M McDonald - March Into Hell

Kern regarded him with hooded eyes, having regained control of his emotions and giving nothing away. "And what do you have in mind?"

"I thought the crucifixion was outstanding. Just outsanding, and wish I could re-enact it, but I don't think we'd get away with it. So, what I want is to force Taylor to reveal his magic. There must be a way to persuade him. I'm not any good at that kind of thing. Hell, look at me? I can't carry it off like you could." Jim chuckled.

Adrian studied the flyer. Tomorrow night. It wasn't much time to plan something, but he couldn't let a golden opportunity like this pass. Taylor could identify him and despite the aliases, he didn't intend to spend the time in prison, or worse, hiding. With Taylor dead, there would be no witness. No one in his guild would dare point a finger at him, he was sure of that.

He sat on the edge of his desk and stared out the window, absently missing the inspiring view from his previous office. Why did things have to be so difficult? So messy. Why did it take so much effort to achieve what he deserved? Half way down the street was a shabby church that had seen better days. It reminded him of the one where his father used to preach. When he was a child, he'd watch his father give his sermon to his small congregation. Part of him had been awed how the church members had hung on every word his father said. Like his father was God. The other part of him would look around at the hundred or so people and wonder why they wasted their time with a loser like his dad.

Couldn't they see that his father had nothing? The house provided for the pastor and his family was one step up from a shack. Adrian once asked why they didn't get a nice house. Didn't he deserve it for running around town helping all the church members every time one of them had a problem? Why did they have to bring meals every time someone was sick, died or had a baby? Nobody brought meals to them when his mom had yet another child. Adrian never understood the answer his father had given him- that the reward wasn't money or a fine house. It was the satisfaction of helping someone.

As far as Adrian could tell, there was no satisfaction to be had in helping anyone. All helping ever achieved was the helper got burned. Adrian remembered the time his dad had made him shovel snow for old Mr. Timmons. It wasn't Adrian's fault if the guy had later slipped on the ice coating the sidewalk. Timmon's could have tossed salt on the pavement as easily as he after the shoveling was done.

His father saw it differently, and had grounded him for a month and made him help Timmons after the old man had come home from the hospital. His dad said it would teach Adrian compassion.

Adrian scowled at the photo of Taylor on the flyer. He was a sucker just like Adrian's father. A do-gooder who probably thought he would be rewarded. Ha! Only a fool believed that nonsense. In fact, wasn't it said that God helped those who helped themselves?

He clenched the flyer, wanting to crumple Taylor's face in his fist and watch him burn in the garbage can, but he took a deep breath and flattened the flyer on his desk. As much as he wanted to crush the man, he could wait one more day and then do it in person.

What would be the best way? Another crucifixion would have sent a powerful message, but there wasn't time for something so elaborate. Still, it should be memorable. An assassination might be fitting. It would be quick and clean. Adrian stood and paced the small room. He wanted some time to talk to Taylor first though – to see the fear in the other man's eyes again. This time, he would discover Taylor's secret. Then he would kill the man.

Taylor cared about other people. That was his weakness. Adrian circled his desk and settled into the chair. How could he take advantage of this weakness? He closed his eyes in concentration. Medea might be the key.

He tilted the chair back, sinking into the fragrant leather.

Four men dragged Mark Taylor through a doorway. He looked frightened, but also angry, his hands were bound behind him. Three of the men physically pushed him to a podium on the makeshift stage. The fourth man stood in front of the microphone. His long greasy hair and scraggly beard were flecked with gray while his robe looked like it had once been white. Reverend Jim. He gripped Taylor's arm, his fingers digging into Taylor's flesh.

"Welcome to our gathering, gentle people. I'm Reverend Jim, and as I promised we have Mark Taylor here as our special guest." He yanked at the struggling prisoner. "He was feeling a little shy, so we had to persuade him to come." Reverend Jim smiled. "Don't worry though, we didn't have to use extreme measures, not like what happened to him last time."

Adrian shifted in the chair. A part of his mind was still lodged in the dream, while the other part realized he was sitting in his office. An uncomfortable feeling pulled at him as he tried to awaken. The pull was too strong and he sank back into the dream.

Reverend Jim spoke about his dream. How Taylor had called out to him. "One minute, I was sleeping in my recliner, the next, I was awake and listening to Mark's prayers. I don't know how he did it, but he drew me there with his mind."

Taylor shook his head, but any protests he might have uttered were lost in the swell of noise from the audience.

Reverend Jim grabbed the microphone. "Folks, quiet down. We're gonna hear from the man himself in just a few minutes, but let me tell ya about a special treat we have planned. We have a representative of the Guild of the Rose here with us tonight. He has promised to show us how he was able to entice Taylor to use his incredible powers to reach out to me. In fact, he reached out to Mr. Kern as well, didn't he?" Reverend Jim grinned at Adrian. "He contacted you through a dream too, didn't he?"

Adrian woke up with a start and almost fell out of his leather chair. He blinked as a ray of sunlight stabbed into the office. He rubbed his hand down his face. It had been just a dream, but so real. He recalled every bit of it, more like he'd been there and walked through a door from the revival to his office -one minute he was there, the next, here. Even as he thought of it, it began to dim. Something about the dream was important. Could it finally be that he'd been given power by Satan?

Although he'd always preached about how powerful he was, he knew his gift was in persuasion, not anything truly otherworldly. This had felt different. While he'd been in the dream, he had felt like he'd been directed by someone else. He yanked open his desk drawer and grabbed a yellow legal pad. He needed to write it before he forgot. Perhaps Satan had shown him the way to seize Mark Taylor's power. It was a better plan than he had, and he just knew it would work. It was as if Satan had planted the scene in his head, it was so vivid. What was even better was that it had worked.

Mark jolted awake and rolled over on to his side, wincing as phantom pain jabbed his chest, a holdover from the dream. He glanced down, half-expecting to find himself covered in blood. Relief coursed through him as the reality sank in that it really had been one of his dreams. He'd expected the dream after viewing the photos, but this one had felt different. It seemed filtered, as though he wasn't quite part of it, but merely watching from the sidelines. It didn't make sense.

The warmth of the sun bathed him in a warm circle of light, and Mark settled into the comforter, loathe to get out of bed until he made sense of the dream. Had it been one of his prophetic dreams? Kern had been so prominent in it, which wasn't surprising, but Mark had the sense of seeing the dream from two perspectives-his own and Kern's. It was crazy. Like he'd had parallel trains of thought going at the same time.