Murder By Prophecy
PROLOGUE
(April, 1967 Tennessee)
The killer stared from his living-room window at the fast moving thunderstorm
charting a course straight for his well-kept Tennessee gentleman’s farm.
Alone, Jon Mattison watched the battle of the elements, hoping and praying
that the heavy rain and the savage wind would whip up a tornado. Eyes glued
to the sky, he saw darkness pushing back the morning sun; he saw lightning
bolts slashing gold veins in the black clouds; he heard thundering roars and felt
the sound waves shaking his house; but he saw no tornado funnel. His soul shivered in disappointment;
he needed one desperately. He was honest with himself. Eventually he would have
to kill his wife. His dwindling finances demanded that she die soon; and today, with
its approaching storm,would be the perfect opportunity—but only if his farm was destroyed.
The tornado would be blamed for her death.
He’d used his other option of borrowing money more than once; and soon the banks would begin foreclosure procedures on his home,
which he’d used as collateral for the loan. Besides, he rather liked the idea of killing
wives instead of divorcing them. He’d already killed two wives. The first wife drowned
in a boating accident. The second wife fell down the basement steps. Of course,
he could accidentally shoot this wife; but he was certain that that explanation wouldn’t
set with the authorities. After all, how many fatal accidents can one man’s wives have without
generating some sort of suspicion? He didn’t know, but he assumed three would be two
too many.
He flinched. Hope was fast burying itself in despair. The utmost question
in his mind now was the tornado. So far this year, the county had had thunderstorms aplenty,
but no tornadoes. Would this storm be the one? Then slowly, slowly, his hopes began to
rise as the rain cleared somewhat; and he saw the outline of a pale-gray funnel. Unlike
the fading smoke puffing from a chimney, the tornado’s outline became stronger and darker
as the seconds passed. Too scared to move, he just stared at it. Then he closed his
eyes. He was afraid it would go away if he looked too long.
Crushing the urge to cross his
fingers, he clenched his fists instead. After what seemed like an eternity, he opened his
eyes again; and a rush of relief almost drained his strength. Up ahead, hanging in the sky
in front of his neighbor’s house, was a well-formed funnel. Long, slender and deadly,
the funnel had
dropped from the cloud and was heading for earth.
“HALLELUJAH!” he shouted.
That
mother-of-all-thunderstorm had come through for him. Ecstatically savoring
the upcoming
minutes, he rushed from the living room into the library. Inside the
room of floor-to-
ceiling books, his young wife had finished packing a few of her treasured
novels. She was removing herself from the twister’s path. He didn’t look at her.
He
walked over to the
unprotected library window to check on his funnel to be certain that
it had, indeed, formed
a tornado. Anxiously, he bit his bottom lip as sweat beaded on his
forehead. Holding
vigilant at the window, he waited until he was satisfied that the now
cone-shaped funnel
was securely in place.
YES! He wanted to screech out loud. Instead,
he did his version of
a football touchdown dance, completing it with the clenching of both
hands. Then he took
a deep breath and settled down. Now that he had an official tornado,
he felt free to
implement the rest of his plans.
Closing his ears to the howling winds,
he grabbed a white
vase. A self-satisfied smirk creased his face. Turning, he looked at
the back of his wife’s
blonde head and felt a flash of joy shoot through his soul. He loved
this—this thrill of the
kill—he really did. Walking towards her, he cut a path around the new
furniture, kicking
aside old newspapers that littered the floor. He stopped near the door.
“I
don’t know why
you won’t board this house up! If you think you’ll get the house insurance
when it’s
destroyed—think again. It was canceled, remember?” she said as she
snapped close her
purse.
No, my dear, he thought, as an opera singer your life insurance
is worth much more
to me.
Preparing to wait out the storm elsewhere, she threw on her raincoat,
grabbed her
keys, and hurried towards the door. “I’ll be at my sister’s house.”
