by Chris Culver
“I’m fine,” he said, gritting his teeth as he stepped past her.
“You’ve done what you needed to do. They’ve learned their lesson,” said Helen, her voice soothing and calm as she tried to pull him back. He shrugged her off. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” he asked, looking over his shoulder to Helen.
Helen hesitated. “I couldn’t. She was too fast.”
She didn’t try. This batch is broken. Finish them.
Glenn ran his hands over his face. His vision flashed red. It did that sometimes.
“She says you didn’t try, Helen!” shouted Glenn. “Tell me that’s not true.”
“Who’s Helen?” asked Mary. “Please let us go.”
The little bitch’s voice became a squawk. When he first saw her, Glenn had been distracted by her raw sexuality, but now he saw her for what she was: a sack of meat. He picked up his cattle prod.
“I told you to shut up.”
Her scream didn’t even sound human as he shocked her. For the next twenty minutes, he lost himself in the work. They clawed and fought back at first, but that didn’t last long. Peter and Mary died, but that was okay. He shouldn’t have bothered with them. He saw that now. They were too dull, too simple, too pedestrian. They were common.
As he caught his breath afterwards, he wiped the blood from his cheeks and face with a handkerchief.
“That was unnecessary,” said Helen, her lips tight and straight. “Now we have to start over.”
“They weren’t right,” he said. “We didn’t watch them enough. Next time, I choose them, and we’re going local.”
“The closer we pick from home, the more dangerous it is,” said Helen. “The police are slow, but they’re not stupid.”
“Then we have to be smart.”
Helen took a step back and shook her head. “You’re not yourself right now. I’m going home. You can return when you become yourself again.”
She walked away. Somehow, watching her leave him made the heat disappear from his face. The righteous strength that had flowed through him dissipated. He walked up the steps.
“Please don’t leave me. I don’t like being alone.”
Helen turned and drew in a deep breath. She considered him and then raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips.
“You were listening to your shadow, weren’t you? That’s why you killed them. That’s why you didn’t look like yourself.”
He brought a hand to his head and closed his eyes.
“Sometimes her voice is the only thing I can hear. I can’t shut her out.”
“You’re mine,” said Helen. “Do you understand that? I won’t let her have you.”
“I don’t think you have a choice.”
Helen stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. Warmth from her embrace flooded through him, banishing his shadow from his mind.
“There’s always a choice,” whispered Helen. “Make the right one.”
For a few minutes, Glenn reveled in his sister’s loving touch. Then she touched the tip of his nose and smiled, just as their father had done before he killed himself.
“There you are,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Tell me what to do,” he whispered. “I’m lost without you.”
“We finish our work,” she said. “Then the voices will all go dark.”
He wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t. Still, she held him and made the world feel right.
“All right,” he said. “Please make my shadow go away.”
“I’ll never let her take you,” she said, rocking him on her lap as if he were a child. “You’re mine.”
At that moment, Glenn would have followed his sister into hell itself. As she held him, his eyes closed. Mary and Peter’s blood pooled on the concrete and dripped down his chin, ruining his shirt. He didn’t care. He felt at peace.
6
I drove home and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. Then, I drove to the station, where I dropped off my truck and picked up a marked cruiser. The farmer my department needed me to meet was named Paul Rubin, and he lived in a two-story brick home outside town. I met him at the foot of his gravel driveway and shook his hand. He was about six feet tall, and he had a gray mustache and a craggy, pitted face. His hand was rough and strong.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rubin,” I said, looking around the property. His front yard was an acre or two of grass ringed by a wooden post-and-rail fence. There were fallow fields to the north and west and woods to the east. A line of trees acted as a windbreak across the road, obstructing my view of a field full of soybeans. The air held a faint chemical odor.
“You must be Detective Court,” he said. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Only good things, I’m sure,” I said. “Sorry Sheriff Delgado couldn’t come out. He’s busy with a big case.”
Rubin grunted and turned to face the field to the west of his house.
“There’s a gate and cattle guard about a quarter mile that way,” he said, pointing down the road. “That’s where they got in. They followed the fence line for a quarter mile before turning north and parking outside the woods.”
“And you think they’re hunters?”
He looked at me and furrowed his brow. “Why else would they be here?”
I forced myself to smile. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“They’re stealing my livelihood,” said Rubin. “I’m booked through deer season. My clients won’t pay if there ain’t any deer left in my woods for them to hunt.”
“What have you done to discourage poaching?”
“I called you,” he said. “What else am I supposed to do?”
I looked toward the patch of trees that concerned him.
“Are there signs up saying it’s private property?”
“There’s a fence up,” he said. “People don’t know what a fence means, that’s their problem. Next time somebody drives out there, I’ll shoot ’em. I’ve got a McMillan TAC-338 by my back door. Next person who shows up, I’ll put a round right up his ass crack.”
“That’s not a good idea. If you do that, I’ll arrest you for murder.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Trail cameras would be helpful. If you give us a picture of a license plate, we might make an arrest.”
He crossed his arms and spit. It landed about a foot from my shoes.
