"The last enemy that shall be conquered is death."
1 Corinthians 15:26.
February seventh.
Same day.
Monday.
11.01.
Special Crime Unit, Headquarters, Atlanta.
McCallister rushed from team Two's gathering room towards him, his expression a combination of shock and anger. He accompanied both of them towards the primary room, where Prentiss was holding the door open for them. McCallister looked like he wanted to yell at his agent, but wisely kept quiet, not wanting to make a scene in front of Evelyn Parker and her companion.
"Agent Bronckovic," Hotch started diplomatically, "care to introduce us to your friends?" He had trouble keeping his tongue and even though he knew very well who Miles was escorting into the room, he felt the irresistible urge to point out his anger towards the SCU agent.
His intentions turned backwards, however, when the brunette interlaced her eyes with him, an almost apologetic expression on her face. "My name is Alissa Mary Zucker. But I think you'll remember me as Evelyn Parker. This is Toby McAdams, my boyfriend. I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused you." The woman, identifying herself as Evelyn Parker, said.
Her voice was small and soft, matching the gentle features of her face. She looked kind and friendly, her eyes sea-green and round, the bridge of her nose only small decorating her face. There was a large scar running from her right temple to her right cheek before going down passed her nose wing and following her jawline. The scar ended just before her right ear. There was another scar they spotted as she clenched the large scarf she was wearing – a stab wound to the left hand. No doubt there were many more scars, now hidden behind her clothes.
Hotch stepped forward, his expression immediately softening when she spoke. "Miss Parker, I'm not sure if you remember me-"
"Agent Hotchner, I know. And, agent McCallister. I remember you." She smiled faintly and swallowed nervously. She readjusted her scarf.
"You've got some explaining to do, Miles." McCallister told him, his voice strong and official, but his eyes spat fire.
"Please, it's not his fault." Evelyn said, her right hand raised, and wanted to continue were it not that Prentiss stepped in.
"Please, ma'am, have a seat." She motioned for Evelyn to sit down and pushed a chair back for her boyfriend, a tall man with a large burn scar in his neck. Despite his rough edges and his potentially threatening appearance, Toby McAdams smiled kindly at Prentiss as he took a seat next to his girlfriend, protectively placing an arm around her chair.
"We got a call about a month ago." Toby started as everyone else in the room sat down as well. "It was Frankie. She told us what happened and said that we had to do as we had discussed and hide."
"Where did you go?" Hotch asked them.
"I own a boatshed, near Jekyll Island State Park." Evelyn paused and looked at her partner. "It's under a different name, I've got the right paperwork. Frankie was sure that he wouldn't find us there. So that's where we went. It wasn't much, but it kept us save. We took on another name and just kept low." She absentmindedly caressed the end of the black scarf as she talked. Reid curiously observed her behaviour, wondering about her affection towards the piece of fabric around her neck.
"I'm sorry, another name?" Prentiss repeated questioningly.
"I took on a different identity about five years ago. Frankie set it up. She did it for most the survivors. When Toby and I started to get serious and everything, she arranged for a new identity for him as well." Hotch glanced at McCallister, who did the same. Mentally, they exchanged the same question Why were they not informed that some of the survivors had taken on different identities?
"Do you know how she managed to do that?"
Evelyn smiled shortly. "Frankie can do things and make things happen that I don't dare to ask about. All I know is that most of us entered the FBI protection program about five years ago. Frankie set it all up, when about a month into the program, she's at our door with a whole new identity again. She told us that this one was off the record." Evelyn paused and looked around the room. "Frankie was building a maze. I can't speak for the other girls, but I was still scared enough to let her do whatever she thought would be necessary and do as she told me. She's kept me save for all those years, there was no reason to doubt her. Especially not after that preacher was found dead with Tamara Rice's belongings."
"What happened next?" Hotch spoke kindly to the woman, having trouble remembering her. Perhaps it was because she looked better now – there was no blood covering most of her body, no bruises or broken bones, no blood-shot eyes or run down mascara decorating her face. Despite the fact that the past twelve years must have been an absolute hell for her, which was visible just looking at how skinny she was, Evelyn Parker looked alive. Which was more than what she looked like by the time Hotch and McCallister found her.
