JULY 14, 1977
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
The backstreets of Brooklyn were quiet and dark, the chaos and carnage of a city on fire feeling almost like a half-forgotten dream as Hopper stashed the police motorcycle in an empty lot and made it the rest of the way to the Rookwood Institute on foot. He knew what was happening in his head, of course, to start thinking like that. Adrenaline, exhaustion, hunger, thirst, not to mention the minor injuries he had sustained since escaping from the Vipers, were all starting to take their toll. He’d experienced it before, in Vietnam, so at least he could recognize that he wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer.
Finding the institute was not difficult. It was a huge building, a pile of Gothic columns and arches, somewhere between a church and a country mansion, that sat square at the end of a wide avenue, the focal point for the neighborhood.
It was also the only building for miles that had any lights on. All Hopper had to do was follow the brilliant white glow—and the Vipers, who marched in a steady stream, gathering in the street outside the institute. The gang must have come by vehicle—their headquarters was a long way uptown—but at some point they had all disembarked from whatever mode of transport carried them here and continued, like him, on foot. Hopper wasn’t sure why, and he wasn’t sure he cared, but there was something…disturbing about them now. As they marched, they didn’t speak, they just walked—not in time, but in silence, save for their steady footfalls on the road.
Hopper lost count—there were certainly many more here than he had ever seen at the warehouse, but they were all wearing the leather vests with VIPERS emblazoned on the back. Each of them also had an AK-47 slung over their shoulder.
Saint John’s private army, marching mindlessly toward…
What?
Hopper had to get inside the institute. The Vipers, still arriving on foot, lined up outside the building and looked up at it, waiting patiently for, Hopper supposed, their master to address them. The scene reminded him of the rooftop meeting he had witnessed—the meeting that had led Lisa to her death.
Hopper pushed that memory aside. He watched the gang for a minute longer, then made his decision.
He wasn’t going to wait for Martha. It was going to take her a while to get here, and that was assuming she’d even managed to persuade Gallup to lend her some transport. He really had no idea where she was or even if she was coming, so there was no point in dawdling. Besides, if she did arrive and see the assembled Vipers lined up outside the building, Hopper hoped she would defer to her common sense and stay the hell out.
Which was precisely what he wasn’t going to do.
Hopper turned and jogged back down the deserted street. At the next intersection he turned, then turned again, and soon found himself watching the tail end of the Vipers’ march, the last few stragglers spaced out fairly well as they headed toward their destination.
This street was lined with mature trees; using one as cover, Hopper watched, counting time and counting marchers, then swung himself out, hooking his elbow under the chin of the last man in the line and squeezing with all his might. The Viper struggled, but before he could call out, Hopper clamped his other hand over the man’s mouth. He dragged him backward toward the curb and behind a parked car, twisting the man’s body so the assault rifle over his shoulder didn’t fall off and alert the others.
When he was sure the man was unconscious, Hopper released his grip, then slipped off the gangster’s leather vest. He shed his own bomber jacket and put the Viper’s colors on over his bloodstained yellow T-shirt.
Grabbing the gun, Hopper pulled it over his shoulder and jogged back down the street, following the others. Staying at the back, Hopper was virtually invisible as the gang members reached the institute and filed into ranks behind their compatriots. They all looked up at the building, alive with white light streaming from every window, and…
Waited.
Hopper peeled off the rear, using more parked cars as cover. He had to get into the building, and the front door was clearly out of the question. But the institute was a huge, rambling building that squatted on a block all of its own. Following the line of parked cars, and keeping down, out of sight, Hopper made it along the street, almost to the front of the building. From this angle, the bright lights of the institute cast a deep cone of shadow on either side of the place; despite being in clear view of the Vipers, Hopper took the risk, running across the street corner and vanishing into the darkness at the side of the building. He waited, pressed up against the brickwork, listening for something—anything.
He was in the clear. Turning to look up at the building, Hopper then moved along the dark street, looking for another way in.
He found his opportunity just a short while later. At the back of the building, the flat wall of the place turned inward, leading Hopper into a large rear yard, in which sat a Dumpster surrounded by bags of trash. There was a door nearby, nearly hidden by a low brick wall. The door was locked, but, bracing himself against the wall, Hopper kicked at the handle with the heel of his boot. Four heavy blows, and the door buckled, enough for Hopper to apply pressure with his shoulder and force it open.
Inside it was pitch dark. Hopper took a breath and stepped over the threshold.
His eyes adjusted quickly; the room he had entered was dark, but there was a light ahead, spilling out from underneath another closed door. Hopper moved, swiftly and silently, carefully turning the handle. It was unlocked. Hopper checked the corridor, then entered the building proper.
The hallway was wood-paneled and lit by large, ornate cast-iron lights that hung from the ceiling. The floor was shiny, polished linoleum tiles. After hours spent in a city caught in a blackout, being inside a building with power was somewhat unsettling, especially as he knew it was the only place for miles around that still had electricity. Hopper cocked his head, listening intently, and then he heard it: faint, but ever present, the rumble of a generator in operation, probably in a basement.
Hopper moved on, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, the AK-47 sitting comfortably—perhaps too comfortably—in his grip.
After a little while Hopper picked up the pace, because the Rookwood Institute seemed to be deserted. But unlike the Vipers’ Bronx headquarters, this building was in perfect condition, the floors polished, the furniture in the disused offices neatly stacked to one side. It reminded him of the end of school back in Hawkins, oh, twenty-five years before, when the pupils helped the teachers move the classroom contents into a neat pile so the place could be cleaned over the summer break.
