted. The line of SWAT troopers edged closer, rifles raised, powers bristling. “PALMS FORWARD! DO IT NOW!”
“Do we know what he can do?” Wally whispered, leaning over.
“No,” Natalia replied, keeping her voice low, “Religious exemption to registration. Could be anything.”
“For Christ’s sake.”
The looming figure of Pastor Fredericks kept walking, step by step, slowly onwards, his hands upstretched, his upturned palms facing the police around him.
“Maybe he’s surrendering,” Natalia whispered, “They’ve got him, the jig is up.”
“Maybe.”
“I mean what the hell can he do?” the English girl swore under her breath, “He might get off a lucky shot, but he’s surround, the entire effing Legion’s…”
“Almost. Giselle.” Wally touched his earpiece. “I don’t know how that new outfit’s coming, but we’re getting to the fireworks here.”
“I know.”
“Any sign of Jane?” Will.
“Not yet,” Natalia answered under her breath, warily eyeing the skies, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, you useless prats, but this may all wrap up nicely.”
“ON YOUR KNEES!”
In front of his unremarkable suburban home, Pastor Philip Fredericks stopped in the centre of the lawn. He held his head high, his hair neat, dark‑brown and grey‑streaked. His eyes were vacant. He carried no arms or armour, wearing nothing but grey pants, a plain black shirt and a russet felt jacket, and he stood stock still, holding his hands above his heads. His palms faced out.
He did not kneel.
“ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!”
“Careful,” Farrington’s voice echoed through each of their ears, linked up through the coms, “Eyes sharp. First sign of a power, restrain him.”
“I do not like this,” Wally whispered.
“DO IT! NOW!”
Alone in the middle of empty lawn, ringed by a dozen black‑clad men with a dozen black metal guns, the tall man closed his eyes. Then slowly, deliberately, he removed and folded his glasses. His lips began to murmur, barely, the sound of his words whisked away by the soft breeze that ruffled through his hair and the thin green grass. He bowed his head, ever so slightly, keeping his hands held upright, still mumbling. The ring of officers around him tensed as they crept an inch forward, flexing their powers, fingers twitching on their triggers. For a moment, the entire world seemed to lean in, towards Pastor Fredericks, on the breathless brink of some precipice, it knew not what.
Then without warning, the priest’s eyes flew open.
And they were, in their entirety, the deepest crimson red.