When you finish reading, scroll to the bottom and leave your COMMENTS.
Thanks.

Thriller
About 94,000 Words











CONTENTS

PART ONE
1. FIRST CONTACT
2. ROBYN JARVIS
3. A CRY FOR JUSTICE
4. AN INDICTMENT OF WORLD LEADERS

PART TWO
5. THE CALL
6. JUSTICE DRAWS NEAR
7. THE CALLING CARD
8. A WORLD OF LOST CHILDREN
9. WHO IS THE JUDGE?

PART THREE
10. THE PRIME SUSPECT
11. TERROR IN THE DARK
12. CONGRESSIONAL LUST
13. THE SMELL OF DEATH
14. WORLD IN A HURRY
15. WHAT IS THE MAJOR STEP?

PART FOUR
16. THE LAST DEADLINE
17. THE ONLY WITNESS
18. THE GATES OF HELL
19. CORRUPT GOVERNMENTS and THE GREAT WHORE
20. POLITICAL FEAR
21. LEADERS ASK CITIZENS TO SACRIFICE, BUT THEY THEMSELVES DON'T

PART FIVE
22. PRESIDENTIAL CONSPIRACY
23. PRELUDE TO A MUSHROOM CLOUD
24. WORLD TOWN HALL
25. QUIET PANIC
26. ONE LAST ANSWER
27. APOCALYPTIC HORROR
28. WHAT WAS THE MAJOR STEP?


PART ONE


1. FIRST CONTACT


Chicago. December 23, 1965, Thursday night.

Burt Stephens was ten years old on the night that he first felt the impact of psychic experience, and he would probably be haunted by the encounter for the rest of his life. He had gone to bed at eight-thirty because he wanted to get up early to wrap Christmas presents. He made the presents for his parents yesterday and hid them under his bed.

At 9:00 p.m., a faint reflection from the backyard light filtered into the small, dark bedroom. Sitting in front of a tall window, a high-backed wooden chair created shadowy twin peaks on the opposite wall. In one corner a family picture sat on a little desk, but a shadow hid the mother and father and only Burt’s face could be seen.

In his sleep a black omen enveloped him and he began to softly moan. Soon he awoke in a sweat and threw his blanket back. He felt a powerful premonition, so unsettling that he didn’t want to go back to sleep. Wondering if he had been crying in his sleep, he sat up from his damp pillow.

Burt sadly thought, Where’s Mom and Dad? Did they come home yet? As he turned on his bedside lamp, tears welled up in his hazel eyes. Oh, this is awful. He wiped his eyes. What is it? Did something hurt them?

He brushed over his blond hair with his hand, got out of bed, and buttoned his pajama top. After putting on his robe, he went to the closed door and stood there. Then he opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Seeing light coming from the living room he was relieved, but remembering that it was the baby-sitter watching television, his relief vanished.

Unwilling to know more about the terrible impression gripping his heart, he stood in the hallway for a moment. Then he went into the living room and looked at the baby-sitter. “Hi, Mary.”

“Oh, Burt,” Mary said, surprised, “did I wake you?” Mary Evans was the family’s seventeen-year-old sitter. She wore blue jeans and a checkered red sweater, and her brown eyes displayed friendliness.

“No, you didn’t wake me, Mary. I had a bad feeling and it woke me up.”

“You look pale, Burt. Was it a dream?” Mary was five-foot-five and slightly chubby.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but it scared me.” He looked at Mary. “Mom and Dad should be here by now. Did they call?”

“No, they haven’t called.” Mary got up from the sofa and turned down the television. “But they’ve been late before.” She picked up her brush from the coffee table, and as she brushed her long black hair, she sensed Burt’s distress.

Burt glanced at the glistening Christmas tree standing in front of the wide picture window. Sprinkled with silver and decorated with a rainbow of sparkling bulbs, it reigned over the room.

Going over to the window, he looked outside, and heard the howl of the winter wind. Then he recalled a movie and a distant wolf calling to the pack. Beneath the streetlights large snowflakes hovered in the air, as if trying to avoid landing on the frozen ground.

He remembered hearing earlier that it was supposed to drop to ten above by early morning. He shivered and tugged the top of his robe closer to his neck.

Mary sat down. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Burt.” She stared at his back, wondering why he was an only child. She had three brothers, and she thought that it must be lonely for Burt.

Burt turned away from the window, oddly looking at the telephone on the end table.

Mary said, “They’ll probably be here any moment and . . .” The telephone rang. “Hello,” she answered, then smiled at Burt. “Yes, he’s standing by the Christmas tree.” She listened. “Okay, Mister Stephens, we’ll see you then.” She hung up.

Burt smiled, and hurried over to the sofa. “That was my Dad?”

“Yes, they’re leaving for home now.” Mary too had a smile on her pleasant, round face. “He said they’d be here in about a half hour.”

“Oh, good,” Burt said, feeling relief, “that’s good.” He sat down to watch television with Mary. “I guess I’m gonna wait for them now.”

Mary glanced at her watch. It was 9:15 p.m. “Okay, it’s not ten yet. Do you wanta catch the rest of Gilligan’s Island?”

“Yeah, sure.” He put his feet up on the sofa and clasped his hands around his bent knees.

Mary got up and switched channels. “Want some hot chocolate, Burt?”

“Okay, Mary.”

She went into the kitchen. When she came back, she handed Burt a steaming cup. “Be careful, it’s really hot.”

“Thanks.”

She set her cup on the coffee table and sat down. They watched television, and lost track of time. When the program ended at ten o’clock, Mary glanced at the door, wondering why the Stephens hadn’t arrived.

Burt got up and went to the window, gazing into the night. “I wonder what’s takin’ them so long, Mary?” The driveway was covered with snow.

“I don’t know, but they’ll probably be here any minute now.”

Burt came back to the sofa and sat down. An anxious half hour later, the phone rang.

Mary answered it. “Turn down the TV, Burt.” He quickly got up and turned down the television, then he sat on the sofa to listen.

But the short conversation was ending. “Okay, Mister Stephens,” Mary said, and hung up.

Burt earnestly looked at Mary. “What’d my dad say, Mary? When are they gonna get here?”

Mary looked worried as she glanced at the clock. “That wasn’t your dad, Burt, it was your . . . .”

“It wasn’t them?”

“No, it was your grandfather.” Mary turned off the television.

Burt was puzzled. “Grampa?”

Mary sat down and looked at him. “Yes, he said to tell you that he was coming over to see you.”

Burt stood up from the sofa. “Now?” he asked. He felt the dread coming back.

“Yes, he said the roads were bad, but he’d be here in about a half hour.” She looked troubled. She too wondered why the elder Stephens was coming over.

Burt glanced at the clock. “Did Grampa say why?”

“No, he didn’t say.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Thirty years later.

November 6, 1995.

On Monday afternoon the staff at The Phoenix Times was busy preparing Tuesday morning’s newspaper. A low hum of computers, printers and copiers rolled across a sea of gray desks in the large news office and blended in with a buzzing of conversations, creating a hypnotic tone.

Burt Stephens sat at his desk. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, trying to understand the exotic scene that had just popped into his mind. What was it? he thought. What’s happening to me? He grasped for something to hold on to. These thoughts of peculiar places, what the hell are they?

Opening his eyes, he glanced around the office, but no one had noticed him. He tried to shrug off a nagging feeling of remembrance, an eerie impression that he should know what the scenes were about. He started to get up, but he was still gripping the arms of his chair. Relaxing his hands, he waited a moment, then he got up and went for coffee.

Burt was forty, and by working out he consistently maintained 200 pounds on his six-foot-two frame. His straight blond hair touched his collar in the back, and partly covered his ears. He had a face that might have gotten him in the movies, high cheekbones, a Roman nose, and a square jaw. His inquisitive hazel eyes were usually asking questions and expecting answers. He wore a brown sport coat, a green dress shirt without a tie, and tan slacks. He preferred casual clothes.

When he saw Larry at the coffee machine he was thankful. “How’s it going, Larry?” Conversation would give him the opportunity to shake off the weird vision.

“Okay, Burt.”

“How’s the wife and kids?” Burt dropped some coins into the machine.

