Nature of Darkness

by Robert W. Stephens

  Penfield listened as McMahon gave him the rundown on the discovery of the body in a New Kent County vineyard.

  “Another victim not that far from I-95,” Penfield said.

  “We still have no idea where she was taken. The last victim’s body was dumped two states away.”

  “Have you run her prints yet?”

  “No. The forensics team just arrived and not a moment too soon. It’s about to start pouring any minute,” McMahon said.

  “It’s a bad one too. I drove through the storm most of the way here.”

  “I’ve got one of my agents on the way to meet you. His name is Hector Santos. He’s a good guy. He’ll take the lead on this. Good luck with Marcus. I know it’s not going to be easy, but we could use anything you can get out of him,” McMahon said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Penfield ended the call. He turned the car’s wiper blades off and the windshield was completely covered in rain a second later. He sat in the car for a few minutes and listened to the storm. Thunder boomed in the distance and Penfield realized the lousy weather perfectly matched his mood.

  He reached into his coat pocket and removed the photo of him with Marcus and Angela that he’d showed to Dr. Bachman the previous day. With any luck, it would work on Marcus too. He slipped the photo back into his pocket and put a cap on his shaved head. He climbed out of the car and jogged up the long sidewalk to the three-story red brick building. He was drenched by the time he got inside.

  Penfield gave the receptionist his name, told her he was waiting on an agent to arrive, and then had a seat in the lobby.

  Hector Santos entered the building about ten minutes later. He was dressed in a dark-blue suit with a cream-colored dress shirt and shiny black shoes.

  “Agent Santos,” Penfield said, and he stood.

  Santos walked over to him.

  “Mr. Penfield,” he said, and he extended his hand.

  Penfield shook it.

  “You ready to try this,” Penfield said.

  “Who knows? Maybe the third time will be the charm.”

  “You were here with McMahon the first two times?”

  “The first time. Agent Porter was with him the second.”

  Santos walked to the receptionist and asked her to contact the medical director.

  A tall woman, maybe around fifty years old, entered the lobby a few minutes later. She had long black hair that was pulled up in a bun. She wore thin wire-frame glasses and was dressed in a smart navy-blue business suit.

  She walked over to Penfield and Santos.

  “Agent Santos, good to see you again,” she said in a raspy voice.

  “Good to see you, ma’am.”

  The medical director turned to Penfield.

  “I’m Alex Penfield,” he said.

  “Yes, the former colleague of Marcus Carter. Agent McMahon told me about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.

  Penfield shook her outstretched hand. Her hand was small for her height, and slender, and it seemed to get completely lost in his own.

  “My name is Dr. Adina Mata. I’m the medical director here at Central State,” she continued.

  Dr. Mata turned to Santos.

  “Agent Santos, I know you’re familiar with the routine, but I’d like to go over a few things with Mr. Penfield first.”

  “Of course,” Santos said.

  “Let’s talk for a few moments in my office,” she said.

  Penfield and Santos followed her down the hallway. Their wet shoes squeaked on the tiled floors.

  “Not the best weather today, is it?” she asked.

  “No, but hopefully it will clear a little later,” Penfield said.

  They turned right down another hallway and then reached her office. It wasn’t nearly as big as Penfield expected for the director of the hospital.

  “Can I get you anything to drink, gentlemen, a bottle of water perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” Santos said.

  “I’m fine,” Penfield said.

  Dr. Mata sat behind her cluttered desk while Penfield and Santos sat in uncomfortable wooden chairs in front of it. There was a giant window behind her, and the glass rattled when it was hit with a burst of wind. Dr. Mata didn’t seem to notice.

  “So, Mr. Penfield, do you have any specific questions about Mr. Carter before you see him?” she asked.

  “I was told Marcus hasn’t spoken to anyone in years. Is that correct?” Penfield asked.

  “Yes, he’s been silent since the attack on Dr. Bachman. I’m sure either Agent McMahon or Agent Santos told you that.”

  “He doesn’t communicate at all with your staff? No gestures, no reactions of any kind?”

  “No, he’s completely incommunicative.”

  “Can you tell if he understands what’s happening around him?” Penfield asked.

  “He’ll follow the orderlies’ commands, but he refuses to make eye contact with them.”

  “What do you think that’s from?”

  “Marcus Carter’s mind has shattered, for lack of a better explanation.”

  “Is he incapable of speaking?” Penfield asked.

  “I’m not saying that. I’m saying that he doesn’t want to. It causes him too much pain. He’s retreated into his own world,” Dr. Mata said.

  “My only reason for being here, Dr. Mata, is to determine who may be committing these new crimes. From my perspective, there are two possibilities. It’s either a person who helped Marcus commit the original crimes or it’s someone who’s been inspired by them. If it’s the latter, that person may have tried to communicate with Marcus.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. We turned over all correspondence to Agent McMahon’s team. But as I mentioned to Agent McMahon, Marcus Carter has never expressed a desire to send letters from here. He does receive correspondence from others, but we don’t pass them to Mr. Carter.”

  “What kind of correspondence?”

  “Fan mail, mostly from women.”

  “Is that right?” Penfield asked.

