Oblation: A Spine-Tingling Crime Thriller set in Small-Town California, page 32
Moloch is with me as I drive, and eight minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of the Walmart. I circle the lot twice, looking for any evidence that I have been followed or for anything suspicious. I want to go around one more time, but I know that borders on paranoia and could arouse some unwanted suspicion and attention. People are coming and going without any realization of the momentous event that is about to take place in their midst. No one seems to notice me other than a young man getting off his motorcycle who gives me a thankful wave as he crosses in front of my car. He disappears into the store after holding the door open for a woman with a baby stroller who returns my wave when she goes in the opposite direction toward her own car. I consider for only a moment using the baby as a third sacrifice. I quickly dismiss this idea. I don’t want to bring the police to the Walmart parking lot. That is the last thing I want.
I back the car out of sight between the trailer and the drainage ditch before making my way to the cab of the truck to start the engine and set it to idle. This allows me to operate the air conditioning and the lights inside the trailer. Then I return to the car and easily carry the children to the entrance of the trailer and place the dozing children one by one onto the floor of the first hallway to the Temple. Cabiria is not being projected onto the walls, and the hallway is dark and quiet. I close the door and lock the children inside.
My next stop is the compartment at the front of the trailer that holds the large propane tank. I open the gas valve to full, then wire the door to the compartment shut before returning to the door behind, which is the latest sacrifice to Moloch. I climb up into the trailer, step over the children, and close the door behind me, making sure it is locked. I turn on the lights, sending a soft dim glow through the hallway and into the main temple area. The sanctuary lamp illuminates the end of the hallway and casts a red glow throughout the main area of the Temple. I can feel that this night will be the peak of Moloch’s greatness. After this night, everyone will know and praise the name of Moloch.
One hour is all I need. One hour. I light the fire to get the oven hot before returning to check on the children and bring them into the main Temple area. I lay them gently on the floor of the trailer. I can feel the heat from the fire, and the small space is getting warm. Everything is going according to plan. I undress the children and place each in a white cotton smock. Their new baptismal garments. A baptism not of water but of fire. The smocks are too big for them, but that is okay. Now it is my turn to look the part. I change into the priestly robes usually worn by the automaton. Everything is ready. Now I have only to wait. I close my eyes and focus on Moloch’s desire.
The children breathe softly. Not asleep but dozing. Periodically, a limb twitches, or a soft sound emerges from between their lips. They are alive. I hope they will be more awake when it is time for the sacrifice. I need them to be for a proper show. While I am pressed for time, I decide to wait a little bit longer until they are more awake before making the sacrifices. I need it to be perfect.
I feel the heat from the fire getting warmer and decide it is time. I double-check my camera. This is not the small Canon that I used in Jacksonville or the security camera with which I filmed the sacrifice of Clara Burgess. This is a large-sized Sony camera with Wi-Fi capabilities. I will connect through the hotspot of my throwaway phone to an open internet forum that allows posts of questionable content. This is an encrypted server, so being tracked will not be an immediate problem. I know the upload may not be as clean and crisp as I would have liked if I could be directly connected via a modem, but I had tested it out two days before. There is some jumping in the picture because of the lag time, but it serves its purpose. I plan on keeping the camera and the tapes, but I will ditch the phone.
The camera connection to the hotspot is good, and there is a decent picture showing up on the laptop. A bit grainy but functional. This time I want the people to be able to see me. I decide to do a test. I place myself in front of the statue of Moloch, raise my arms, and check my position on the computer screen. “Oh, Great Moloch, we praise you and thank you for your gifts.” Walking back to the computer, I rewind the picture and hit play. The picture and the sound come back to me. The picture is clear, and the sound crisp. Everything looks good. I’m ready.
When I return to the children, their eyes are open, and I can tell that they are conscious. Moloch be praised. Time to get started. I connect the computer to the website, which will not immediately cut me off until they realize what is happening. By that time, it will be too late. I know I won’t have much time, so I have planned it out precisely. The entire thing should not take more than five minutes.
Which child should be first? The girl. People will be more shocked by the death of a little girl than by the death of a boy. Yes, the girl first.
I pick up the remote control for the camera and walk over to the girl. She gazes sleepily up at me with a confused look. She is not awake enough to be scared, but she is conscious enough that she is starting to take in her surroundings and beginning to realize that she is not at home and I am not her father. I pick her up and press play on the remote. I step before the open firebox that is Moloch’s stomach just as flames begin to lick up and out of the opening in search of oxygen. The fire has never done this before. I realize that by cutting the chimney off, I have allowed for a downdraft into the firebox. But I am not going to worry about this.
Cradling the child in my hands, I lift her above my head and begin to sing the song that first came to me in Cedarville. I don’t hold back, allowing the hymn to echo off the walls of the trailer. I reach the end of the song and shout into cyberspace, “Moloch be praised! For too long, we have been lied to and told, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ This is not true. God desires sacrifice. Look at the act of Jesus. It was not mercy that Jesus gave us, but sacrifice. Jesus tried to lead us to the true God. Not the soft and kind god of the Christians, but the God of the Hebrews and the early Israelites. The God of sacrifice, vengeance, and power. It is not the god, Jehovah, that we are called to worship, but the God that led the Israelites through the desert with a pillar of fire, Moloch, the God of Fire and Sacrifice. Moloch, the God that desires that which we love. Moloch, who desires our children.”