"About three years ago, she showed up again. Another new identity thrown in the mix. Frankie also created a network, secure enough, so that we could communicate with each other. I found it suspicious, Frankie always said it was for the best to have as little contact with the outside world as possible. And then she explained – Jasmine said she saw him. I mean, I doubt that you would agree with me that it was a strong and solid clue or anything, but it was enough to convince Jasmine. That automatically meant that it was good enough for the rest of us. Again, we went along with whatever Frankie told us to do. About two or three times a year, I spoke with the other girls. They all did the same. And we all felt safe because of what Frankie was doing and she kept us informed as she checked in on us. Then, last week, Frankie called again. She said that he'd been in Athens and didn't like the fact that he seemed to be heading out of the city. She told me that she would let us know when it was time to get ready. We got that message this morning - someone was going to pick us up at the train station in Macon and get us to safety. When Miles showed up, we knew he came for us."
"Miss Parker-" Hotch started, placing a hand on her arm.
"Evelyn, please, you know that agent Hotchner."
"Evelyn, I'm sorry for what you're going through right now. But I promise you, my team and I will catch him."
She smiled again and looked at Toby, who returned her smile. "I know. Frankie told me that you would. She told me about you, and your team." There was a silence in the room as each of the team members looked at each other. Despite the events in Atlanta two months ago, it appeared that Abby had put all her faith in the BAU. "It's the whole reason we're here now. Frankie told us that it would be safe with you, that you would look after us."
"One last question, where did you get the phone?" Rossi asked her.
"What phone?" Evelyn replied.
"Ricardo Pinõ, one of Abby's old colleagues, he called the phone that you're carrying right now, shortly before he was shot." He explained to her.
Evelyn looked confused. "A cell phone, you mean? I don't have a cell phone. I haven't had one for twelve years. Frankie said it would be the easiest way for him to track me down."
"Wait a minute." His hoarse voice was distinctive and heads turned to Miles. "Cuba called Frankie's safe cell phone number?" The stark look on his face matched the tension in his voice. They all spotted the phone he was now holding in his hand as if it was poisonous.
"It was Frankie's phone?" Rossi questioned.
"The number ending with 8008, that was one of Frankie's burn phones. She left it for me at the house, with a text message telling me to pick up Evelyn. Are you telling me that Cuba called that number before he died?" Miles pressed.
Morgan quickly caught on. "He did, which means our Unsub has that number as well. And if we could track that number, then so can he."
"Miles, is there any way you can contact Abby directly?" Hotch sprang into action immediately. If the Christian Killer had her number, he would know by now Evelyn Parker was safe. It would cause him to turn all his anger for losing his 'Saturday' towards Abby.
"No, not directly. I can only leave messages." Miles' hand hastily disappeared into his pocket to grab his own cell phone. His was stopped by Mac's voice as he opened the door to head out.
"You and I aren't done yet, Miles."
"I know." He replied.
"Providing new, fake identities, hiding survivors of a serial killer still at large, withholding crucial information, fuck, I would even add obstruction of justice." The rest kept wisely quiet as Miles got a taste of what was laying in store for him. He had no time to defend himself because McCallister spoke again. "You're lucky we need to find Frankie, now, otherwise I would have ripped you a new one right here and now. Now go. Be gone. And Miles? Find her." Miles nodded before exiting the room. "I'll go down my list of contact numbers too." McCallister told the rest of the team.
"Is there anyone else we can think of that can reach her?" Hotch asked them.
"What about Padre?" Morgan suggested as he remembered the obvious connection between the two.
McCallister nodded. "Good thinking. You know him?"
"I met him once."
"Go talk to him. I'll compile a list of other people here in the area that can get in touch with Abby. Or at least people that know people that can get in touch with her if she's not in Atlanta." McCallister informed them and grabbed a piece of paper.
"Alright, Morgan, take Reid and go visit Padre. JJ and Prentiss, will you take Evelyn and Toby, make sure they're taken care of and find a place safe and secure." JJ nodded as Prentiss voiced her acknowledgements and the two women guided the couple out of the room. Reid spotted the beginning of another scar in Evelyn's neck, the one she so frantically tried to hide, as she got up. Just before they headed out the door, Evelyn stopped.
"Wait. Agent Hotchner?"
"Yes."
"If there is anything, anything at all that I can do for you, please, don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you. I will."
The dark haired woman nodded, her hand went up to her scarf to position it correctly before she turned around and exited the room.
