Simon Toyne - The Tower - Part Four

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page THE TOWER: PART FOUR SIMON TOYNE

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Part V

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Part VI

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Part VII

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Simon Toyne

Copyright

About the Publisher

Sergeant Beddoes drummed his gloved fingers on the wheel of the cruiser. He was parked behind a billboard on the verge of the main road into town, waiting for speeding cars, not that he expected any today.

The snow had taken everyone by surprise. They were used to it up here in the mountains, but not like this and not without warning. It had come down so fast that he hadn’t had time to put the snow chains on his car and twice now he’d nearly slid off the road. On top of that the world had gone crazy overnight. He’d been called out to a near riot at the Wal-Mart on the edge of town after people started panic-buying everything in the store. He’d gone in to help break it up and seen people who’d known each other all their lives, fighting over bottled water and canned food. He’d had to pull his gun at one point, but at least he hadn’t had to use it. He’d heard stories of full-scale riots in some of the bigger cities, police firing on civilians, law and order breaking down as the gas pumps ran dry and the stores ran out of food because the delivery trucks had stopped rolling. It had made him wonder if Reverend Parkes had been right and that judgement day was just around the corner.

For the last few months the Reverend had preached nothing else, telling his small, devoted congregation how a new Tower of Babel had brought it all about and that demons were already walking the earth in the shape of men to cause chaos and inspire sin that they might be damned and claimed by Satan when the time came. He had told them to stockpile food, batteries and water – and he had been right. He had also talked to him in private, telling about the secret army that was in place, Christian soldiers drawn from every walk of life ready to fight the forces of evil when they came.

‘We can all fight for the Lord,’ the Reverend had said, ‘each of us in our own small way.’ And he had told Beddoes how he could help, using his position as a police officer to watch out for the signs and report them to those who would know their significance. Beddoes had nodded and agreed to do whatever the Reverend thought he should, though he didn’t quite understand how he could be of much use.

Beddoes reached up and held the crucifix he kept on a chain round his neck along with the St Christopher his mother had given him when he first qualified as a patrolman. ‘To keep you safe and bring you home,’ she had said. He’d been thinking about home a lot lately, though home wasn’t the same now she had gone. The Church filled some of the gap left by her passing, but not all of it. Nothing ever could.

A ping sounded on the dashboard. He looked up to find the LoJack receiver had activated but there was nothing on the road. There was a stolen car in the area, heading north by the looks of it. He grabbed his radio to call the dispatcher then paused. He pulled his glove off with his teeth and fumbled in his pocket for the prayer book the Reverend had given him to keep close by, a weapon in the coming war, and flipped to the back. There was an alphanumeric code next to a cell phone number. He compared it to the one on the display and felt his mouth go dry.

They were the same.

He took out his own personal phone and dialled the number written in the prayer book.

Demons in human form – he thought, just as the line connected.

‘OK, we’re off the air.’

The Reverend Fulton Cooper held his final gesture of prayer for a few beats then opened his eyes, dropped his hands to his sides and smiled. ‘Good show, everyone,’ he said, casting smiles around the room. The bright studio lights cut out and across the room he saw the pale moon face of Miss Boerman framed by her severe haircut and suit. She was standing by the door, looking straight at him. She nodded when she saw she had caught his attention then turned and slipped back outside.

‘Take a break but don’t go far,’ he announced to the room as he moved towards the exit. ‘The Lord has much work for us yet to do. We’re live again in an hour.’

He passed through the door and felt the relative cool of the outside air on his skin.

‘They’re in the chapel,’ Miss Boerman said, the thin scar on her cheek puckering when she spoke. The mark of his hand from earlier was no longer visible. She handed him a small plain envelope. He opened it and studied the contents.

‘This up to date?’ he asked, slipping the note back in the envelope and tucking it into his jacket.

‘As of five minutes ago.’

‘Everything else set up?’

‘Gassed and ready to go.’

‘Anyone needs me, tell them I’m at private prayer and not to be disturbed.’ He moved past her and headed down the stairs, the leather of his Italian shoes clacking first against the wooden steps, then against flagstones as he arrived in the basement and passed through a solid wooden door in the shape of an arch.

The chapel had been built in the old cellars, making good use of the existing vaulted brickwork and stone floors. It was small with three rows of wooden pews either side of a narrow aisle leading to a lectern which stood before a large stained-glass window that was artificially lit from behind so God’s light could permanently shine through it. Cooper occasionally recorded segments of his shows down here, but he also used it for meetings because it was quiet and out of the way and there was another door hidden behind the altar, a requirement of the fire department regulations that also allowed people to enter the chapel without anyone in the main part of the building knowing they were there.

Eli and Carrie were kneeling at the altar, their backs to him, their heads bowed. Eli jumped as the door banged shut – still fighting his demons. Carrie reached out to him with a gentle, calming hand that had killed eighteen people to Cooper’s sure knowledge. He caught her profile as she turned; the slightly upturned nose that made her seem younger than she actually was and inclined people to underestimate her, just as they did with him, only with her it was often the last mistake they ever made.

‘Praise God for watching over you and delivering you safely,’ Cooper said, smiling down at them as they turned round. He beckoned them over to the tech desk set up at the back of the room, which they used when they recorded down here. He turned on the monitor and heard the scuff of Eli’s steps approaching, but he didn’t hear Carrie’s. She was the only person he knew who could walk up the two-hundred-year-old main wooden staircase inside the house without making a single sound.