  “What can I say? The world is full of disturbed people and yes, I understand that’s not the best term to use coming from the director of a mental institution.”

  Penfield didn’t respond.

  Dr. Mata paused a moment.

  Then she asked, “May I be frank, Mr. Penfield?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m afraid your trip here is a waste of time. Marcus Carter won’t speak with you. He won’t speak with anyone. I’m sure Agent Santos can attest to that.”

  “You’re probably right, Doctor, but they found another body this morning less than an hour from here. I’ve been through this before. It won’t stop on its own,” Penfield said.

  He studied Dr. Mata for a reaction. He didn’t get one. He assumed she had to be familiar with the details of Marcus Carter’s crimes yet the idea that they were repeating, and doing so close to her home, didn’t seem to register with her. Perhaps her environment had hardened her far beyond what he’d expected.

  “There are only two rules,” Dr. Mata said.

  “Which are?” Penfield asked.

  “Rule number one. His restraints will not be removed under any circumstances. And the second, you’re not to have any form of physical contact with him. If you do, my orderlies will remove you at once. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, we understand each other. Now, may I make a couple of requests of you?”

  She nodded.

  “The room where he assaulted Dr. Bachman, the one with the window, has he been in that room since the attack?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “I’d like to see him in that room, if I may.”

  “As you wish. And your second request.”

  “That you record my session with Marcus.”

  “Record your meeting of you two staring at each other?”

  “He may surprise us both, Doctor.”

  “Very well, I’ll have your meeting with Marcus reco
rded. There are already cameras in all of the rooms so it won’t be a problem,” Dr. Mata said, and she stood. “Come with me so we can get this over with.”

  Penfield and Santos stood, and they followed Dr. Mata out of her office. They walked back to the main hallway and then she led him to a series of rooms in what Penfield thought was the back of the hospital.

  She opened a door to a room with a comfortable-looking sofa and chair.

  “Wait in here while we get Marcus out of his cell. Once he’s secured, I’ll come back for you,” Dr. Mata said.

  Penfield and Santos walked into the room, but they didn’t have a seat. Penfield walked over to the window and looked outside. The rain continued to pour. He looked at his watch. It was nearing eleven in the morning.

  “She’s right, you know. Marcus won’t say anything,” Santos said.

  “I’m guessing you’d rather be at the crime scene instead of wasting your time with me.”

  Santos didn’t respond.

  “How long have you worked with Doug?” Penfield continued.

  “I’ve been with Agent McMahon for a few years now. He’s a good supervisor. I’ve learned a lot from him.”

  Penfield smiled.

  “I’ll make sure I pass that on to him.”

  “I didn’t say it so you’d tell him. He’s good. One of the best I’ve worked with.”

  “Doug is good. You’re right about that.”

  “He said you two were local police together,” Santos said.

  “We were, for a while. Then he left for the FBI.”

  “He also said he tried to get you to come with him. He said you’d have been one of the best too.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s no sense in crying over what could have been.”

  “I didn’t mean it to sound like you made a mistake not joining the Bureau.”

  “You didn’t have to. I did make a mistake.”

  “How well did you know Marcus Carter?” Santos asked.

  “Well enough.”

  Santos didn’t respond, and Penfield guessed he’d run out of small talk to make. He knew the agent didn’t want to be there. He’d clearly drawn the short end of the stick to get stuck with the former cop on a hopeless mission.

  Dr. Mata returned a few minutes later.

  “Agent Santos, Mr. Penfield, are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Santos answered for them both.

  “Remember, no physical contact of any kind.”

  “I understand, Doctor,” Penfield said.

  Dr. Mata led Penfield and Santos down another long hallway. She stopped at the last room where Penfield saw two large orderlies standing outside the door.

  “Good luck, gentlemen,” she continued.

  “Thank you,” Penfield said.

  Dr. Mata left. Penfield paused a moment, then he nodded to one of the orderlies who opened the door. Penfield entered, with Santos following him, and he saw Marcus Carter seated at a table. He recognized the old table from the video recording McMahon had sent him. The room had apparently not changed at all in the last decade.

  Penfield walked across the room. He sat on the chair opposite Marcus while Santos stood in the back of the room. Penfield had not seen his former friend since the final days of the MAI investigation. Marcus was just an inch shorter than Penfield, but he’d been as heavily muscled back then. That had changed in his years at Central State. He was thin now, almost emaciated, resembling a prisoner of war. His eyes seemed to have shrunk back into his skull and his cheeks were hollow.

  Penfield lost track of how long he stared at Marcus. The man never met his eyes and he wondered if he even remembered who he was.

  Finally, Penfield spoke.

  “I used to dream about this moment, Marcus. I’d fantasize about what I was going to say to you. We trusted you. We believed in you and all the while you were secretly the butcher we were hunting.”

  Penfield pulled the photo out of his pocket. He slid it across the table so that it was in Marcus’ eyeline.

  “I know you remember her. Maybe you forgot me, but there’s no way you forgot Angela. I always thought you two would eventually end up together. Look at the photo, Marcus. Look at Angela.”