"Get out of Atlanta." McCallister's words turned heads in the glass-covered room. He looked up from his cell phone and flashed them the screen. "A message from Abby. Received it seconds after I texted one of her numbers. 'Get out of Atlanta'."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Prentiss questioned. She never got her answer, as both Hotch and Morgan felt their phones vibrate and they reached towards the devices.
"Get out of Atlanta." Morgan read out loud. He looked at Hotch.
"I guess that makes me special." He said. "I got 'Get out of Atlanta now'." He sighed. "We're working on contacting Abby. We'll ask her about this later. Right now, let's make sure she's safe."
"Guess we're back on the Christian Killer." Rossi commented dryly, already knowing what Hotch was going to ask him.
"We are."
"Let's get this son of a bitch."
February seventh.
Same day.
Monday.
12.57.
Special Crime Unit, Headquarters, Atlanta.
"So, Padre?" Reid asked, somewhat cynical, as he held onto the car door when Morgan took a sharp turn, driving too fast.
"Yeah. He and his wild bunch hang out on the corner right across Fulton Police Station and according to Abby, know everything that goes on around here. She told me that one of her first cases with DEA involved two girls that overdosed on bad ecstasy. Padre had known both girls. He pretty much injected himself into the investigation through Abby, constantly asking her about the case, telling her things, giving her tips and informing her of the things he heard on the streets. Thanks to him, she not only got the dealer and the drug ring, she put herself on the map thanks to that case. Ever since she would bring them coffee and doughnuts and helped them out when they were in a jam. Whenever she needed anything, she'd go to him and he would be happy to help her out."
"And you think that he'll know where Abby is?"
"I don't know, but I do know that if there is anyone, outside from Miles, who would be able to contact her, it's him."
The car screeched to a halt as Morgan pushed down the brakes violently, parking his car right on the sidewalk. He remembered 'Padre's corner', though when he visited the corner and Padre, it was night. His eyes sought the crowd, trying to find the man that had been wearing a bright pink feathered coat.
"Morgan." Reid called out to him and pointed at a group of men – one of them was wearing a white and green striped army jacket, torn jeans and high boots with zebra print. He was holding a cigar, but sporting the cowboy hat like he had when Morgan first met him.
The dark man patted Reid's shoulder, motioning for him to follow him, and headed towards the group.
"Padre?" He said and the homeless man turned around.
Padre was part of a group of elderly homeless men called 'the Wild Bunch', though Padre preferred to think of it as 'Padre and his Wild Bunch'. Most of them had lived on the streets for at least 15 years, making them some of the best contacts in the area as they knew pretty much everything. Because they were such a kind group and beloved by many of the nearby residents, they knew about everything that was going on in their area. But one wouldn't be able to get their trust easily – they were all distrusting men, believing in corruption and conspiracies, genuinely disliking police and all other forms of authority. Padre and his wild bunch were a gold mine, but not a lot of people were allowed to step into the mine. Some lucky few were able to build an honest connection with the men though. Different people – some of the street cops, the lady from the coffee shop, Miles and Abby, and the mayor's assistant. Padre was quite the character – tall but chubby, bald and sparkling eyes and once he trusted you, he was more loyal than a Labrador.
"Oh Lordy, it's the officials!" Padre squealed and laughed heartily. "Quick! Hide the booze boys!" The rest of the group joined him in his laugher.
"Padre, please. I'm agent Derek Morgan, I'm Abby's partner."
"Who? I don't know any Abby." Padre replied and wanted to turn around.
"Frankie. Abby Franklin Scott. We met two months ago when working a case."
"I'm sorry darling, but I don't know anybody named Abby Franklin Scott. That is an unusually strange name, by the way, Mr. Official."
Morgan stood flabbergasted for a moment when Reid nudged him and softly spoke to him. "Frankie probably told him not to talk to anyone about her."
"Padre, please." His voice was pleading and he turned Padre around softly. "I promised you that I would keep her save. You made me promise that. Please, help me hold on to that promise. She's in danger and we're trying to help her. I need to know where she is."
The man looked at him, the glitters in his eye shadow twinkling in the sunlight. He eyed Morgan up and down before laying his eyes on Reid. He tilted his head back. "You Spencer Reid?"
Reid glanced at Morgan. "Uhm, yeah. I am."