“Sue has a cold, but the girls haven’t caught anything lately.” Larry was thirty and about five-eleven. He had the body of a runner, lithe and slim. “Are you still working on that political corruption article?”

“Yeah, but I think I’ll finish it today,” Burt replied. “What are you writing?”

“I’m on nuclear thefts.” Larry sipped his coffee.

“Has there been another one?”

“Not recently, but I’m writing a follow-up on a European theft in June ninety-four.”

“Let’ see, wasn’t that . . . was it the one in Germany?” Burt got his coffee from the machine.

“Well, there have been several in Germany. This one was in Landshut, northeast of Munich.”

Burt waved at a passing colleague, then he looked at Larry. “Did they catch the guys?”

“Yeah, the police arrested a Czech, four Slovaks, and one German.”

“What did they steal?” Burt sipped his coffee.

“They had nine grams of highly enriched plutonium, two-thirty-five.”

“Getting ready to make a nuclear bomb,” Burt said.

“Yeah.” Larry took a drink of coffee.

“Nuclear material was better protected during the Cold War,” Burt said, “but now too many people have access to it.”

I found that out since I’ve been covering this.”

Burt shook his head. “And these damned thefts seemed to be multiplying.”

“Like you said, Burt, too many cooks in the kitchen.”

“Yeah.” Burt glanced at his watch. “I got a deadline, Larry. Say hello to Sue and the girls.”

“Will do, Burt.”

Feeling better, Burt went back to his desk with his coffee. Before the troubling image interrupted him, he had been looking at an intriguing note that he had propped against his computer to study.

He sat down. Damn, I can’t leave this on my desk again, he thought. He slid the note in front of him, flat on the desk, so he could conceal it better.

A nine-by-twelve envelope addressed to him had come in the day’s mail. After opening the clasp envelope, he knew for sure that this Monday would not be a routine day. The strange note had been clipped to the first page of a lengthy article. Glancing around the noisy office, he wondered if the note was a practical joke.

It seems too serious to be a joke, he thought.

Across the room, a brunette coworker waved and smiled at him.

Burt smiled and waved back. But if it is a joke, he thought, maybe that’s what she’s grinnin’ about. The brunette turned away to answer her phone. Then he held the note with both hands and examined it.

Burt was a contradiction of terms; he was an objective investigative reporter, an opinionated columnist, and a reluctant psychic. The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he answered. Then he listened. “Okay. I’ll have it done this afternoon.”

As soon as he hung up, he picked up the note, contemplating its incredible message. He shook his head in amazement. Whoever sent this has one hell of an imagination. I’ve never read anything like it. He sipped his coffee and glanced at the article, then he continued to examine the note.

He heard a spirited discussion going on and looked across the office. The editors were leaving the conference room, ready to put in motion the day’s decisions, which would affect tomorrow’s newspaper. One of them mentioned O. J., and Burt wondered if there would be another story about his acquittal of the brutal murders of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman. But whatever the lead story, the Times’ giant presses would soon be printing the next morning’s edition, unfolding the bizarre and the ordinary in a world at war with itself.

A fresh newspaper still aroused Burt’s curiosity, and stirred him to write his eclectic opinions in his columns. He looked at the bottom of the note, enthralled by the mystical signature, but trying hard to resist that sentiment. In spite of the fact that he’d had some startling psychic experiences, he was a natural skeptic, and he wouldn’t spend time with most sensationalistic mail.

But there’s something different about this note and article, he thought.

“Larry,” an editor yelled from across the aisle, “meet me in the conference room, and bring your write-up.”

When Burt saw Larry hurrying down the aisle, he waved at him.

Hearing the wailing siren of an ambulance racing by, Burt put down the note and looked at the window. A large crow landed on the windowsill. Burt stared at the glossy black bird, amused by the notion that it was staring back at him. I wonder what he’s got on his mind, probably food and trouble.

The sound of a siren often made Burt feel sad, beginning when he was ten. Two days before Christmas 1965, Burt’s heartbroken grandfather had to tell young Burt that his mother and father had been killed in an accident. It was the hardest thing the elder Stephens had ever done.

Burt’s parents had been on an assignment for the Chicago Tribune. They were returning home late at night when their car slid head-on into the icy path of an eighteen-wheeler.

At the funeral, Burt had wiped his eyes and asked, “Why are the caskets closed, Grampa? Aren’t they supposed to be open so we can see Mom and Dad?”

Mr. Stephens had swallowed a lump. “Well, sometimes the funeral director thinks its best that way, Burt.” He had taken Burt into his home and raised him. As the years went by, Burt learned how supportive a loving grandfather could be, but Christmas had never been the same.

I’ll call Grampa tonight, he thought.

He gazed at the forceful words in the note, lightly brushed his fingers over the extraordinary print, and wondered what typeface it was. The feel of the paper was also impressive, smooth and rich. He was irked by his attraction to the package, yet it continued to invite him.

The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he gruffly answered. His frown melted into a smile. “Grampa--I was just thinking about you.” He listened. “Tomorrow night?” He looked at his calendar. “Sure, I’ll be over about seven-thirty.”

After they chatted for a while, Burt hung up and glanced at his watch. He had a meeting with his editor shortly, but he wanted to read the curious note once more. He looked down and began to read.

Mister Stephens, you will know when the time has come to publish this indictment that I . . .

The executive editor walked by. “How’re you doing, Burt?” Phil Gaines had been the exec ed for ten years.

Burt quickly covered the note and article, then looked up. “Good, Phil.”

“Let’s review your political corruption piece. My office in ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

As Phil walked on, he glanced back. “I assume it includes something on President Archer.”

Burt grinned. “You know it does.” He uncovered the note. Maybe I should tell Phil about this now, but how do I know there’s anything to it?

After struggling with the idea, Burt’s compelling psychic history overrode his journalistic sensibilities, and he decided not to say anything yet. He quickly read the note again.

Indictment, he thought, what kind of indictment? That must be in the article, but I don’t have time now. He put the article and the note back in the large envelope. When he started to put the envelope away, he glanced at the address. The typeface is the same as the note, but I’ve never seen anything that resembles it. He put the envelope in his bottom desk drawer and locked it, thinking that he would look at the package again before he went home.

In 1990, when Burt was thirty-five, he reluctantly started recording his psychic experiences. He had been reluctant because he didn’t like things that he didn’t understand. The remarkable adventures had begun when he was a young boy. At that time, he was wide-eyed and perplexed. Later, after he learned of the scientific community’s attitude toward the paranormal, he became skeptical. Now, he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to have such experiences.

They always leave so damn much unanswered.

But in spite of his skepticism, his pragmatic side had realized that he shouldn’t ignore this part of himself. So, he tried to understand each abnormal happening and consider if it had a purpose. This was often frustrating, because if there was a purpose, it wasn’t always apparent.

After Burt went over his assignment with Phil, he went to a staff conference. After that, he worked on his next column until he decided to stop for the day. Turning his computer off, he prepared to leave.

When he went down the steps to the parking garage it was getting late. He saw the sports editor across the lane.

“Hey, Burt, leaving early?”

Burt stopped at his car and smiled. “Early? Can’t you see it’s almost dark?”

“Yeah, but you’re usually still at it when I leave.”

“I got to take a break sometime, Mark.”

Mark smiled. “Did you go easy on President Archer?”

Burt opened his car door. “About as easy as he goes on the homeless.”

“So, you clobbered him.”

“You can read it tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to that.” Mark opened his car door. “See you tomorrow, Burt.”

“Right, Mark.”

Mark got in and backed out of his slot, then he drove off.

Before Burt got in his car, he cautiously looked back at the murky stairwell. He couldn’t see any movement in the shadows, but he sensed that something was there. He tugged at the collar of his sport coat, mesmerized by the stairwell.

Shortly after Burt started recording his dreams, a mysterious presence began appearing in some of them, not as a participant, but as an observer. Whenever the observer was in a dream, he always stood to the side, watching. This had gone on for five years, and from time to time Burt uneasily thought that he could feel this presence nearby, watching him. But he couldn’t explain this; it was just a feeling. Exasperated, he glanced at the dark stairwell again, then he got in and drove away, heading for home.