“You’re telling me I’ve got to pay out of my pocket to do your job for you. That right?”
Again, I forced myself to smile.
“Poaching is hard to prove without cameras. I will look around, but unless I find somebody on the property, there’s not a lot I can do. I’m not sure what you and Councilman Rogers expected to happen.”
He shut his mouth and looked at the ground.
“Darren Rogers said you were uppity,” he said. “You think you’re smarter than everyone around you.”
I shook my head and raised my eyebrows. “I’m sorry if that’s how I come across.”
“Sure you are, honey,” he said. He drew in a breath and stepped closer. I stepped back. “Do you have any idea how much money I bring to this county every year? My customers are doctors, lawyers, accountants, and dentists. When they come to town, they buy guns and ammunition, they buy camping supplies, they go to our restaurants, and they bring in their wives for the Spring Fair. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars in revenue. What do you bring in?”
“Not much. I’m a public servant.”
“I’m glad you know your place,” he said. “Now get out there and walk around. See what you can find. I would give you a ride, but I’ve got to go research trail cameras now.”
“Have a good day, sir,” I said, smiling so I wouldn’t call him a schmuck. He glared at me before turning and walking toward his house. I wiped a bead of sweat from my eyebrow and headed out.
Mr. Rubin aside, this wasn’t a bad assignment. Delgado could have ordered me to hose vomit
out of squad cars or to scrub the floor in the drunk tank, both of had to be done daily. I liked walking in the sunshine. After three or four minutes, I reached the gate Rubin had mentioned, so I crossed deeper onto the property.
Where waist-high weeds grew in the field, a car had beaten down the brush near the fence line. I followed the car’s tracks about a quarter of a mile to a wooded area thick with vines and vegetation. Black walnut trees towered around me. Interestingly, gravel and sand on the ground formed a corridor through the woods. At one time, a driveway had cut through the area.
I searched for tracks or footprints but found nothing. That didn’t surprise me. Unless our poacher dropped his wallet, the chances I’d be able to track him down were damn near zero. I was wasting my time.
At least it was a nice day.
I followed the old driveway through the woods. Squirrels raced around me, and birds chattered from the canopy above my head. Insects buzzed everywhere. It was a thriving ecosystem, and it likely had huge numbers of deer. I saw why Mr. Rubin wanted to protect it for his hunters.
About a quarter mile into the woods, the trees thinned around a small wooden church. Dried leaves were piled near its foundation, while the chipped white paint of the clapboard siding almost blended into the surrounding woods as if it were camouflaged. The roof sagged in the building’s center. The windows were closed and intact, but a layer of grime had made them opaque to sunlight.
I walked around the building and found the driveway ended here. Someone had cut the padlock that once held the church’s back door shut. When the wind died, I smelled gasoline and something foul. The squirrels didn’t scurry along the ground, and the birds seemed to avoid the nearby trees.
Something wasn’t right here.
Had I merely come across an abandoned church in the woods, I would have ignored it. The broken padlock and the foul odor compelled me to go on, though.
I stepped back and snapped pictures with my cell phone and opened the rear door to the sacristy, the part of the church where the priest would store his vestments and the sacred vessels used in communion and other services. The shelves that once held sacred objects were empty. A nauseating odor wafted toward me.
I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt and stepped through another door into the sanctuary. The moment my feet hit the hardwood of the altar, my breath rushed out of me, and my eyes popped open wide. My heart thudded against my rib cage.
“Shit.”
A central aisle ran down the middle of the building. Ten pews sat to its left and right. Black mold covered the walls, while insects had eaten holes through the red carpet. There were bodies on the ground around the altar rail. Someone had burned them until their bones turned black and charred. The sound of angry flies buzzed and throbbed throughout the room as thousands of insects hovered over the corpses.
It was a nightmare. I covered my mouth and stumbled until my back hit a wall. Then I swore again and squeezed my eyes tight. Even with my eyes shut, I couldn’t stop hearing the throb of the flies’ wings. It was like a hellish ocean wave that wouldn’t cease crashing. Already, I knew I’d hear that noise in nightmares for the rest of my life. Every muscle in my body trembled. A fly landed on my cheek, so I swatted it away. I drew in a deep breath and almost vomited. The smell was nauseating.
“Do your job, Joe,” I whispered, forcing my eyes open.
The scene was still gruesome, but when I opened my eyes again, the shock had worn off. My stomach roiled, making me glad I had eaten little that morning. The victim nearest me had pulled his legs to his chest and balled his hands into fists. His jaw was open as if in a silent, perpetual scream. Tufts of hair remained on the skull, but the fire had burned most of the flesh off. Dr. Sheridan would have to use dental records to ID him.
I hadn’t been to church in years, but I made the sign of the cross over my chest as I stepped deeper into the building. My legs trembled, and my head felt light, but I forced myself onward. I was a cop. I had a job to do, and I had to think. Dr. Sheridan would have to determine the cause of death, but each victim had bones blackened by fire. Whether they were burned before or after they died, I couldn’t say. It was horrific, nonetheless.
