I’d returned to the office to wrap up a few things, and when six rolled around, the office had been mostly empty for a couple of hours. The nationwide broadcast had kept bodies glued to the conference room most of the day, but the local news had advised everyone to get home early tonight if possible, thanks to all of the rioting and protesting cropping up around the city.
I’d mostly ignored the onslaught of news streaming on the screens scattered around the office, but ignorance wasn’t possible when I left work and embarked onto the dark streets of downtown Seattle.
There was no such thing as rush hour in the Emerald City. It was rush hours, which typically ran from four to seven on workdays, yet tonight the streets were so quiet, it was as if we’d gotten hit with several inches of snow. Police cars, cabs, and a brave handful of commuters like myself littered the empty streets, giving an eerie omen of an apocalypse nearing.
Most of the stores were closed, but a handful of coffee shops and restaurants remained open, an act of rebellion. A silent fuck you to the powers that be.
At first, I couldn’t see what all of the fuss was about with the alleged riots— media fear-mongering at its most insidious. That changed when I turned down the street the police precinct was located on.
A barrier had been set up around the station, policemen in full riot gear keeping the pack of protesters from breeching the perimeter. Dozens, possibly hundreds, of protesters dressed in black were shouting, stabbing signs exhibiting the Huntsman’s mark into the air.
Stopped at a red light, it changed from red to green and back to red but my SUV didn’t budge. I’d never seen anything like the scene playing out in front of me—not in real life anyways. All of this for one serial killer an expanding populace had elevated to a near god-like status. It seemed counterintuitive that a murderer would be the entity to raise a rabble of followers that spanned the nation, stirring citizens in a manner that resembled a revolution, a movement. A change.
At our core, we were a nation of revolutionists. Two hundred fifty years later, it appeared we’d revived our origin story.
After double-checking the calendar in my phone, I plugged the church’s address into my navigation and moved through the intersection with the next green light. The time of arrival showed as 7:04 p.m., which would have put me at the nineteenth-century Catholic church after the meeting ended, but at least half of the time allowance factored in heavy traffic. Since there was no traffic, I guessed I’d arrive five to ten minutes before the meeting wrapped up.
When the massive stone cathedral came into view, an entirely different image of it was waiting for me. Copying the scene at the police precinct, a mob of protestors were scattered along the church steps, held back by a barrier of police and fencing. Of all the places to take out one’s pent-up rage, a historical church in Queen Anne seemed low on the list of prospects. That was, until I realized it wasn’t the church they were protesting, but the support group housed inside it, this same time every Monday night.
The Huntsman’s vision had spread. Maybe not in its totality, but in its objective of eliciting fear in those who would consider harming an innocent.
After parking, I allowed myself a minute to take in the war-like sight. More people dressed in black, faces mostly disguised, throwing fists in the air to the beat of their indistinct chants. Among the fray were several stuffed burlap dummies swinging from the ends of rope, a spray-painted symbol of death marking the chests.
Pulling out my phone, I snapped several photos, wondering what I’d feel when looking back on the images decades from now. Speculating at the transformation my life would have taken by then, as I knew with certainty change was coming. I felt the plates shifting beneath my feet, forcing transformation if it wasn’t willingly embraced.
Tucking my container of mace into my hand, I stepped out onto the wet sidewalks and made my way toward the swarm. The rain from this morning hadn’t let up, and in the time it took me to cross the street and circumnavigate the main throng of rioters, I was sopping wet.
“The building’s closed off, ma’am,” one of the officers shouted at me when I approached the barrier.
I had to holler back to be heard above the noise. “My husband’s inside.”
Behind the clear face shield, I could make out the officer’s scrutinizing inspection, his immense gun resting between us as a nonverbal threat.
“Dr. Noah Wolff. He’s the psychiatrist who facilities the meeting,” I added when I realized the origin of the scrutinizing look.
“I’d advise you to wait for your husband somewhere else, ma’am. All hell’s going to come loose when the men inside this place file out.” His giant helmet tipped in the direction of the rioters. “You don’t want to get caught in the mix.”
“I’ve been duly warned. But I’ll take my chances.” I blinked at him through the rain, waiting to be allowed passage and not beyond pressing past if necessary.
In the end, I didn’t have to make that choice. The officer stepped aside, allowing me to slide through the barricade.
“Be careful, ma’am. You’re entering the lion’s den,” he shouted, following me to the large door to pull it open.
“I will,” I answered, knowing that something far more dangerous than a pack of lions prowled inside these church walls.
The heavy door sealed me inside, transforming the roar of noise into a hollow echo. Unlike the remodeled Episcopal church where I’d visited Noah on a different night, this historic building had not been remodeled in any capacity beyond mandatory restoration. The church had been given a historic building status decades ago, so no basements or additions had been added onto it. That meant the meetings took place inside the sanctuary, especially when the meeting had an attendance as large as the one Noah was currently leading.
Lingering outside the open doors leading into the sanctuary, I could only make out bodies, not words. I wasn’t sure if the turnout was usually this large, but I counted at least three dozen figures clustered in the front pews.
Three dozen. Nearly the same number Noah had executed.
To see it in visual terms, accepting these were the type of men he’d ended, gave meaning—an inescapable gravity—to the situation.
Part of me wondered if there’d been a recent growth in these kinds of support groups around the nation. I assumed when the ever-present target on your back drew more attention than normal it increased your need for support, but perhaps some of them were actually in search of help, wanting to stay on the good side of the law—even if only for fear of tempting an untimely death at the hands of the Huntsman and now, his burgeoning Disciples.
I couldn’t be sure. And frankly, I didn’t care. Like Noah, I’d accepted that counseling, jail time, medications, and registrations weren’t adequate deterrents for most of the predators drawn to children.
Only one deterrent was suitable where appetites this perverse prevailed.
From up front, I could have sworn Noah saw me, his gaze landing on my spot in the shadows. He couldn’t have seen me—not unless he could see in the dark—but I guessed he felt my presence.
The tenuous rope that connected us was a collection of fibers fraying and firming through the span of the trials and triumphs we’d endured together. But unlike a sailor’s rope that lost its strength the longer it was exposed to inclement weather, the human tie grew stronger, every storm binding the connection tighter. We were linked. Bound to each other’s fates.