Psychic happenings no longer astonished Burt, though many were baffling and some downright annoying. One month ago, he’d had another one.
* * * * * * * *
October, early morning.

Stepping out of the kitchen and into the carport, Burt locked the door. He rolled the trashcan out to the curb, then he went back to his car and started to get in.

Dammit, I left the news file on the kitchen counter. Going to the door, he tried to push his key in the lock, but it wouldn’t go in. Then he saw that the tip of it was bent beyond use.

“Oh no, it’s happening again,” he mumbled. Troubled, but not surprised, he wondered when the key had bent itself. Well, it had to be in the last two minutes. I just locked the door with it.

Irked by the experience, he wondered if the bent key meant that he was going to move. Oh hell, it probably doesn’t mean anything, he thought, but he didn’t feel sure about that.

He got his spare house key from the glove box in the car and unlocked the door. Later that evening, he took a large hammer and flattened the curved key back into shape.
* * * * * * * *
Driving along, he thought of another occasion. He had turned off his bedside lamp at ten o’clock and had fallen asleep, only to awake at two in the morning to find the lamp on. The first time the lamp turned itself on, he turned it off and fell asleep again. The next time, about a week later, he got up and looked around the house. He wondered if the light might be a warning, or if it meant that he should be up doing something important. Yeah, he had thought, like sleep’s not important. Irritated, he had turned the lamp off and fell asleep again. He knew how the lamp had come on. His uninhibited, nocturnal mind had been playing psychokinetic tricks again, mind affecting matter.

Sometimes he was reluctant to write down his psychic experiences. But when the key had instantly bent itself, and the lamp had turned on three nights in one week--and twice in one night--he knew that he should record these queer happenings. Because of his slumbering psychokinetic ability, he thought that he might be unconsciously disturbed about something. That troubled him.

He had quit surmising why these things happened, they just did. But they were hard for him to accept, and he had wished for several years that they would stop. After many odd looks from his friends, he had learned not to talk about them. Now, except for confiding with his grandfather, he buried them deep within, hoping that he could live an ordinary life.

But no matter what Burt might hope, his life would never be ordinary, and in fact would become more incredible. He turned onto his street, and then into his driveway.

Recently, Burt had read a statement by a leading war researcher that bothered him. The historian said, “After the end of the cold war, some world leaders agreed that the possibility of nuclear war was over.”

This report nagged him until he decided to search for more information. What he had found confirmed his own belief—that preventing nuclear holocaust was nearly impossible. He would later learn of a terrifying calculation by a respected mathematician. The conclusion of this probability thinker would shock the world, and perhaps lead to the final global conflict.

* * * * * * * *

Downtown Phoenix, Tuesday, November 7.

The young man walked up to the sidewall of an empty commercial building, glanced down the alleyway, and carefully looked up the street. Temporarily satisfied with his situation, the graffiti artist began his mission to the world. He painted his first word—BEWARE.

While the desert sun beamed down on his back, he spray-painted more words on the beige wall. Standing back, the artist ran his fingers through his long, stringy black hair, then he shaded his dark eyes and surveyed his work. In large black letters the words now formed a phrase, BEWARE ALL YE.

With skilled swirls of his hand, the man continued his artistry. Soon the somber admonition identified the group of people who should be concerned. BEWARE ALL YE HEADS OF EARTH.

The young man enthusiastically shook his paint can and went on, unveiling more to the world. A terse new sentence revealed the reason for the warning—THE JUDGE IS COMING!

When the man completed the ominous message, he walked five yards away. Then he turned around for a better view of his prophetic creation. His eyes reflected his satisfaction.

BEWARE ALL YE HEADS OF EARTH
THE JUDGE IS COMING!
BEWARE!
FOR HE WILL INDICT THE LEADERS OF THE WORLD!


2. ROBYN JARVIS


Wednesday morning, November 8, 1995, The Phoenix Times.

It had been two days since Burt Stephens received the strange package. Sitting at his desk, he scrolled down the monitor and searched the Internet. He needed information for an investigative report.

Larry stopped by. “How’s it going, Burt?”

Burt looked up. “Keeping busy.”

Larry glanced at Burt’s screen. “What are you working on?”

“Gathering material for an article on Newton Mercer.”

“Newton Mercer?” Larry chuckled. “If I know you, that’ll be a hair-raiser.”

Burt smiled. “You got the wrong idea, Larry. I’m not writing a thriller.” He nodded at a friend passing by.

Larry grinned. “We all know that your—ex po zays—are not too thrilling for your victims.”

Burt laughed. “Victims?” He always stood up for the little guy, but because of his robust appearance and persistence for the facts he was sometimes mistaken for a hard-ass. “What about Mercer’s victims?”

“Yeah, that’s true, Burt. He put a lot of people in desperate situations with those junk bonds in the late eighties.”

Burt said, “And Mercer’s the only big fish that the justice department failed to get for securities fraud.”

“Not enough evidence, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Burt replied, “and if I can, I’m going to kick his two-billion-dollar ass.” He took a file out of his desk drawer. “Did you finish your follow-up on the nuclear thefts, Larry?”

“Should be done tomorrow.”

Burt turned his swivel chair away from the desk and looked at Larry. “That’s exciting work. Is Hank going to keep you on that?”

“Maybe, as long as the nuclear thefts continue.”

“That could be a long time.”

“I’m scheduled to do another report on a European sting operation,” Larry said.

Burt briefly reflected. “Wasn’t there an arrest in Germany?”

“Yeah. They caught the guys at the Munich airport.”

“How many did they nail?”

“They arrested three men on a flight from Moscow, a Columbian and two Spaniards.”

Burt shook his head. “These damned terrorists are persistent.”

“And these guys had fourteen ounces of plutonium two-thirty-nine,” Larry said.

“I guess all the stuff is coming out of Russia.”

“Yeah,” Larry replied. “The Russian authorities have promised to track down the sources, but I’d like to see our own government get serious about this.”

“Our leaders are dragging their heels again,” Burt agreed. “They need someone to hit them in the head before they react.”

“Yeah.”

“But there’s another problem,” Burt said. “Too many governments on planet Earth.”

“Too many chiefs, and not enough Indians,” Larry said.

“Right, and there isn’t a flow of information from one country to another.” Burt reflected. “I’m trying to remember what Einstein said about controlling the nuclear genie.” He paused. “But I can’t get it right now.”

Larry glanced across the newsroom, then looked at Burt. “You ought to do an in-depth investigative report about this, Burt. You could scare up some red faces in Washington.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Good.” Larry saw his editor approaching. “See you later, Burt. Gotta see what Hank wants.”

* * * * * * * *

Later that day a story began to develop in Phoenix that Burt might be assigned to cover.

A dusky evening was coming on, unusual for the valley of the sun. In the gray sky the sun sat on the horizon, faint rays casting a dim shadow of a saguaro cactus on an elementary schoolyard. Clothed in contrasting colors, like the hues of a kaleidoscope, several young children were noisily playing in the sandy yard. The children lived in the neighborhood, many of them across the street. Although most had been warned about strangers, they were all unaware of a man standing thirty yards away, who had watched them for ten minutes.

The man was white, five-foot-ten, forty-five and stockily built, with dark wavy hair and long thick sideburns. He had on baggy black slacks, a tan shirt, faded tennis shoes, and a jean jacket. As he considered which little girl to choose, his pulse quickened and his dark eyes shimmered.

The sun had set.

In the twilight Darwin’s eyes narrowed to slits as he made his choice, a seven-year-old girl in a yellow dress. Blue-eyed and slim as a reed, freckles dotted her happy face, and her long blonde hair fell below her delicate shoulders. Darwin’s heart beat faster as he thought of grabbing her. He was pleased that the girl’s mother had helped him make his selection.

She dressed her little precious in bright yellow, he thought, so she’d stand out for me.

But things didn’t always work out for Darwin. At a school in Albuquerque, a father had come for his child only moments before Darwin was about to snatch her. And Darwin had been arrested in Las Vegas on a molestation charge, but he was released because of tainted evidence. Then he had grown bolder, realizing how hamstrung the police were.