I needed to photograph the scene as it was upon my arrival in case the first responders had to move something, so I took out my cell phone and snapped pictures. After taking pictures of the bodies, I stepped back. My fingers trembled. Because of my work, I had seen a lot of awful shit, but nothing matched the scale of this place. I wanted to run out of there, find somewhere to sit, and close my eyes in the hope that I wouldn’t see anything anymore, but I still had work to do.
I took almost a hundred pictures before hurrying out of the church. In the open air of the forest, I drew in deep breaths of fresh air, but the foul odor refused to leave my lungs and nose. My hands shook so much I took three times to dial my boss’s number.
“Delgado,” he said, answering on the first ring. “What do you need, Detective?”
“Hey,” I said, trying to prevent my voice from shaking. I blinked and ran a hand through my hair. “I’m at Paul Rubin’s property. He called about some trespassers.”
“I know,” said Delgado. “I sent you there. What do you need?”
“I found bodies. We’ll need a forensic anthropologist, a coroner, a search team, and a lot of body bags. You should call the FBI, too.”
Delgado paused. “I’m going to hang up now, Detective. Don’t prank me again. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
He hung up before I responded. Instead of calling him back, I sent him a picture of charred remains. Within moments, my phone rang.
“I’m on my way. Touch nothing.”
“No worries,” I said. “After what I saw, I’m never going back inside that building.”
7
I didn’t want to smell the corpses anymore, so I walked about a quarter mile down the road and sat with my back to a walnut tree. For a while, I stayed there, breathing the fresh air and listening to the sound of birds chirping above me.
After twenty minutes, I fished my cell phone out of my pocket to make sure I hadn’t missed a text. Nothing. The momentary reprieve from work gave me a minute to think about what I had seen in the church.
Every victim held his hands in front of his face or across his chest. The bones would have been too brittle after being burned for the killer to move them after burning them, so they had died in those poses. If the killer had burned them inside the church, there would have been scorch marks on the floor and smoke damage to the ceiling. I saw none of that, though. The church was his dump site.
That made me pause. Churches were places of rest and reverence. If the killer had wanted to get rid of the bodies, he would have dumped them in the Mississippi River or dug shallow graves out in the woods for them. He displayed them inside that church, though. It was symbolic. This church gave him something.
The victims told another story. Their mouths hung open, their fingers were curled, and they had pulled their legs to their chests in fetal positions. These people died in agony. A forensic anthropologist or coroner would have to confirm it, but it looked like the killer had burned them to death.
It took planning to burn someone. The smell and screams would have drawn attention, so, to pull it off without getting caught, our killer needed access to an isolated location. Even in a rural county like St. Augustine, few places met his criteria. That should help with the search.
As I flipped through the pictures of the church building, I noticed something else interesting. Several crucifixes hung on the wall, but someone had turned every one of them upside down. Everything pointed to a resourceful ritualistic killer—like the one Agent Lawson was tracking. But if the Apostate killed these victims, where did he store the others? Was there another church somewhere with the other kids? And if it wasn’t him, what the hell was going on in St. Augustine?
I had far more questions than answers, but that was okay. We had evidence to work with. The killer had touched the
door and crosses, and he had walked across an ash-covered floor. Paul Rubin might even know what car the murderer drove. This could break the case.
And now, I needed backup.
I pulled out my phone and called Delgado again, but my call went to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Joe Court again. I’m still out at the scene, and I’m still waiting for you.”
I hung up after that brief message and then called Trisha at my station.
“Has Sheriff Delgado called Dr. Sheridan yet?”
She paused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, hon,” she said.
I put a hand on my hip and swore under my breath.
“I’m at a crime scene. Did Delgado call anyone yet?”
“No,” said Trisha. “What do you have? I’ll route officers myself.”
“I’ve got multiple bodies, all burned beyond recognition, in an abandoned country church in the county. Is Agent Lawson there?”
“Jesus,” said Trisha.
“Jesus isn’t here, Trisha,” I said. “I’m alone at one of the nastiest crime scenes I’ve ever seen, and we need to process this. Is Agent Lawson around? If he is, just patch me to him.”
“Lawson and his team drove to Winfield. Our killer took a new couple.”
I furrowed my brow and shook my head. “He couldn’t have. His pattern is every two months. It’s only been six weeks since he took Jude and Paige. Are any FBI agents around?”
Trisha’s voice sounded subdued. “Agent Costa is upstairs, but I don’t think I’m supposed to disturb him.”
I held my breath for a five-count so I wouldn’t snap at her.
“Show him the picture I’m about to send you and ask whether he wants to come to the scene.”
I ended the call before Trisha responded and then flipped through my photos until I found a wide-angle shot with four bodies in it. I texted that to Trisha’s personal phone and got a response within seconds.
Oh, my God.
I texted back and asked her to show the picture to the Bureau. She didn’t respond, but I assumed she had gotten my message. For the next few minutes, I alternated between staring at my phone and straining my ears to hear footsteps or sirens around me. Delgado should have arrived by now. If something had tied him up, he should have called the Bureau or the Highway Patrol. We needed all the help we could get.