The lights in the temple blink once and then go out. I am illuminated only by the light coming from the fire and the sanctuary lamp. The phone and the camera are powered by batteries, so there is no interruption to the upload despite the blown fuse that has caused the light to fade. Shadows leap from wall to wall as the flames, moved by the chimney’s downdraft, dance outside the confines of Moloch’s stomach. I see the shadows forming images on the walls. These are images of past sacrifices, both mine and those of ages past. I feel Moloch’s presence in the room. I know he is here. The song with which I was graced in Cedarville erupts from my mouth. I don’t know what I am singing, but it is in praise of Moloch. Moloch is here and desires sacrifice. “Moloch be praised!” I shout as I lower the squirming child toward the fire, reaching to take her from my hands.
FORTY-FIVE
I remember the brutality with which they ripped my children away from me. The police are always a step behind. Unable to do anything until it was too late. Five more dead children in West Virginia. Burnt just like the others. Escaping judgment through suicide. Never having to answer for their crimes. I only hope that if there is a God, they are sent to the lowest circle of hell. The newspaper articles covered the gory details of the children’s deaths and the worship of Moloch. A god desiring child sacrifice. As if any god would want that!
I was left with more questions than answers. How did this happen? What causes someone to twist the message of the Bible into something so heinous? Were there other worshipers of Moloch out there? The last question caused me sleepless and anxious nights. You see, I knew Meredith Boles. She was gentle and loved her kids. I could not bring myself to envision that she would participate in something so horrendous. Because I knew her, I believed in her innocence. I did not know her husband. He may have been guilty, but I believed in my heart that she was not. Did he kill her because she knew, or was she simply his last victim? Either way, I wanted the truth. I needed to know. And if there were others out there, I had a divine obligation to stop them.
I talked with Sheriff Tarpley multiple times after she returned to Alturas. I think she felt sorry for me. She knew I felt responsible for what took place at the school. She was kind enough to share information that she normally would never have shared with someone outside of law enforcement. She told me about Meredith and Chip. She shared some of her own thoughts and insights and, just in passing, mentioned the name of Aaron Longleif. I remembered him. I had met him when he was dating Meredith. His controlling nature bothered me. He hovered over Meredith like a puppeteer over a marionette. I remember thinking she could do better. Something in the way the sheriff said the name Aaron Longleif, as well as my own memory of him, made me start to wonder and question.
“Sheriff, didn’t Meredith date Aaron Longleif?”
“Yep, but they broke up once they got to West Virginia. Apparently, she broke up with Aaron and started dating his brother, Chip. She ended up marrying Chip.”
“Seems kind of strange.”
“I guess you never know.”
“I guess not.” That was the extent of the conversation, but I could not get Aaron Longleif out of my head. What if he was involved? It seemed so obvious. I pressed Tarpley but could never get a straight answer. “I’m not completely finished with my end of the investigation. Still trying to tie up loose ends.”
I have my own loose ends I need to tie up.
FORTY-SIX
I visit Sophia, WV, six months after the murder-suicide. I want to meet with Aaron Longleif. I want to look him in the eye. I don’t know exactly what I am going to say or ask him, but I have changed because of this ordeal. I have returned to church seeking answers and have been graced with a renewed faith and hope in God, and I believe he will lead my words. I get there too late. Aaron Longleif left town two months earlier, and no one seems to know where he has disappeared to.
In the hills of West Virginia, it is early May, planting season. I decide to stop at Chip and Meredith’s house and see the shop. The house is falling apart. The windows across the front are broken, and the front door is pushed in off its hinges. New spring growth is already encroaching on the area of the porch, and I can just make out a path disappearing into the woods to the left of the house. Is that the path leading to the infamous blacksmith shop? I decide to take a walk and, sure enough, come across the remains of the building.
I read numerous articles about the shop and how its design represented the statue of Moloch, but none of that remains. There is no roof, no chimney. Only the three outer walls and the outline of the firebox remain. A few broken-down tables litter the concrete floor, but nothing points to the hideous reality that five children were sacrificed inside the blacksmith’s fire.
The sound of a small engine interrupts my thoughts, and I step from behind the wall as a four-wheeler driven by a middle-aged gentleman makes its way slowly down the path from the house. He pulls to a halt where the path enters the clearing, squashing some recently sprouted saplings trying to reclaim this area for the forest. He doesn’t bother to get off the four-wheeler and asks in a not-so-friendly tone, “Can I help you?”
Honest and direct is my best approach. “I’m looking for Aaron Longleif but was told that he already left town. As long as I was already in the neighborhood, I thought I’d come up here and have a look around.”