When the rabid slaughter first began, Darwin was upset with himself. He had repeatedly gagged whenever he was done with a child, finally throwing up. There were several days when he avoided looking in a mirror. One time he had broken the bathroom mirror, splattering it with blood from his fist.

Darwin had come to the need for little girls because he couldn’t get what he wanted from women. His rage had begun when he got tired of being turned away. He had heard some men meekly say, “If women could just say no politely.” Other men were furious and said, “I could kill that fucking bitch!”

Others only think about killing, Darwin thought, but I do the job. The Bible says thinking about it is as bad as doin’ it, so the thinkers will all burn in hell with me. Darwin was hardened by his evil edge now.

The streetlights came on. A mother stepped out of her adobe house across the street from the school. She glanced at the darkening sky, then she yelled for her son. He didn’t answer, but when she started across the street, he popped out of the crowd. After that, two more mothers came out and called for their children. Then all of the kids began to run toward their homes.

One ten-year-old boy challenged his little sister to a race, the girl Darwin had chosen. “Robyn,” Jimmy yelled, “betcha I beat you home!” He turned and ran toward the street.

Robyn laughed and ran after Jimmy. She was the last one to leave the schoolyard.

Darwin cased the street and quickly came down the sidewalk. He knew it was risky, but that was an exhilarating part of it. Seeing that Jimmy wasn’t looking back, he seized his chance. Just as Robyn crossed his path, he clamped a thick hand over her mouth and picked her up. Robyn wildly kicked and tried to scream, and Darwin ran around the corner of the school. No one was in sight, so he headed for a deserted park about 150 yards from her house.

He set Robyn on the ground, but she got up and ran, frantically looking toward home. “Daddy, help me--DADDY!” When she stumbled over a park bench, Darwin easily caught her. As he put his hand over her mouth, Robyn glimpsed a sliver of light.

A tall young man stepped out of his house onto the front porch. Robyn’s father came down the steps and stopped at the bottom, looking toward the school.

* * * * * * * *

At that same time, Burt was driving home. He lived seven miles northeast of the Times office. He was thinking about the dark stairwell in the parking garage, and the weird sensation that he’d had Monday, that something was lurking there. He wondered why he’d thought that the “something” might be the mysterious presence that had been appearing in his dreams.

He tried to remember exactly when the strange observer first appeared. He knew that it started right after he began recording his dreams. He hadn’t given the appearance much thought at first, but when the observer continued his nightly invasion, it began to weigh on Burt’s mind. Again, he wished that he wouldn’t have any psychic experiences.

This is all so crazy, he thought. I think I’m going to quit recording my dreams. I’ve got to shake these things once and for all. They’ve gone on way too long. I’ll talk it over with Grampa.

* * * * * * * *

Behind a row of thick bushes, Darwin tore off Robyn’s dress, but she wrestled out of his arms and started to run. Nearly naked, she stumbled into a shallow pond.

“Daddy!”

Darwin grabbed her arm and slapped her face. “Oh . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you . . . you got to quit fighting.”

Through strands of flaxen hair, Robyn’s blue eyes brimmed with fear. She stared at Darwin’s hard eyes and lined face. “I want my Mommy!”

Darwin threw her to the ground and straddled her, slamming his hand over her mouth. Sweat appeared on his face.

Robyn’s Chihuahua dog ran up, barking at Darwin, then he came closer. When Darwin jerked Rusty over by the collar, the little dog whimpered. Darwin broke his neck and flung him away.

“Oh, Rusty,” Robyn cried. Darwin muffled her mouth again.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran up to the porch where his father was standing.

Ed Jarvis had on tan slacks and a white dress shirt without a tie. He glanced at the shadowy schoolyard.

“Where’s Robyn, Jimmy?” I’ve told him so many times to stay with her, Ed thought.

Jimmy looked back at the empty street. “I don’t know, Dad. She started to race me home.” The porch light revealed Jimmy’s perplexed look. He just remembered that he had forgotten to stay with Robyn. “I bet she hid on the other side of the school, Dad.”

“Rusty must be with her,” Ed mumbled. He brushed back his brown hair with his hand.

Jimmy looked down at his shoes. “Sometimes she hides, Dad.” He scratched his freckled nose.

“I know, Son, go get her. Hurry now.”

Jimmy ran across the street and headed for the other side of the school. Ed went into the house.

* * * * * * * *

As Robyn struggled with Darwin, she ripped a button off of his shirt and bit his hand.

“Ow . . . you little bitch . . . you’ll pay for that!” Darwin slapped her face again. “I’m sorry . . . but it’s . . . it’s your fault.”

Wild-eyed, she grabbed a large rock and slammed it against the side of his head.

“Goddamn!” Darwin said, groggily clutching his head.

Robyn slipped from his grasp and tried to run again. “DADDY!”

Blood matted Darwin’s hair and he angrily grabbed her ankle. “I tried to be nice to you, but if I . . . if I have to . . . I’ll kill you and . . . and then fuck you.” He slammed her head against the ground and straddled her again. “The Lord’ll punish you . . . because he’s given you to me!” Spittle dribbled from his open mouth and fell on Robyn’s face.

Robyn beat at him with tiny fists, but he clasped his hand over her bleeding mouth and gazed at her body.

In the leaden night sky, the moon came out from behind the clouds. Unwilling to provide light for the horror below, it solemnly slipped back into the haze.

* * * * * * * *

While Burt drove along a residential street, he thought about the mystifying note and its powerful accusations, wondering what he would do with it. He smiled when he saw a little girl playing in front of her house, but unexpectedly he felt sad, an overwhelming sense of sorrow.

These damn premonitions. God I hate them, and they’re always so surprising.

He looked in his rearview mirror, and then turned around at the next block. Slowly driving by the house again, he rolled down his window and peered at the little girl.

She seems to be all right, he mused, but the porch light isn’t on, and there isn’t anyone watching her. Dammit, she shouldn’t be out in the dark alone.

The girl’s father stepped out of the front door and called her in, then he suspiciously watched Burt speed away. As Burt drove on, he wondered why the awful premonition was still heavy in his heart.

* * * * * * * *

Jimmy ran toward home, breathing hard.

Ed opened the front door and saw Jimmy running across the street. “Where’s Robyn?” Ed yelled.

Jimmy came up to the porch. “I didn’t see her, Dad. I don’t know”—he tried to catch his breath—”where she’s hiding.” Jimmy wished that he had stayed with his little sister.

Ed came down the porch steps, his blue eyes troubled. He remembered when his neighbor’s little boy was briefly missing. Tom had anxiously asked, “Have you seen Bucky, Ed?” At that moment, Bucky had come down the sidewalk pedaling his new tricycle. Ed had elatedly yelled, “There he is, Tom!”

“Did you look in the park?” Ed asked Jimmy.

“I ran back to . . . to tell you, Dad.”

With Jimmy following, Ed hurried across the street, fighting a growing fear.

* * * * * * * *

After Darwin raped Robyn, he kept one hand over her mouth, still straddling her. As he clicked open his knife, he heard noises near the school.

Robyn was barely conscious, but her eyes widened when she saw the steel blade.

He put the point to her slender neck, feeling her tremble beneath him. His dark eyes turned to ice as he moved the knife below her left ear. Hearing sounds again, he put his knife away and grabbed a large rock. He held the rock up high and glared down at Robyn, fascinated by the fright in her eyes.

Robyn feebly struggled, and her heart beat wildly.

“I’m just a kid,” she softly said.

When he bashed the side of her head, her legs kicked once and she softly moaned. Obsessed by a lust for blood, he hit her again and again, mashing her hair into her cracked skull.

Darwin stood up, zipped up his fly, and wiped his bloody hand with his handkerchief. He heard the voices getting closer, but he looked down at Robyn’s lifeless body. “You made me do this . . . You, you should be nice to me.” Then he made the sign of the cross and left.

Only seconds later in the park, Ed saw a clump on the grass ahead. Running toward the small dark mound, he prayed that it wasn’t Robyn. A lump formed in his throat when he looked back at Jimmy. “Get back, Jimmy, stay back!”

Jimmy waited by a tree, but he knew that something was wrong.

Ed saw Rusty’s limp body. “Oh God, where’s Robyn?” A short distance away, he saw Robyn’s yellow dress. “Oh, dear God,” he prayed, “please let her be all right. Please!”