He
waited until she’d
passed him. Then, without a speck of regret and with all the power
in his arm, he raised
the vase and smashed it against the back of her head. The vase shattered
on impact. After
she fell face forward, he stood over her body for a moment staring
at the fine white shards that had been the vase. Now the question was: had the force from the
blow been hard
enough to kill her? He didn’t want to touch her to find out. Uncertain
as to what to do
next, he decided to add more power to the blow. He stepped back and
kicked her in the
head like one would kick a football.
His lips puckering in a tuneless
whistle, he turned
towards the window to sneak another look at his friend, the tornado.
Instantly, the smile
slid from his face like ice from a hot iron. He searched frantically
for the funnel, but it had
gone. Rubbing his eyes, he ran to the window and threw it open. The
rain had almost
stopped so he could see clearly. There was no funnel—not anywhere.
With a snap of the
finger, the son-of-a-bitch had disappeared, leaving him with a dead
woman that he
couldn’t explain.
Stumbling back against the wall, his weak knees gave
out, and he sank to
the floor with a thump. He was ruined. His dismal future stretched
endlessly before him.
Meanwhile, waiting on the sidelines, evidences—the insurance monies—stood
ready to
convict him of killing his other wives. He shivered. No matter how
he cut his options, he
couldn’t face the courthouse trials, the pitying glances, the hatred.
Like a sleepwalker, he
pulled himself back up, walked to his desk, sat down, lifted a small
22-caliber handgun
from the drawer and added a hole to the back of his head
At the sound
of the “bang”
Mattison’s wife groaned. Slowly she sat up, rubbing the back of her
head. “What
happened?” she asked, looking around for her husband.
( Thirty minutes
before the
tornado formed, Ted and Jeanette Lyons, Mattison’s neighbors, stood
on their veranda
and watched the “war of the winds” unfolding as man entered the fight
between the
elements. The showdown was taking place in front of their mansion.
The wild winds
whipped across the Tennessee farmlands, uprooting trash and anything
else small enough
to move: hamburger wrappers, empty soda cans, brown paper bags, a shoe,
and even a
tricycle, sending everything tumbling five feet high through the air.
The funnel with its
powerful roof-ripping winds hadn’t touched the ground yet, but it was
headed there. The
heavy rains belted the earth and soaked the trash. In the meanwhile,
on the graveled road
that faced the Lyon’s home, one lone truck challenged the forces.
Using
binoculars, Ted
watched the race between the forming tornado and the speeding beige
Ford pickup. Both
were heading north. The truck, racing along to the right of the twister,
kept a respectable
distance from it.
Ted’s eyes followed the funnel into the sky to the
place where it had
dropped from the cloud. His eyes lowered; and he saw the twisting edges
stretch out,
searching for the ground. Then he switched his binoculars to the truck
that easily
outdistanced the tornado.
Back in the sky, flashing lightning infused
the black clouds with
an orange glow. It was beautiful, like looking at the yellow sun through
black lace. The
damp scent of fresh rain added spice to the excitement. Ted grunted.
Everything in life had
a price tag attached to it, and the weather was no exception. Someone’s
property had to
pay for this fiery performance. His home was in no danger since he
was well east of it. On
the other hand, down the road were the Mattison’s mansion and . . .
Graceland.
That’s
why he had hired the people in the truck—to protect Elvis’s home. Only
a precious few
knew of the human “tornado destroyers” existence. He owed his knowledge
to a cousin in
Louisiana who had sent these people to him. Now he waited to see if
they could really
“kill” this tornado.
Suddenly, a half-mile ahead of the tornado, the
truck stopped. A small
figure draped in black hopped from the bed. It raised something over
its head and then
slammed it into the ground. Immediately, like a powerful wind blowing
against smoke, the
funnel began dissipating, leaving behind a mild-tempered storm.
Elated,
Ted hugged his
wife. It worked! Damn! It really worked! Those people could actually
stop a tornado!
He
would’ve been pleased to have the couple in for a drink. After that
fight, they deserved a
shot of whiskey. But, that act of common courtesy was denied to him.