“Not much of a neighborhood to be in. No one is ever in this neighborhood unless they want to be here.”
Can’t argue with that. “That’s true, but from the look of things, I’m not the only one who comes up here.”
His tone softens but still carries an edge. “Naw, young kids come up all the time. Have to chase them away during the night. They like to have parties inside the shop and have sex. Think it's kinky to have sex where some kids died. I think it’s just disrespectful. Never would have bought the property had I known it would be so much trouble.”
I step toward the man and then notice he is wearing a sidearm. His hand twitches ever so slightly, so I stop. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“I’m here. You might as well.”
“Do you happen to know where Aaron Longleif went?”
The man examines me and gets a thoughtful look on his face. “Why you asking? You want to be one of them?”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“One of them. One of them who wants to worship that devil? They come around every once in a while. Have to run them off, too.”
I give a short but nervous laugh. “No, I am not one of them.” Again, I decide to be honest. “Truth be told, I’m from Alturas, California. I have a personal interest in Mr. Longleif and would like to speak to him.”
He gives me a second appraisal. Then stiffly lifts a leg over the four-wheeler and steps toward me with an extended hand. “I’m Henry Pritchett. Live across the lane and bought the land from Aaron after he decided to leave.”
His attitude is still distant, but at least it is more congenial. “Glad to meet you. As I said, I have a personal interest in the murders, and I’m hoping Aaron Longleif may be able to answer some questions I have.”
“Don’t know if he could be any help. As I understand it, he never answered many questions from people when he was here. Hired some out-of-town lawyer who pretty much kept him under wraps. Always thought that was a little strange. My daddy used to say that there are only two things you need if you are guilty: a lawyer and a priest. One to hear your confession and the other to keep you out of jail.”
“So, you think he was guilty of something?”
“Don’t know. Just say’n it’s strange that someone who doesn’t have anything to hide would hire a lawyer.”
“I think you and I are operating on a similar wavelength, sir. I sure would like to find him and talk to him.”
Mr. Pritchett kicks at an empty beer can in the grass, recalling a memory. “He did say something to me once that I thought was kind of strange. He talked about joining a carnival. I asked him why he’d want to go and do that. He got kind of quiet, then mumbled something about scaring people with Moloch.” He looks back up at me. “Don’t know what he meant when he talked about joining the carnival.”
Neither do I, but it gives me something to think about. I thank him for his time and promise that if I ever come back, I will ask his permission prior to coming onto the property. For my effort, he gives me a smile as he gets back on the four-wheeler and leaves me to my own thoughts inside the destroyed shop.
FORTY-SEVEN
Scaring people with Moloch seems easy enough. The whole idea of Moloch scares the hell out of me. But what did he mean when he talked about a carnival? As I leave, I still do not have an idea how I can find Aaron Longleif. When I get home, I do the only thing I can think of. I type “Moloch” into a computer search. Not much. Information about the murders. Most of these articles I have already read. Some historical information about the worship of Moloch thousands of years ago, but nothing relevant concerning Longleif. I add the word “carnival,” and the only items that pop up were the same ones that appeared in the previous search. I try multiple variations with Aaron Longleif’s name. Nothing shows up except information about the murders. I’m at a dead end. Longleif appears to have disappeared. This worries me more than anything else. How can someone simply disappear from cyberspace unless they have purposely unplugged? And why would a person unplug themselves? Every conclusion points toward the murder of more children. One more thought to keep me up at night.
For months, I search the internet with no positive results. I hire a private investigator; who doesn’t find anything. I touch base with Sheriff Tarpley and share my concerns. She doesn’t like what I have to say concerning Longleif but is not forthcoming with any new information. She promises to look into it but does not call. It feels like I’m on my own. I’m supposed to be retired and enjoying myself, but I can’t. At least once a week, I return to the computer and fish through the various configurations of my search without any luck.
Finally, the search “carnival Moloch” elicits a new hit. A Facebook review of a funhouse attached to a traveling carnival on a swing through the upper Midwest. The review talks about how weird the thing was. “Just a bunch of old movie scenes and loud noises. It did have one cool section where this guy sacrifices a child. That was neat and all, but not worth the $3 it cost me.” I’m hooked like a fisherman who has been out for hours and finally gets a nibble just before he calls it a day. I can’t bring myself to leave the computer. I reread the post, looking for anything that might help me.
There is a date and a location for the post, Lake Benton, Minnesota, August 31. I pull up information on Lake Benton. They have a small weekly newspaper, and to my surprise, they have an online edition. I pay $5 for a one-month subscription and search the week following the date of the post. There are pictures and stories about the carnival that was in Lake Benton for the weekend prior to the start of school. I read the editions for the week before and after the carnival, but there is no mention of Moloch and no mention of any missing children. I say a short prayer of thanksgiving for that. I return to the first story about the carnival and read it again. Typical small-town, Midwestern affair. There is information about various livestock competitions and who won in what category. A Ms. Lake Benton was crowned, a senior from the local high school who wants to study medicine and save the world. Nothing that appears particularly useful.