Jimmy craned his neck to see. “Is Robyn okay, Dad?”

Then Ed saw his little girl. “ROBYN!” He glanced back at Jimmy. “Run home, Jimmy. Call nine-one-one! Hurry!” Ed knelt beside Robyn. Seeing her tangled bloody hair and her fractured skull, he was sick with despair. “Oh God, no, no!”

Jimmy stood by the tree, crying. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Jimmy--call nine-one-one. Hurry. Oh God!”

As he ran home, Jimmy fervently prayed that Robyn would be all right.

“Oh God,” Ed prayed, desperately trying to revive Robyn. “God, no, please God, please!”

Twenty yards away Darwin stood behind a large tree, glad that it was dark. I should’ve left sooner, he thought, but I . . . I wanted to look at it. He could see Ed kneeling beside Robyn’s body, but he thought that he would be seen if he tried to run. I’ll hafta kill . . . kill the prick to get outta here.

When Ed realized that he could do nothing for Robyn, he wiped his tears and looked up at the dark sky, shaking his fist in the air. “Oh my God, no, no!” He stood up and glanced around the area, listening, but he could only hear the throbbing of his broken heart. In unbearable pain, he draped Robyn’s dress over her body.

Which way did he go? he thought. He looked around the park. Oh God, if I can just catch him! Eyes full of tears, he looked down at Robyn again. Then he started running toward the large tree.

Breathing heavily, Darwin hugged the back of the tree. I gotta kill him, he thought, opening his knife.

Fifteen feet from the tree, Ed stopped and looked around the park, but his sight was blurred. “God help me,” he prayed.

Darwin gripped the knife, ready to grab Ed from behind when he came by. Ed continued on, walking by the tree. Darwin circled the tree and watched Ed’s back, but Ed turned around. Darwin hastily backpedaled around the tree, breathing fast.

Ed started toward Robyn but stopped with his back to the tree, only four feet from Darwin.

Darwin held his breath, afraid that he might be heard. I can’t hold long. I gotta kill him. He moved to the side of the tree to reach out for Ed. He started to grab him from behind, but Ed stepped away and bent over to pick up a scrap of paper.

Only a piece of a newspaper, Ed thought. He stood up and moved farther from Darwin, then he started running back to Robyn.

Darwin took a deep breath.

Ed knelt beside Robyn, tears falling on her bloody head. He caressed her face and gently picked her up. Brushing her hair back, he kissed her bruised cheek. He tried to hum a line of her favorite lullaby, but instead he sobbed deeply.

Some neighbors were standing outside when Ed came back with Robyn in his arms. The streetlight cast a heavy gloom over the night.

Robyn’s mother saw Ed and she ran into the middle of the street screaming. “Oh, my God,” she wailed, “not my baby!” Seeing Robyn’s face she fainted, but two mothers grabbed her arms. Hearing the sorrowful noise, more neighbors came to their doors.

Fifteen minutes later, the first patrol car had radioed for help and several policemen were scouring the area. Many outside lights were on. The neighbors sat on their small porches and in their carports, quietly talking. Some were praying that the police would soon hunt down the bloodthirsty animal that lusted for their children. They longed for judgment to come as swiftly as suffering had.

Flashing squad car lights pierced the night as the police checked the school grounds and the park. A helicopter, equipped with an infrared tracking system, circled the neighborhood. Its enhanced night vision spotted nothing. The ambulance arrived to take Robyn’s body to the morgue.

* * * * * * * *

I’ll be glad when they get the freeway done, Burt thought, continuing toward home. This traffic is getting worse everyday. He saw a squad car ahead, and watched it turned off the boulevard into the Jarvis neighborhood. I thought so; that chopper overhead is searching for someone. He turned and followed the cruiser. In the middle of the block, the officer pulled over, parking in front of Robyn’s school.

Burt saw a crowd of neighbors standing by the curbs, quietly talking. Something bad has happened, he thought. He eased up behind the squad car. When Burt got out of the car a detective saw him.

“Hey, Burt,” the detective yelled. “How’d you get here so damn fast?” He was about thirty-five, five-foot-nine and slim.

“Just lucky,” Burt answered. He walked over to the detective. “I was on my way home and I saw one of your guys turn down this way.” He looked around the area. “What happened, Alvarez?”

“A little girl was murdered, and we think she was raped too.” Detective Alvarez’s brown face was grim.

Burt shook his head in dismay. “God, I’ll never understand how anyone can do that. How old was she?”

“She was only seven.” Alvarez smoothed back his black hair with his hand.

“Seven years old,” Burt repeated. Children are so helpless, he thought. Sometimes I wonder if you should ever leave them alone, even for two minutes. This was not Burt’s first child murder report, but it always affected him the same way.

Alvarez glanced at the school across the street, dark eyes blazing. “We’ve been looking for the son of a bitch, but we probably won’t find him.” He looked at Burt. “Now, don’t print that, Burt.

Usually everything would’ve been on record, but Burt had a good relationship with Alvarez. “Don’t worry, Alvarez, I won’t. What’d the guy look like?”

Alvarez gave Burt a description that he had gotten from a neighbor. The neighbor had seen Darwin earlier. “But the guy’s only a suspect at this time,” Alvarez hastily said. “By the way, Burt, your new police beat reporter is getting along fine in his office at the station.”

“Good. He said he’d like to work at the ‘cop shop,’ so the editor gave him a chance.”

After getting as much as he could out of Alvarez, Burt thanked him and headed for home. He had gotten a new house recently, and he was still getting familiar with the route. He liked his neighborhood and new home.

And so far the key hasn’t bent out of shape, he thought, so I guess I’m going to live here for a while.

* * * * * * * *

Three days after Robyn’s funeral, Ed Jarvis remembered seeing an unfamiliar man near the park. Tears welled in his eyes as he drove downtown to the Phoenix Police Station. His appetite was gone and his tall body was leaner.

Ed sat beside the detective’s desk, describing the man. “He was stocky, about five eleven, with dark hair and long sideburns. He had on a jean jacket; it was blue.” His bloodshot eyes pleaded with the detective. “You can find him, can’t you?” He brushed back his hair with his hand.

Detective Alvarez said, “When we do get a suspect, Mister Jarvis, we’ll be able to identify the killer by the blood samples we got.” He glanced at the case folder. “Your description fits a man one of your neighbors saw, but we can’t make any promises that he’s the killer.”

He answered the phone. “Okay, Dick, I’ll get back in ten minutes.” He hung up and handed Ed a mug shot book. “Would you please look through these photos, Mister Jarvis?”

Ed nodded and began leafing through the book. “Beth and I never wanted to leave the kids alone,” he mumbled, “but we checked on them every half hour.” He turned a page. “I was just”—his voice cracked—”a few minutes late.” His grim face was etched with sorrow. “Oh God, I hope there really is a Judgment Day.” Unable to see the mug shots, he held his head in his hands.

Alvarez put his hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Mister Jarvis.” He glanced at a nearby officer and sympathetically shook his head. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow.”

Ed tried to compose himself. “No, I’ll check them now.” In a moment, he continued looking through the book, hoping he would see the cruel face that tormented his mind. After he finished, he was disappointed, then he stood up. “I’ve got to get back to my wife.”

Driving home, he was overcome with grief. He desperately hoped that he could find the man that he had only seen once but would never forget.

I’d give anything to see him again, he thought. Ed believed that the unknown man was the killer, and he prayed that he could get to him before the police. I may lose my soul, but I’ll slaughter him like the butcher he is. God, forgive me. When I find him—I’ll kill him!

* * * * * * * *

December.

Burt sat at his desk in the Times offices. Rummaging through his In Basket, he came across a memo about Robyn Jarvis. He briefly scanned it, and then leaned back in his chair. Thinking of the little girl saddened him.

He remembered his grandfather consoling him when his parents were killed in 1965. In spite of piercing heartache over the death of his son, and daughter-in-law, the elder Stephens had spent every waking moment with young Burt. There were times when they cried together.

But Grampa wouldn’t let it get out of control, Burt thought. He would change the subject, and divert my attention. I remember he started a program for us, watching comedies together, making sure that I felt comfortable. Burt thought of Robyn again. He wondered how the family was making it through the holidays.