"Boys." Padre addressed his 'boys' and held out his cigar to one of them. "Cover your ears." He grabbed Morgan by the arm and guided him away from his group, back to the car. "Listen, and you listen to me very carefully. Frankie's being watched."
"We know Padre. That's why we need to find her." Reid told him.
"We can offer you protection." Morgan said.
"Say what?!" Padre exclaimed, his voice high-pitched. "Be protected by whom, exactly, dear? The popo?" He snorted. "Darling, I wouldn't trust them with the sole of my right boot, and that one's hanging loose. No, don't you worry about me, handsome, I've got protection. The best there is. Now, shut up and listen. First, promise me that you will not ask me any further questions."
"Promised." Morgan replied instantly and without thought.
"Good boy." He pulled Reid and Morgan closer. "I'm going to tell you a secret and after I've told you the secret, you're going to put something in my hand, anything, to make it look like you've just bought some goody-goody from me, alright?" Reid and Morgan nodded. "Good boys. Frankie's in Atlanta."
Reid and Morgan interlaced eyes immediately. "Yeah, I know, she was in Rome first, but she's back and she's here. Which means that there are two ways you can contact her. The first way is the hardest. You take any subway from the red, the red, subway line and use a white marker to write down your initials under the big X, okay? On the outside of the subway, and you take a subway of the red line, okay? The other way is going to her place. You know her place on Baker street?" Morgan nodded. "Get into her place and take the lamp in the farthest corner of the room, so opposite from the door, near the windows. Turn it on, leave a note underneath the lamp and leave again. I promise you, she will get in touch with you by the end of the day."
"Thank you." Morgan placed a hand on his shoulder and used the other to place a 50 dollar bill in his hand.
"Agent Morgan, you keep our girl save, you hear me? You keep her save."
"I will. I promised you that."
"Remember, red line, Baker street."
"Thank you." Reid said as well, smiling nervously as both men headed back into the car.
"You be safe, Padre."
"You be safe, mister 50 bucks!" Padre waved once before turning around and re-joining his friends, laughing as he looked at the piece of paper in his hand.
February seventh.
Same day.
Monday.
17.07.
Special Crime Unit, Headquarters, Atlanta.
It would take at least another two or three hours before the sun would set, but dusk had started to make his way into the city. It painted the town into a deeper shade, a saturated orange-yellow with burning flames licking the edge of the light. Morgan didn't have much of a view, so instead he stared at the row of trees on the other side of the road. He was holding a cup of coffee in his right hand, allowing the steam riding his chest up to his nose, his other hand tucked into his pocket. After Evelyn Parker and her partner had been escorted towards a safe house by half a dozen agents, he occasionally glanced at McCallister's office where Miles was getting a serious verbal beat down. Though the technical analyst still didn't come clean, he provided them answers to their most important questions.
Morgan sighed, stared at his coffee cup and shook the cup around until the black liquid swirled inside its container. Abby had a friend at the Marshall's office. One that owed her favours. She called them in five years ago and started providing the survivors with new identities. Since her friend supervised the witness protection details for all Christian Killer survivors, she knew just how to keep everyone else at bay without being none the wiser. But, as Miles explained, the whole purpose of the new identities was to slowly pull the victims away from the US Marshalls. Abby had executed a perfect plan as she gave the victims another set of new identities without informing the Marshalls. Being the person that she is, Abby did leave a direct link to them behind; a list with the identities and residences, safely sealed away in a locked drawer of Abby's Marshall friend. Once again, Abby proved her solid profiling skills – she knew that once the Christian Killer would surface, McCallister would be right on the case and he would be the first to call and ensure the safety of his surviving victims. Since 'the friend' would be the one eventually receiving the call, Abby had left her with clear instructions: should McCallister ever call her because the CK was back, she would open the sealed envelope and get the survivors to safety. The only problem that Abby hadn't thought of was time. By the time the friend had tracked and located those four victims, at least a day would have passed and in this case – it would have been too late. Very much too late.
