Free Acolyte (The Wildermoor Apocalypse Book 1) by Chris Tetreault-Blay Page A

evidence to show that Truman is going after Dexler himself. This is the letter, the proof.  You will urge him to send officers to check it out.  The night patrol will be dispatched in force to Dexler’s house. They will find Dexler dead and Truman on the scene, at which time he will be arrested and taken into custody.’  Laing wanted to cover his ears like a child singing to himself as he did so, as he listened to the sickening plans – the orders – he was being given.
    ‘Tomorrow morning, you will give him the letter.  Truman will stand trial for the murder of Colin Dexler, with no motive, except that of blind rage, hate and the influence of alcohol. Truman will be locked up.  He will longer be of our concern.’ The man leaned in closer towards Laing and put a bony hand on his shoulder.  ‘You know what this will mean for us.’
    The figure brushed past Laing and lingered in the doorway leading back out into the entrance hall. When it turned back towards him, Laing could only trace the outline of the shadowy shape as it drew its shoulders back and tilted its head higher. 
    ‘You are destined for great things, Thomas ,’ said the man, emphasising the name as if it were only an alleged moniker.
    Laing glanced down at the envelope that he held in his hand and glanced back up at the shadowy figure.  He could make out more of the contours of its bony face, skin drawn and hanging limp.  The years had not been kind to this soul, Laing observed.  The one disturbing feature was the absence of his eyes. Instead there were two pits that seemed to grow darker than any of the corners of his unlit living room.  They were sucking all life and light into themselves to be lost forever.
    ‘Yes, Father,’ he said, his head bowed, the shame of what he was to do bearing down on his shoulders.  He knew how Atlas felt carrying the world on his back.  The hopes and future of this new society, this new religion, this new world – this Hell - that Father Archibald was planning, that he had told Laing he had been planning for centuries, rested on him.
    He looked down at the envelope one more time before looking back towards the doorway to find the figure had gone.  Laing could make out the ascending staircase on the far wall through the open door.  The figure had vanished without a trace like it had all those years ago. 
    Laing hurriedly switched on the lamp to his left on top of the drinks cabinet then looked back at the hallway to make sure that he was once again alone.
    The envelope was addressed to him and he recognised the scripture in which it had been written.  He took the sheet of paper from within and held it beneath the light beside him.
    Thomas,
    Things have turned against me and I fear that they will turn this force into a circus.  I need to know whom I can trust.
    Meet me at 33 Exeter Street tonight at 9pm. 
    I need justice.  And I need your help.
    Regards,
    DI Truman Darke.
    Simple , Laing thought as he stared once more at the letter.  That’s how it was meant to be.  So why now did he feel a cold stabbing in the pit of his stomach? Wildermoor was supposed to be his new start but now his past and future were playing out side-by-side in his mind.
    He poured himself another double measure and swallowed it in one, grimacing as the warmth coursed down his throat, welcoming the distraction for even the briefest of moments and hoping the fuzziness would set in soon.
    He finally collapsed into the waiting leather recliner, whose arms welcomed him and enveloped him in a warm embrace.  He felt safe at last.  His headache was returning, his vision starting to blur and colourful spots danced before his eyes.  He squinted towards the red glowing digits of the clock display on his VCR. 
    There were two hours before he had to make the call.  He poured himself another drink.
     
    *****
     
    Laing’s hands would not stop shaking and he fumbled with the telephone handset as he rested it back on the receiver.  His