Jesus, that was so horrible, he mused. She was in her schoolyard across the street from home, and she still wasn’t safe. I’d like to strangle the bastard that killed her.


3. A CRY FOR JUSTICE


January 1996.

At the office Burt sat at his desk, working on a human-interest assignment. He had just finished reading an article about the O. J. Simpson trial, which had begun one year ago. The nation was bitterly divided by the verdict last October, and the news media was still printing the people’s opinions. He read some Letters to the Editor. Most people seem to think Simpson got away with murder, he mused.

With the encouragement of his grandfather, Burt’s career had begun in the mailroom of the Chicago Tribune, during summer vacations from high school. After returning from college, he had been hired again by the Tribune. He had been promoted twice, but when he turned thirty, he had gotten a strong urge to venture west. He never regretted his decision to move to Phoenix because he liked the people at The Phoenix Times, and he loved his work.

His assignment was about the Jarvis family. Robyn’s case was still unsolved. He remembered stopping at the crime scene while driving home, and deciding that was what his premonition was about. Since then, he had reviewed the police report and various articles. He had also talked with the neighbor who first described Darwin, “white, about five-foot-ten, maybe forty-five, and built stocky, with dark wavy hair and long sideburns.” He had to coax the memory out of the man, but he had finally gotten the same description found on the police report.

Burt wasn’t looking forward to talking to Robyn’s parents. As if to get away from the tragic scene, he recalled a troubling statement that he had read in November, that “the possibility of nuclear war was over.”

How wrong can experts be, he thought, to accept such a pipe dream? Sure, the holocaust might be prevented, but not by sweeping the unpleasant thought under the rug.

He resisted taking out the large clasp envelope locked in his bottom desk drawer, but he still brooded about it. He remembered a sentence in the third paragraph of the note that puzzled him.

What does this guy mean, he thought, when the Angel of Death delivers my calling card? Suppose there was such a messenger. Who is he delivering the card to, and where? But maybe the article is just another “end of the world” scare.

The phone rang. “Burt Stephens,” he said, and then listened. “No sir, that wasn’t our paper. You want the Mesa Tribune.” He gave the caller the number, and then hung up.

He recalled some end of the world reports by the Times. One had been his assignment. He had interviewed a minister who was predicting global doom. The preacher said that whoever was baptized by him would be immortal, here and now, on Earth.

Remembering the reverend’s words, Burt chuckled.

“You’ll never die,” the preacher said. Burt had declined the preacher’s offer to be baptized. When the reverend asked why, Burt couldn’t resist. “Well, hell, preacher—it’s not worth it.”

His thoughts returned to the unusual package. No one knows about this but me, and there isn’t any harm in keeping it in the drawer.

* * * * * * * *

Sunday night, 8:30 p.m.

In the Jarvis home Jimmy was in bed, and Ed and Beth were sitting on the sofa. They were trying to talk without mentioning Robyn. They tried to watch television sitcoms, but they couldn’t watch Robyn’s favorite comedies. Whenever they laughed, they felt guilty and started crying.

They had finally taken down the Christmas tree, but putting away the decorations had been wrenching. It was a family tradition that had delighted Robyn. Her unopened Christmas gifts were still lying in the corner of the living room.

Jimmy wouldn’t play in the schoolyard anymore, and he never went near the park. He spent much time alone in his bedroom. Ed was considering taking him to a psychiatrist.

Ed looked at his wife. “It’s been over four months, Beth, and they still haven’t caught him. Whenever I go to the police station they always say they’re working on the case.” He sighed.

Beth listlessly nodded, smoothed back her long blonde hair, and put her hand to the hollow of her neck. She had lost weight since Robyn’s murder. Set back in her gaunt face, her green eyes were vacant. The floodwater of tears was dammed up for the moment, but the night wasn’t over.

Ed stood up and stretched his tall slim body. “I’m going for a walk, Honey.”

He had been a track star in high school, and he was in good shape. Now, instead of running, he used walking to relieve stress. He took a light jacket out of the coat closet. Going over to Beth, he caressed her face.

She took hold of his hand. “Don’t be gone long, Ed.” She looked at Robyn’s picture on the mantel, remembering countless times when she had combed her hair. “I feel so alone when you’re not here.” The pain in her voice was wretched and it touched everything near her.

Ed was reluctant to leave her alone, but he had to clear his mind. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. Beth let go of his hand.

Whenever he stepped outside the door, Robyn’s school was painfully in sight, and the tormenting vision always came. He would see Robyn in her yellow dress running toward home, waving at him. ‘Hi, Daddy!’

He recalled his last words to her. “Stay with Jimmy, Robyn. Don’t leave the schoolyard without him.” He had put the burden for his little girl’s safety on her own frail shoulders, and now he felt that he had failed to protect her. The streetlight revealed the anguish on his face.

He crossed the street and walked by the school. He had looked for Robyn’s killer on long walks before, and he intended to broaden his search. He knew that it was a long shot, but he had to look. His soul would never rest until Robyn’s murderer was in his grave.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself in a decaying neighborhood, looking for the man he had only seen once but would never forget. He had done this before, but not in such a bleak area. Maybe this is where I’ll find the cowardly bastard, he thought.

Many houses were empty and some commercial buildings were boarded up. Tattered pieces of yellowed newspapers, telling of yesterday’s tragedies, lay scattered along the sidewalk. The gutter was overflowing with broken bottles, crushed tin cans, and shattered dreams. Tall palm trees elegantly lined both sides of the street, now out of place, mementos of better days.

Ed wouldn’t have been there even in the daytime normally, but he had no control. He was obsessed with finding Robyn’s killer.

“Tell me another story, Daddy, please?” He could hear Robyn giggling when she pulled her bedspread up to her chin. “You’re getting too big for stories,” he would say. He remembered tucking her in, and looking back from her bedroom doorway. He saw her scrubbed clean face, the freckles around her blue eyes, and her innocent smile.

I can’t stand the pain, he thought. He leaned against a light pole and sobbed. “Robyn, please forgive me.” He tried to compose himself, then he continued walking along the dingy street.

Coming to a place where some streetlights were out, he stopped, wondering if he dared go any farther. The lights had been victims of flying rocks, or maybe bullets. At the bottom of the poles, jagged pieces of glass littered the sidewalk. Small piles of trash were scattered nearby. The wasted street was dark and there was no traffic, only an eerie quietness. Ed was concerned, and he decided that he would only go another block. Hearing a shrill cry, he flinched.

Two alley cats ran screeching across the street, gone as quickly as their quarrel had begun.

I guess the son of bitch wouldn’t still be in the area, he thought, but there’s always a chance.

Ed’s heart overflowed with hatred as he thought of getting his hands on the killer. He had a
thirty-eight handgun that had been put away for years, but he had cleaned it yesterday. He put his hand in his jacket pocket.

“Oh, God,” he mumbled, “I forgot to bring it.” He was too deep in thought when he left the house. Without the gun, he began to feel uneasy. Turning around, he hurried toward home, glancing back from time to time.

Entering the house, he saw Beth in the kitchen. He went into the bedroom and felt behind a box on the top shelf of the closet. After he brought out the gun, he checked it over. I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. I swear it! He put the gun back.

Across the street from the Jarvis home a broken tree branch lay in the shadows near the school sidewalk. A dust devil swirled around the schoolyard, and sand and debris blew into the air. But the little branch remained in place, as if hiding something. A strong gust of wind blew low to the ground and blasted the stubborn branch aside.

Now, the streetlight revealed a message scrawled in the dirt--THE JUDGE IS COMING!

* * * * * * * *

Late in the afternoon Burt was sitting at his desk in the Times building. Several times he had determined to read the article in the enigmatic envelope, but there was a mystical aura about it. Every time he took the article out, he felt uneasy. It was a feeling he didn’t want to acknowledge because it seemed foolish.

He thought of the statement in the note that made him feel like an intruder. You will not read it until it is to be published. He was bothered by the article’s control over him, but he knew it had captivated him because of his strong psychic experience. Burt couldn’t make himself read the article, nor throw it away.