Hopper kept looking, not knowing where he was going, not willing to give up.
Delgado was here somewhere. So was Saint John. He knew it.
All he had to do was find them.
On the third floor, Hopper found a map: the layout of the building crafted in meticulous, beautiful detail in marquetry, framed on the wall next to the main stairs. Hopper didn’t know what the place had been used for before the federal government acquired it, but he thanked the nineteenth-century craftsmen for their work as he scanned the layout, trying to devise a pattern to better conduct a search. After a moment, he gave up and decided to continue with his path. It was too late to start second-guessing his methods now.
Ahead was a set of double doors, inset with stained-glass panels. Behind the glass, the light seemed to move—not flickering, exactly, but there was…motion. Curious, Hopper moved up and glanced inside—then swore and yanked the door open, rushing inside.
It was a big, long room—perhaps a meeting room or lecture hall, although now devoid of any furniture—lit not by the old iron lamps but by hundreds of black wax candles placed around the floor.
In the center of the room was Delgado. She was flat on her back, her arms and legs spread as she lay in the center of a large five-pointed star, the symbol carved directly into the wooden floorboards beneath her. Around the star were more symbols, drawn this time in a bright red substance, like thick paint. Delgado’s eyes were closed, but her chest rose and fell in steady breaths.
At the door, Hopper was frozen, taking in the room—staring at the man standing over Delgado’s head.
Saint John.
He was wearing the black robe, but the hood was pulled back. The candlelight shimmered in the silvered lenses of his sunglasses.
“Welcome, oh brother mine.”
Hopper felt the scream build inside him before he even opened his mouth. He lunged forward, forgetting the weapon in his hands as Saint John stood, hands clasped, smiling.
This, Hopper knew, he wanted to do with his bare hands.
And then his forward motion was brought to a quick stop as he was grabbed from behind, two sets of hands taking hold of his upper arms before exerting pressure downward, forcing him to his knees. Hopper hit the deck, looking up as the AK-47 was wrenched from him.
Leroy tossed the weapon to one side, then moved back and pushed down on Hopper’s shoulder again. On the other side, another of his crew—Reuben—held him firm. Both men’s eyes were glazed, their expressions blank.
Just like the others outside.
Saint John was in control.
Hopper turned, looking up as the gang leader stepped around the supine form of Delgado.
“What the hell is all this for, huh?” yelled Hopper. “What could you possibly be doing all this for?”
Saint John stopped in front of Hopper, then crouched down so he was eye-level with his prisoner. Hopper stared once more at his own reflection.
Saint John didn’t speak.
Hopper shook his head.
“What is this mystical crap? You were a leader once, right? Back in Vietnam. You commanded men. You gave orders, you followed orders. There was nothing magical about it. Not then. Not now.” Hopper nodded, indicating the bizarre way Saint John had staged the room. “All this doomsday shit about the devil coming to New York, the end of the world, the Day of the Serpent. It’s all an act. You don’t believe it, but you don’t have to. You use it, seeding it in the minds of your followers, giving them something to fear, giving them a reason to serve you, because for them, you’re the only way out. You’re the only one standing between them and the devil. Right?”
Saint John tilted his head, but didn’t speak.
“And you enjoy it too, don’t you?” Hopper peered at the man’s glasses, trying to see behind the lenses. “This gives you power. You feel strong, gathering the weak and the vulnerable into your cult. You’re a manipulator—a mastermind, someone said. They’re right, too. A master planner. A leader. Trust me, I get it. You’ve been planning this a long time. The blackout, I don’t know how you did it, but it was a stroke of genius. The perfect flashpoint, the start of your Day of the Serpent.”
Hopper glanced around Saint John. Delgado hadn’t moved. The candles around them flickered, as though a small breeze swept through the room, although Hopper couldn’t feel the air move a single molecule.
The tip of Saint John’s tongue appeared between his front teeth, and then he nodded.
“Congratulations on your detective work, Hopper. We could really have been something, you and I.”
“What is it for?” asked Hopper, his voice nothing but a whisper. “Just tell me, what are you doing all this for?”
Saint John stood, and then he laughed. He walked back over to Delgado and looked down at her, then turned back around to Hopper. He spread his arms, his black robe fanning out around him.
“You said it yourself. This is the Day of the Serpent, the appointed hour where the devil himself will take His throne.” Saint John crouched back down in front of Hopper.
“He came to me, back then, when I was crawling through the mud, when I was killing because I was told. He came to me, and He gave me His plan, and He showed me the future. He told me how to prepare the way, how the rituals must be arranged.”
Saint John stood again and moved back to Delgado, his back to Hopper.
“Five sacrifices to summon the veil of shadow over the Earth.”
Hopper felt his pulse thud in his temple.
He’d gotten it wrong. All so very, very wrong.
Saint John wasn’t just manipulating the Vipers. He believed every single word himself.
He believed it.
The gang leader reached into his robe, and pulled out a large white card. He turned around and showed it to Hopper.
A Zener card—homemade, like the other, the symbol on the front a hollow square. Then he knelt by Delgado, and placed the card over her heart.
Hopper counted the victims in his head.
Jonathan Schnetzer. Sam Barrett. Jacob Hoeler.
Lisa Sargeson.
And Rosario Delgado made five.
Summoning his energy, Hopper pushed against the two men holding him down, but it was no good. Tendons in his neck as taut as cables, Hopper gritted his teeth, heaving against Leroy and Reuben, while in front of him Saint John walked forward, taking something else from his robe.
Hopper saw a flash of something silver, and felt a hot electric sting in his neck.
And then he saw nothing else.