Inside his sweater
pocket was a note with instructions that he’d follow to the letter.
Deviate one bit and he’d
never have the use of their services again.And he would use them again,
and so would his
friends. They would take turns paying for this service. He walked inside
the house, pulled
out the neatly typed note and read it again.
“Hello. My code name is
Crocodile. You will
place ten thousand dollars in a bank of our choice. When you know of
the possibility of a
tornado forming in your vicinity, you will notify me. I’ll send the
workers. They will stay
twenty-four hours, and you will provide them quarters. You may not
communicate with
them in any way whatsoever. Should no tornado materialize after 24
hours, you will pay
only five thousand dollars for their time. We will need another ten
thousand if we have to
return for another one. Your workers’ code name is Alligator.
”November,
1967A
deserted shack in the Louisiana countryside.Almost midnight, the cold,
clear blackness
shrouded the whole area in secrecy. On the front porch, a tall blonde
man stood talking to
the middle-aged doctor who’d just helped his wife through labor. Nervously,
the young
man glanced around, looking up and down the dirt road that led to the
Mississippi River
about a half-mile away. A tall, black and imposing levee that contained
the river cut across
the landscape like the Great Wall of China. He shivered. If he were
prone to superstition,
he would’ve thought someone had just walked over his grave. He opened
the door a crack
and peeked at his wife and newborn daughter. Holding his arm to the
light that filtered
through the opening, he checked his watch. It was time for him and
the baby to leave.
“Doctor Eastson, thank you, again, for everything. And please don’t
ever tell anyone
about this night,” the young man said, turning to shake the older man’s
hand.“Don’t
worry, Mr. MacWilliam, I won’t open my mouth,” the doctor chuckled.
Then, on a more
serious note, he added, “and I’ll see to your wife. You just take care
of that precious little
girl in there.” He stared down the road in the direction of the main
highway. “Wasn’t your
wife’s friend, Leola, supposed to be back from the store by now? She’s
been gone six
hours.”“She went home to pack some things for herself as well, enough
to last until my
wife is ready to leave here. She should be back soon.” He paused. Soon
after his
daughter’s birth, his wife had asked him to take the baby and go. However,
he couldn’t
leave her alone in the hands of this doctor. It was a well know fact
that the man loved his
vodka, and tonight he seemed to be a bit too drowsy. Whether his behavior
was because
of an actual need to sleep or too much vodka, MacWilliam couldn’t tell
since vodka was
odorless. No, to play it safe, he wanted to be sure that her friend
would be with her before
he left. “I’ll wait until she gets here.”“You be careful driving down
that river road.”“Don’t
worry, doctor, I will. I’m just taking that road to the next town.
I’m hoping to evade
anyone that might know us, and remember seeing me driving north.”
Inside
the room, the
young woman lay on the iron bed gazing down at the newborn lying cradled
in her arms.
Her tanned face glowed with happiness. The white linen smelled of bleach
and so did her
baby. She spoke softly to the little girl so that the men on the porch
couldn’t hear her
words.
“It’s up to you now, sweetheart. You’ve got to get even for the
wrong done to our
family. We are the last of the “Leke Nwanyi,” the keepers-of-the-axes.
Evil people want
our axes for their power. They’ve killed my aunt and stolen hers. They
think my mother’s
burned with her in the car crash, but I buried it.” She paused again,
a weak smile playing
around her lips. “And they think that they have me under their thumb,
and that they can
get my ax anytime they want it. Hah, they don’t know about you or that
you’ll be taking it
with you to a place where you’ll both be safe.” She rested for
a moment. Then she bent
and kissed the smooth pink and red cheek. “Exactly 28 years from today—November,
l995, you come back to Louisiana. You must do this and take back my
aunt’s ax. Those
three axes are your inheritance,” she whispered. “You must return and
kill them . . . ALL
of them. Don’t worry. You’ll have help. But you . . . must . . . return
. . ., Allison!”
