Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

his legs out from underneath him. The big man offered feeble resistance. His knees were weak and rubbery. His face was already bright red.

Slater held him down on his knees, all three hundred pounds of flesh and bones quivering. ‘Where’s all that strength you used to kill her?’

Wyatt mumbled, ‘Get off me.’

‘Come on, big guy,’ Slater said. ‘Where’s your heart? Where’s your courage?’

Wyatt’s face turned purple as he tried to burst back to his feet. Slater slapped him hard in the face, spun him round, and locked a forearm under his chin, constricting his airways. He cinched the choke tight and tilted Wyatt’s face up to look at the corpse.

Slater said, ‘You’re going to die. Adrenaline’s pumping through you right now but I need you to understand that before I do it. This is it for you. You’re done.’

Wyatt struggled, but all his weight was futile against Slater, who might as well have been made out of steel.

Slater said, ‘Come on, buddy. You’re almost there. When’s it going to sink in?’

Wyatt tried to look away from the corpse.

Slater didn’t let him.

The big man started crying, great sobs wracking his body. He was terrified beyond description. Slater had forced him into an existential crisis.

‘There we go,’ Slater said. ‘Now say goodnight.’

He squeezed with the grip of a boa constrictor. Wyatt’s face went a deeper shade of purple, his cheeks close to exploding, spit flying out of his mouth.

Wyatt let out a final pathetic cry.

Slater locked the choke even tighter, crushing his windpipe, cutting the blood flow to the brain.

Wyatt was still crying as he went out, one of the most pathetic deaths imaginable.

Which was Slater’s intention all along.

Slater held the choke at full strength for another thirty seconds, counting them under his breath. When he was sure the man was dead, he let go and pushed him to the floor.

Slater spat on his body.

King said, ‘I figured you’d do something like that.’

‘It wasn’t enough,’ Slater said. ‘Nothing would have been enough.’

‘Would you have done it slower?’ King said. ‘If we had time?’

He needed to know.

Slater shook his head. ‘That’s not who I am. I cave to those instincts and I’m no better than a sadist. But he deserved that. You can’t tell me he didn’t.’

King sighed. ‘Guess our cover’s out of the picture now. We’ll have to take the commune by force.’

‘You don’t like that?’

‘I hate it,’ King said. ‘For all we know, Maeve has a suicide pact with her followers. What did Wyatt call them — disciples? She gets suspicious, she takes dozens if not hundreds of people with her. It’s the ultimate psychopath move. Make your enemies pay by making their efforts futile.’

Slater said, ‘Then we get her and her scumbag husband before they can do that.’

‘Won’t be so easy,’ King said, surveying the shed, lost in thought. ‘Unless…’

Slater understood immediately. He saw a red pickup truck up the back of the shed, burrowed behind the disassembled cars. It was shiny, kept in good condition. Wyatt’s car.

King said, ‘You know what I’m thinking, right?’

Slater smiled. ‘Of course. She’ll buy it. Hook, line and sinker.’

‘We won’t know until we try.’

Slater grabbed Wyatt’s body by the collar and started dragging it across the shed.

32

The next day, they came at eight on the dot to collect Alexis and Violetta.

Not Maeve. Not her husband.

A boy and girl in their early twenties, if not younger. They were adults, but only just. They drove an old Toyota Land Cruiser pickup — four-door, not two — with room in the back for Alexis and Violetta.

The women stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the backdrop of Bicentennial Park, with its beautiful green lawns home to soccer and baseball fields. A couple of teams of elementary school kids conducted early morning practice.

A world away from what Alexis and Violetta were about to step into.

Alexis saw the truck approaching, and out of the corner of her mouth she muttered, ‘Last chance. Protect yourself and your baby.’

‘You need me,’ Violetta muttered back. ‘You saying you’ll go in there alone?’

‘Gladly. If this makes you uncomfortable, don’t do it.’

‘It’s always uncomfortable. That’s the job.’

‘Look at them,’ Alexis said, staring through the grimy windshield at the driver and passenger. ‘They’re kids, just like Jace.’

‘Easily susceptible,’ Violetta said. ‘Prime targets for manipulation. And they’re young. They’ve got no money. They’re vulnerable. Like we’re pretending to be.’

Alexis said, ‘I’ll remember this when I’m standing across from that bitch.’

Violetta said, ‘I’ll be there alongside you.’

Conversation ceased abruptly as the Toyota pulled up and the pair got out. Up close they resembled each other like mirror images. The same flat faces, small eyes, asymmetrical jaws. They both had pale skin and bad complexions. The guy was younger, taller, lankier, and the girl was short and squat. They both had an eerie detachment in their eyes, a faded milkiness like they were high. Alexis guessed they were brother and sister, and also guessed they had a mutual affection for Bodhi.

But they certainly weren’t on a potent dose right now or they’d be rolling around in the grass, incapable of operating a vehicle.

The guy said, ‘You’re Violetta and Alexis?’

He addressed them in the correct order, first looking at Violetta, then across to Alexis.

Violetta said, ‘That’s us.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ the guy said. ‘Brandon.’

He spoke with youthful indifference, and Alexis guessed he was eighteen or nineteen. His sister hadn’t opened her mouth yet, which didn’t seem abnormal. She was quieter, more reserved. Her eyes were the same as her brother’s, but there was something else in them. Not uncertainty … but she definitely wasn’t as comfortable in this role as Brandon.

Alexis kept her gaze on the girl and said, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Addison,’ she mumbled.

Brandon said, ‘Sorry. She’s a bit tired. Can I throw your bags in the tray?’

Alexis nodded politely. She wanted to use her social skills to take over the conversation, fill the awkward silences, make Addison more comfortable, give Brandon something to respond to. But none of those avenues would align with the image of a wandering backpacker,