The tall, handsome dark man rubbed his face with one hand and tried to relax himself. Despite his best efforts, the voice in his head continued to yell at him, repeating the same sentence over and over and over and over again. She had been naked in his bed and he had never spotted a single thing. She had been so secretive, hiding so many things, doing things in plain sight and he had never seen it, nor caught the betrayal in her eyes. And once again he found himself stuck in a web of questions that Abby seemed to have the natural tendency to raise. Miles had headed into the city about an hour ago, deciding he could do more on the streets rather than sitting in Team One's room, the memories still fresh, their deathly pallor still in the air. He knew enough people to try and track his former best friend down.
Morgan recalled the events shortly before Miles left as he overheard Hotch and the SCU agent earlier.
"Miles."
"Look, if you're going after my head too, then I'm asking you to wait. Please. You can execute me later, I need to find Frankie. If this son of a bitch finds her, she'll be dead before she can even take a breath." Miles held a sense of loss, of losing his way, as he held his hands open to his side, looking defeated.
Hotch studied the man before he spoke, taking in the dark bags underneath his eyes, the lack of colour on his skin, the way his clothes seemed not to fit anymore.
"You've been through a lot these past months." He started. Miles briefly acknowledged the comment, but apparently didn't appreciate the man's reflection on his current situation. Morgan made a mental note not to forget again that Miles had lost his fiancé and his colleagues, his friends, in a relative short period of time. Something Morgan knew they all forgot because they were so caught up with the Christian Killer and Abby Scott.
"How are you holding up?"
Miles shrugged faintly, intending to act like he couldn't care less about the question, but his eyes showed something different. "I just want this fucker. I'll re-evaluate the situation later."
Hotch nodded. "Have you talked to Abby in the past two months?"
There was a silence that told more than words ever could. It was then that Morgan realised that Miles was caught right in the middle; caught between his loyalty towards the best friend that may have gotten his fiancé killed and between his badge and the responsibilities that followed.
"She's my best friend." Miles said almost broken. "She was everything I had long before all this started. I can't turn on her. She needs me."
"I know." Hotch' voice was deep, drenching in empathy. "And I'm not asking you to betray that trust. I just wanted to make sure you're holding up."
"Frankie's a secretive person, Hotchner. There are things I still don't know about her and I never asked her because I didn't want to put her in the position of having to say that she couldn't tell me. But that doesn't make me a fool, nor does that mean that I don't know. Because I do know. I noticed the absent moments, the fleeting moments she was lost deep in thoughts, the way she could look over her shoulder, expecting the devil. And I certainly noticed the way this case grabbed a hold of her the second she learnt about it. I know this case is special to her. And for me, the only thing that means is that I am backing her up, all the way, no matter what, and that she has my full support and trust."
Hotch tilted his head back once Miles was done talking, taking in his words and analysing them. When he didn't reply, Miles did instead. "Yes, agent Hotchner. Frankie could ask anything of me. Doesn't matter what it is. I would lie for her, even if that would cost me my badge."
He stepped forward, the strength returning to his fragile posture, straightening his back, lifting his head. "I'm sure she would appreciate you guys being here, and helping out. Fuck, I know that she does, because I know her. But at the end of the day, you're not on her side and right now, right now that means that you're the enemy. We don't need more enemies at the moment, Hotchner. I don't know what you can do. I'm not sure if you are the guys that are going to catch him. But I do know that Frankie can and will. As I said; I want this fucker."
He put on his thin leather jacket, turning away from the FBI man as he did. Before he turned around to leave, he spoke again. "And I'm fine. Thank you." The tone of his voice told Hotch that Miles sort of, kind of, in a way, did appreciate Hotch' recognition of him losing his friends.
"You need to stop beating yourself up."
He was pulled from his thoughts abruptly, immediately recognising the voice. Morgan lowered his hand, casted one last look down into his coffee mug before wearing that same dark and worried expression as he looked up to the man in the black and white suit.
Hotch hesitated as he registered the obvious leave-me-alone-attitude of his right hand. He knew that Morgan didn't want to hear that it wasn't his fault. That he had no intentions of sticking around if Hotch would explain things to him. But more importantly; that the man didn't want to hear that it was okay that he missed it, because they all had. Hotch clenched and unclenched his hands once, before approaching Morgan.
"Morgan, I'm not going to tell you what to feel. I'm not going to tell you what to do, or what to think. But I am going to ask you if you got your head in the game." He took a sharp breath in, questioning the overwhelming need to trust the man in front of him, before giving in. "Abby needs you."