Maybe I’ll just shred the damned thing. It’s probably from a religious nut. The phone rang. “Burt Stephens.” He briefly listened. “Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

Unable to resist, Burt unlocked the drawer and took out the package. He removed the article, and then looked at the colorful imprint at the top of the attached note.

“Burt,” a man loudly said.

Burt flinched at the sound of his name, then he covered the note.

A reporter walked over. “I need some coffee,” he said. “You want to go?”

“No thanks, Dave,” Burt replied.

When Dave went on, Burt uncovered the note. How many times have I looked at this thing. I don’t know, but there can’t be anything to it. Yet there’s that damn familiar feeling.

He thought about the distressful premonition he’d had when he was a child. It had come upon him only an hour before his parents were killed. He had sadly felt that something was about to harm his mother and father. As a ten-year-old boy, all he could do was cry. That sensation of dread and certainty was the same emotion that he felt now, but he didn’t care how accurate the premonitions were. He just wished they’d go away.

He gazed at the imprint of the dark angel, and then looked at the top of the note. The calling card never quits impressing, he grudgingly admitted. I wonder when it’ll be delivered. He caught himself. No, I’m not believing it, but it doesn’t matter because no one knows about this but me. He glanced at his watch. Better get a few things done and then go home.

There wouldn’t be anybody waiting at home because Burt was single. In his last romance he had come close to getting married, but he had backed out at the last moment. It was not her fault; she was intelligent, attractive, and a good lover. But two months after he “postponed” the marriage, she had ended the relationship.

Burt liked children, but he wasn’t sure that marriage was for him.

* * * * * * * *

February, Monday, 8:00 a.m.

Phil Gaines was in his office. “Okay, we’ll talk later,” he said. He hung up the phone. The top part of his front wall was all windows, so he stood up to look over the office.

Burt’s desk sat apart from the others, and was across the room from Phil. When Phil saw Burt standing at his desk, he sat down and called him.

Burt answered his phone. “Burt here.”

“Burt, come over as soon as you can.”

“Okay, Phil.” Burt picked up his coffee cup and dropped a file folder on the desk. Must be important, he thought, he usually yells from the door.

Making his way through the desks, he greeted some coworkers. He glanced at the window of Phil’s open door, Executive Editor. He went into the office and started to sit down.

“Shut the door first, Burt.”

Phil was sixty-four, five-eleven and 180 pounds, with thinning brown hair. He was nurturing a bushy mustache. His round face had friendly brown eyes, and whenever he smiled, dimples formed in his cheeks.

Burt shut the door and sat down. “What’s up, Phil?”

Phil spoke into his intercom, telling his secretary to hold his calls. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his head.

“The Times is going to start an investigation of congress and the administration,” he said. “At Friday’s editorial meeting we agreed that Washington had to make a much better effort to stop worldwide nuclear thefts.”

“Isn’t that what Larry’s working on?” Burt sipped his coffee.

“At a lesser level, yes, but I don’t think he’s got the balls to turn the screws when the going gets tough.”

“I don’t know about that, Phil. I talked with him recently and he seemed to be doing fine.”

Phil sat up. “Burt, I know how it is. He’s a colleague, and a friend, but business is business, and you know that.”

Burt didn’t reply.

“You’re a hard-hitting investigative reporter, Burt, yet you’ve never crossed the line. And you’re my guy. I need you on this. So clear your desk.”

Burt smiled. “I’ll get ready, Phil, but I’ve got some things to put away, and a column to finish.”
The phone rang and Phil answered. “Okay, just a minute.” He looked at Burt. “That’s all right. Finish whatever you have, Burt, and we’ll wrap this up when you’re ready.”

“Okay, Phil.” Burt left and went back to his desk, pondering the coming investigation.


4. AN INDICTMENT OF WORLD LEADERS


March 1996.

In The Times offices, Burt hung up the phone and continued working on a column entitled, “Unconscionable Commerce.” The article was a follow-up about junk bond schemes that had decimated the savings of hundreds of investors and led some to suicide. The report centered on Newton Mercer, the “king of takeovers.” It was rumored that Mercer referred to those who had lost their jobs as “necessary sacrifices.”

How would he feel if somebody thought it was necessary to sacrifice him, Burt thought.

“Burt,” Phil yelled. He was standing in the doorway of his office. “If you can get that second junk bonds article shaped up by two o’clock, I can take a look at it for tomorrow.”

Burt glanced at his watch. “I think I can do that, Phil.” He grinned. “I’ve just got a few more items about Newton Mercer to plant in the piece.”

Phil chuckled. “And I’m sure you’ll plant Mister Mercer with great care.” He stepped into his office.

Burt worked for another half hour and finished the article. He thought about the package again. He’d had a talk with his grandfather about it, and asked his advice.

“Meditate about it, Burt, and listen to your inner voice,” the elder Stephens had counseled, “but use reason too. After that, go by your gut feeling.” Burt always felt better after he discussed a problem with his grandfather.

Does the article mention the millennium, he wondered. Again, he resolved to leave the perplexing package lying in his drawer. I should throw it away, but I’ll wait a little longer, then I’ll read it.

* * * * * * * *

Monday morning.

Burt was sitting in Phil’s office, and the door was closed. They were going over ideas concerning Washington’s apathetic attitude toward nuclear thefts. They had been talking for about a half hour.

“You’ll still be writing your column, Burt, and handling other issues, but your main investigative thrust will concern what congress and the administration are doing to stop nuclear thefts.”

“I’ve been turning over some ideas since you told me about this last month.” Burt sipped his coffee.

“That’s good, and after you get some information, you can start prodding the administration and congress in your columns.” Phil paused. “I know they’re concerned, but I just don’t think they’re doing enough.”

“Yeah, and that theft arrest in April gives me something to start off with.”

“Right, seven guys arrested in Slovakia and charged with illegal possession of radioactive material.” Phil took a bite from a chocolate donut.

“They were transporting uranium from Ukraine to some unknown place in Hungary.”

Phil smiled. “You’ve done your homework, Burt.” He glanced at the clock. “We’ll confer on this on a weekly basis, and any time you have something. Any more questions?”

“Not now, Phil.” Burt stood up, and started to leave.

“Oh, one more thing. Don’t be bothered because of Larry. I think he’d like to get back to domestic reports. He won’t miss the nuclear bit.”

“Okay, Phil.”

“Go do it, Burt.”

“Will do.”

Later that day Burt brought out the package from his desk drawer. He put the article aside and flattened the note on his desktop.

If this isn’t a prank, he thought, it could be from a radical religious group. He tried to think of some cults who might have mailed the package, but he dismissed most of them as not being that inventive.

The phone rang. He briefly talked and hung up. When he reached for a pen, he accidentally brushed the note off of his desk. It glided to the floor. Oh hell, he thought, as he got up.

A Metro Desk reporter was walking by and stepped over to pick up the note.

Burt moved quickly. “That’s okay, Greg, I got it.” He reached down for the note. “Thanks anyway, Greg.”

Greg smiled and walked on, then oddly glanced back.

Jesus, I’ve got to be careful, Burt thought. I don’t want anyone to know I’m interested in this thing. He briefly reflected. Grampa’s been a big help whenever we discuss this, but maybe I should talk to someone here too. Maybe Larry. The problem is, what if it got back to the editors?

“Hi Burt, how’s it going?”

Burt hadn’t seen Larry approaching, and in view of recent changes in assignments, he immediately felt uneasy. “Good, Larry, how about you?”

“I’m glad to be back at my old job.” Larry paused. “And I think you’ll do great with the nuclear thefts investigation.” He was married, and he had two little girls who called Burt “Uncle”. They had blue eyes like their father.

Burt felt relieved. “It wasn’t my idea, Larry.”

“I know you, Burt, and that’s why I knew it wasn’t your idea.”

As Burt listened to Larry talking about an upcoming article, he considered confiding in him about the bothersome package. I know I can trust him. But he kept delaying, and then Larry had to leave.

* * * * * * * *

Friday morning.

In the office Burt was sitting at his desk, musing about the puzzling package that he had received in November. No one had followed up on it, yet he still wondered if it was a prank. He hadn’t told anyone in the office about it, but he had come close to telling Larry. He didn’t like the fact that the package was locked in his bottom desk drawer.