  He studied Marcus for a reaction. There was nothing, though. No life in the eyes. No emotion of any kind.

  “I know it was you who pulled the trigger. Did they tell you how long she suffered in the hospital, only to take her own life once she got out? You broke her, Marcus. She couldn’t live, knowing the things you’d done. I know you loved her, but your actions led to her death. You did that to Angela.”

  Marcus didn’t respond.

  Penfield tapped the photo with his finger.

  “Look at her, Marcus. Look at the person you put in the ground.”

  Then Penfield saw it, the slightest curl on one side of Marcus’ lip.

  “You think that’s funny? Did you get enjoyment out of that?” Penfield asked.

  Marcus laughed. Penfield had heard the man’s laughter a thousand times, but he didn’t recognize this one.

  “What kind of sick bastard are you?” Penfield asked.

  “Do you know who I am?” Marcus said.

  It didn’t sound like his voice, though. Penfield didn’t know if he hadn’t remembered it correctly since it had been almost ten years.

  “I know exactly who you are,” Penfield said.

  “Alex, it’s me. It’s Daddy. Wake up, Alex. Wake up.”

  Marcus’ voice was different again, and the words stunned Penfield. They sounded exactly like Penfield’s father.

  “I’m so glad we found you, Alex. We thought we’d lost you forever,” Marcus continued in Penfield’s father’s voice.

  Marcus laughed again.

  “Do you know who I am?” Marcus asked, this time in the original voice Penfield hadn’t recognized when he’d watched the video recording. “I was with you in that box, little boy, the one buried deep in the ground. I fed on your fear. I fed on your soul. I still hear your cries when you wake in the middle of the night. They may have pulled you out of the ground, Alex, but you’re still trapped inside of that box with me. You can never escape.”

  “Who are you?” Penfield asked.

  “I am emptiness. I am loneliness. I am despair.”

  Penfield said nothing.

  “There have been seven so far. Lucky number seven,” Marcus said.

  “Who is doing these new killings?”

  Marcus laughed.

  “Bring her to me, Alex, and then I’ll make them stop.”

  “Bring who? Who do you want?”

  “You know who.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “I want Angela. Bring her to me.”

  “Angela is dead, Marcus. She took her own life.”

  “No, she’s very much alive and I’ll butcher more women until I get her back.”

  “Who is doing these killings?” Penfield asked.

  “Bring her to me or their blood will be on your hands.”

  Penfield stood. He squeezed his hands into tight fists to keep himself from striking Marcus.

  “Alex, it’s me. It’s Daddy. Wake up, Alex. Wake up,” Marcus said, again imitating Penfield’s father.

  “Who is working with you?” Penfield yelled.

  “Bring me Angela, or I’ll keep taking faces until I find one that matters to you.”

  8

  I Am

  Renee Rankin spent the next two weeks in Rome, anxiously awaiting a call from Father Greco. She thought of taking a train to tour other cities, including Naples and Venice, but she was convinced he’d phone the moment she left the station at Roma Termini.

  She was sitting at a small café a block from the famed Pantheon when her phone finally buzzed. Father Greco informed her that he’d completed his translation work of the journal and was anxious to schedule another appointment with her. She pressed him for details over the phone, but the priest said he’d prefer to talk in person. Renee arranged to see Father G
reco the following morning.

  The next day, she got up early and walked alongside the River Tiber from her boutique hotel in Trastevere, a quaint area known as much for its cobblestone streets as its many pubs and restaurants.

  The walk to the Pontifical North American College took longer than she’d expected, but she’d given herself plenty of time. She stopped once to look to the river below and steel her nerves. She’d been in possession of the journal for several years. For the longest time, she didn’t think she wanted to know its contents.

  Something had changed, though, as her son had gotten older. There was a need to protect him. Yes, every parent felt that instinctual calling, yet hers ran much deeper. There was a danger she sensed, a growing uneasiness in her bones that she couldn’t ignore or explain.

  She wondered what the priest would tell her. Furthermore, what could she do with that knowledge? Marcus Carter was locked up, yet she felt he could still do her and her son harm.

  Father Greco greeted her outside the college building as before, but his mood seemed different this time. His jovial expression was gone, replaced by one of concern. She thought about asking him what was wrong, but she didn’t know him well enough. Besides, her gut had already told her the answer. It was the journal.

  Father Greco led her back to his office. Renee and the priest took their seats on either side of the large wooden desk. Father Greco reached into the top drawer and removed the journal. He placed it on the desk and slid it a few inches toward her. Or had he pushed it away? Renee wondered.

  Renee waited for him to start speaking, but the priest seemed lost in thought.

  “Is everything all right, Father?”

  “The other day when we spoke, did you tell me everything you know about this journal?”

  “Yes.”

  “You held nothing back?”

  “No, everything is as I said. The journal was left at a crime scene by a killer who is now incarcerated. I have no idea how he came into possession of it.”

  Father Greco nodded.

  “The journal is a first-person account of a series of murders, allegedly committed by a priest named David Lombardi. I had a colleague search the records for this man. There have been priests with that family name before. However, there are no records of a Father David Lombardi from that specific time here at Vatican City.”