He hit a soft spot, Hotch knew that. He struck right on the nerve as Morgan's head snapped to look at his supervisor, his unconsoling mien disappearing instantly. He repeated his words. "She needs you."
"Something you're not telling me Hotch?"
"She led us all the way to Morgan Falls." He said it as if that explained it all. "She left an empty envelope for me, used JJ's name, she sent us texts that are obviously an automatic response in case we tried contacting her on her numbers, but she created a visible and visual link with you."
"She's telling us something." Morgan said wary.
"Yes. But I don't know what she's trying to tell us." Hotch confessed and he listened to the almost pleading tone in his own voice. Desperation.
"I'm here, Hotch." I'm in the game.
"Good." Suddenly, Hotch frowned. "Are you expecting a visitor?"
Morgan returned the wrinkled face. "No." He followed Hotch' gaze and spotted the teenager waiting on the sidewalk.
The black, young teen, not older than twenty, was looking at the pair nervously, occasionally glancing around and over his shoulders. When he noticed the eyes on him, he touched the green baseball cap on his head and approached Morgan and Hotch. Both men studiously held their eyes on him, mentally taking notes, their hands ready to grab their guns.
His skin is showing signs of lots of sun exposure and judging by his skin structure; he doesn't cleanse his face a lot. Bones poked out from underneath his skin – clearly he didn't eat much either. There was a scar above his lip and another above his eyebrow. Fighting scars, most likely. His clothes were dirty, old and worn, showing spots of fading colour. There were cuts and holes as well, especially in his jeans. He spent a lot of time outside. Too much time. The soles of his shoes are disconnected at certain places, different type of laces on each shoe. Street kid.
"Can we help you?" Hotch asked the boy once he met up with the FBI agents.
Instead of answering, the young man observed both men, eyeing them up and down and Morgan noticed he clenched his fist in the pocket of his hoodie. "You Hotchner?" He finally said.
"I am." Instantly, Hotch turned to the man, understanding that the teenager came with a mission.
Then, he turned his attention towards Morgan. "So you're Morgan?"
Morgan nodded. "Is there something we can do for you?"
"You can show me some id."
Hotch and Morgan grabbed their badges and showed them to him. He didn't look at them long. Instead, he glanced around again, his muscles tensed and thick with adrenaline. "Frankie sends me."
There was a sign of relief on Morgan's face as he heard the name. If she sent someone to them, then she was still alive. For now.
The black boy pulled a large brown envelope from his pocket. "She asked me to give this to agent Hotchner." Hotch took the envelope and held it in his hands.
"Are you alright? We can help you." Morgan told him.
The boy smiled. Then he turned around and hurried away.
"What the hell was that?" Morgan blurted but got no response.
Hotch opened the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper. He sighed heavily before showing it to Morgan. "You're still here. Get out the hell out of Atlanta."
"Hotch!" Prentiss called out to her supervisor and both men spun around on their heels. Prentiss jogged towards the two agents, noticing the paper but not asking questions. "Frankie just called McCallister. She again told him to get out of Atlanta."
"Same here." Hotch showed her the note. "A street kid delivered this seconds ago."
"What the heck is going on?" Prentiss asked, repeating the question Morgan had formed earlier.
"I don't know. But whatever it is, Abby clearly wants us out of the city. She must feel like we're in danger." Hotch suggested. He looked at Morgan and Prentiss followed him.
"She thinks the Christian Killer will come after us." The handsome man concluded. "She's fearing for our safety."
"But why? Because we have Evelyn Parker?" Prentiss still didn't understand.
"No. Because he thinks we have Zoe Price." Hotch said.
Prentiss made a face. "Could it be possible that Frankie made him think that she's still alive and that we have her? Getting us to leave Atlanta in a rush would certainly suggest that we do. Perhaps she's trying to draw him out?"
"There's something on the envelope, Hotch." Morgan pointed at the words scribbled on the inside of the lip. Hotch turned the paper to look at it. He frowned, his brows knitting together as he stared at the words for a moment.
"What does it say?" Prentiss asked him.
"Atlantis." Hotch answered. He looked at Morgan. "Does that mean anything to you? Did Abby ever mention something like that?"
He shook his head and sighed. "What the hell kind of game is she playing here?"
"Marvel not - for the hour is coming in which all that are in the graves shall come forth into the resurrection of the life or damnation."
John, 5:28,29.