He unlocked the drawer and picked up the large envelope. Pulling out the article, he unclipped the note from the first page. He had read the bewitching note more than once, but he wanted to go over it again, one paragraph at a time. Clearing a spot, he flattened the note on his desktop. Still annoyed by his continuing interest, he began to read the first paragraph.

Judgment for all the heads of Earth will come soon, Mister Stephens, for I have charged . . .

The phone rang. The caller was an upset reader who disagreed with one of Burt’s columns.

“Okay,” Burt replied, “I’m listening.” He listened for a moment, and then told the caller that he was glad that he had read the column. “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate your call.”

The caller calmed down, and at last thanked Burt for listening. After the caller hung up, Burt immediately focused on the note.

Judgment for all the heads of Earth will come soon, Mister Stephens, for I have charged responsibility for the ravaging of Earth to the selfish ambitions of world leaders.

I have charged, Burt thought. Whoever he is, he sounds like he means business. But is he talking about political leaders or all leaders, social, industrial, religious? The selfish ambitions of the people in charge? Yeah, that certainly explains Earth’s sorry condition. He began reading the second paragraph.

From your devastated environment to your depleted ozone, from your rampant drug addiction to your lost youth, from your violent crimes to your endless wars, your leaders are making a dreadful wasteland of what was once a beautiful and bountiful world.

He hit the nail on the head, Burt thought, in one short paragraph. Whoever this guy is he’s right about leaders. Who else could be responsible? Wonder what he thinks about President Archer chasing interns in the White House.

“Linda,” Burt heard an editor yell. “We gotta Political Insider meeting in ten minutes. Bring your item on Senator McCain.”

Burt looked at the next paragraph.

You will know when the time has come to publish the indictment that I have sent to you. When the Angel of Death delivers my calling card, you will take to your editor my proclamation to the world—and not before.

And this is the part that gets me. This is really rich. So, I just sit here and wait till I hear from the Angel of Death, huh? Now suppose that really happened. Then I’m going to march up to the editor’s door—he looked at the article—and give him this proclamation with a straight face? He chuckled, sipped his coffee, and glanced at the last sentence.

You will not read it until it is to be published.

Burt saw Phil approaching his desk. He slid a folder over the note.

“Burt, you’re still getting mail on the ‘Unconscionable Commerce’ articles. I think it was a half dozen letters. You should have them in a half hour. Keep up the good work.”

“Did the king write one?”

“The king?” Phil said.

Burt grinned. “Newton Mercer, the king of takeovers.”

Phil chuckled. “I don’t think so, Burt, but if you keep at it, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear from Mister Mercer.” He patted Burt on the shoulder, and left.

Burt looked at the note, then he focused on the signature.

I am the Judge.

I have to admit that the signature’s intriguing, but why do I get the feeling that I’ve seen it before? Dammit, there isn’t anything to this. It’ll never be published. And how many people have claimed to have a message from The Judge, hundreds, maybe thousands?

He shook his head in wonder and glanced around the busy office. In the ten years that Burt had been with the paper, he had received many crazy leads for stories, which had enhanced his sense of humor.

Yeah, there’ve been some crazy stories all right—he tapped the note with his finger—but this is the craziest of all.

Burt attached the note to the first page of the article and started to put the article in the envelope. But he stopped when the colorful imprint of the calling card caught his eye once more. It was at the top of the note.

Man, is that ever stunning, he thought, and once you’ve seen it, it’s in your mind for good.

The brilliant card had a glowing blue border and was twice the size of a playing card. In the center of the pristine white card an intricately drawn image of a powerful dark angel radiated a gray mist. The angel had piercing eyes, and across his wide chest, he held a broad sword, slightly pointing up and dripping with blood. A logo was in each corner of the card, in lustrous scarlet letters—THE JUDGE.

That’s one scary angel. You definitely wouldn’t want to provoke him. No wings on this big guy, and I’ll bet that calling card gets full attention when he delivers it. The note has the ring of authority too. He briefly reflected. Naw, no way. It’s just a prank. Glancing across the aisle, he scratched his head.

His eyes wandered back to the imprint of the dazzling calling card. Yet, it seems too solemn to be a joke. He set his coffee down, unclipped the note again, and began flipping through the article. It had the same remarkable typeface as the note.

It could be about the millennium, he thought, that’d be interesting. He turned to the first page, but he was reminded of the admonition. You will not read it until it is to be published.

Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe, and maybe not. He began to read the indictment, TO A WORLD OF . . .

“Burt,” a reporter yelled, “I need to talk to you for a minute.” He headed for Burt’s desk.
Burt hastily slipped the article into the large envelope. Then he dropped the envelope in his bottom desk drawer and locked it.

But little did he know that the extraordinary message in his desk drawer would soon start the world on the most perilous journey in Earth’s history.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

HOLOCAUST HEADLINES

The following alarming headlines are but a few culled from years past.

The Arizona Republic . . . . .Thursday, May 26, 1994 . . . . . . . .
RUSSIAN MOB MAY SOON BE ATOMIC PERIL, FBI WARNS
By Steve Goldstein, Knight-Ridder Tribune

Parade Magazine . . . . . Sunday, November 2, 1997 . . . . . . . 20
Parade’s Special Intelligence Report: NUCLEAR TERRORISM
HIGH ON WORRY LIST, By Jane Ciabattari

Saturday, May 2, 1998 . . . . . .The Denver Post . . . . . . . . . . 13A
CHINESE MISSILES TARGETED AT U.S., CIA REPORTS
By John Diamond, The Associated Press

The Gazette . . . . . . Saturday, August 1, 1998 . . . . . . . . . . . .D1
NUCLEAR MISTAKE POSSIBLE IN INDIA, PAKISTAN CONFLICT, The Associated Press

The Arizona Republic . . .Friday, Sept, 10, 1999 . . . . Front Page
U.S. FEARS OF MISSILE STRIKE RISE, Report names China,
Russia and North Korea, Republic News Services

The New York Times . . . . Thursday, June 20, 2002 . . . . . . . . .
INDIA-PAKISTANI TENSIONS SUBSIDE, BUT NUCLEAR FEAR
IS FAR FROM OVER, By Celia W. Dugger

CAPE TIMES . . . . . . September 8, 2002 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST' WAS PLANNED FOR SEPT 11

October 13, 2002, Sunday . . . .The New York Times . . . . . . . . .
THE WORLD: AT THE BRINK, THEN AND NOW; The Missiles
of 1962 Haunt Iraq Debate, By Todd S. Purdum, Week in Review Desk

Jan 4, 2006, Wednesday. . . .The New York Times . . . . . . . . . . .
IRAN TO RESUME ITS NUCLEAR WORK; U.S. Warns of
Seeking Restraints, By Elaine Sciolino, Foreign Desk

Feb 5, 2006, Sunday . . . . The New York Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
IRAN'S NUCLEAR CHALLENGE: THE WEST; Germany's
Chancellor Emphasizes Urgent Need for Action to Quash Nuclear Program in Iran,
By Judy Dempsey (International Herald Tribune); Foreign Desk

CNN . . . . . . . . . . .Sunday, February 19, 2006 . . . . . . . . . . . .
STUDY: BRAIN FINDS A WAY TO DENY NEGATIVE FACTS

* * * * * * * * * * * *

KNOWLEDGE OF HOW TO BUILD NUCLEAR WEAPONS MAKES DISARMAMENT RELATIVELY USELESS. . . . THE REAL QUESTION IS NOT WHETHER NUCLEAR WEAPONS HAVE POSTPONED WORLD WAR THREE; THE REAL QUESTION IS WHETHER THEY HAVE ELIMINATED ITS POSSIBILITY FOREVER. ---MARTIN HELLMAN
.
.
CLICK for MORE BLOGS
leeherald-eclectic.blogspot.com/
.
.
.
BLOGS KEYWORDS
Albert, blast, bomb, clock, criminal, doomsday, Einstein, far-out, gas, God, history, ideas, infinite, imagine, indictment, issues, justice, law, novel, novelist, nuclear, peace, Pearl Harbor, publish, reviews, time, war, weak, Western, writer