Page 29 of Illusionist
The police scanner crackles to life at 6:47 AM, jerking me awake on the motel's questionable mattress. I've been keeping it on low volume since I got here, background noise that might catch some useful information. Today, it delivers.
“Vandalism reported at 1247 Sycamore Lane. Homeowner requests immediate response.”
1247 Sycamore Lane. I know that address—pulled it from property records three days ago while building my profile on potential targets. Malachi Voss.
I'm dressed and in the rental car within ten minutes, coffee growing cold in the cup holder as I navigate Bellmour's quiet residential streets. The morning sun slants through maple trees, casting long shadows across pristine lawns and white picket fences. It's the kind of neighborhood where people leave their doors unlocked and wave to strangers.
The kind of place a monster would choose to hide.
Sycamore Lane sits in the heart of Bellmour's most exclusive development—gated community, manicured everything, houses that cost more than most people make in a decade. I parkacross the street from 1247, noting the patrol car already in the driveway and the officer taking photos of the front facade.
Even from here, I can see the spray paint. Blue letters stark against white colonial siding, impossible to miss or dismiss as random vandalism. My pulse quickens as I read the words through my binoculars.
CONFESSION IS MERCY
THE SANCTUM RISES
They were here. The carnival—Elias Vale and Silas Crowley and their merry band of vigilantes marked their next target like wolves pissing on territory.
I lower the binoculars, mind racing. This confirms everything I suspected about the pattern, but it also escalates the timeline. Our perps don't tag houses for fun—they're announcing their intentions. Which means Malachi Voss is about to become the seventh name on my list of disappeared men.
Unless I can prove what's happening and stop it first.
The front door opens, and a figure emerges to speak with the officer. Even at this distance, I can tell it's an older man—gray hair, expensive robe, the type of erect posture that screams authority. Malachi Voss, almost certainly.
I grab my credentials and badge, then cross the street with the casual confidence of someone who belongs. The officer—young, probably new to the force—looks up as I approach.
“Morning. Special Agent Coleman, FBI.” I flash my badge, not giving him time to study it closely. “Heard the call on the scanner. Mind if I take a look?”
“FBI?” The officer's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “For vandalism?”
“There's been a pattern across several states. Same type of messages, same MO. We think it might be connected to a larger investigation.”
The homeowner steps forward before the officer can respond. “I'm Malachi Voss. This is my property.”
Up close, he's exactly what I expected from the files—a well-preserved man in his seventies, intelligent eyes that miss nothing, the arrogant confidence that comes from decades of getting his own way. But there's something else in his expression now. Unease. Maybe fear, carefully controlled but definitely present.
“Agent Coleman.” I extend my hand, and he takes it, his grip firm, practiced. “I'm sorry about your property, Mr. Voss. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
“I came out this morning to get the paper and found... this.” He gestures at the spray-painted messages with obvious distaste. “Some kind of religious nonsense, as far as I can tell.”
Religious nonsense. Right. If he recognizes the Sanctum of Ash references, he's not letting it show. But I catch the slight tightening around his eyes when he looks at the words.
“Any idea who might have done this? Former employees, neighbors with grudges, that sort of thing?”
“Nothing comes to mind.” His tone is carefully neutral. “We're very active in the community. I can't imagine why anyone would target our home.”
Active in the community. The Bellmour Youth Initiative flashes through my mind—at-risk children, charitable foundation, the perfect cover for a man with Malachi's history. If he really is a Prophet.
“What about these specific phrases?” I pull out my phone, pretending to reference notes from previous disappearances. But I know them by heart. “'Confession is mercy.' 'Ash is whatremains when sin is burned away.' Do those mean anything to you?”
“No.” The word comes out too quickly. “I have no idea what those phrases might reference.”
Liar. Everything about his body language screams recognition, fear, the desperate desire to end this conversation and get back behind his locked doors.
“Strange choice of words for random vandalism,” I continue, keeping my tone conversational. “Usually, we see profanity, gang tags, that kind of thing. This feels more... personal.”
“I wouldn't know anything about that.” His voice carries the edge of authority now—a man used to ending conversations when they become inconvenient. “Officer Martinez, are we finished here?”
