“I will give you a name,” Marcus said, and then he turned to face the mirror. “Or maybe I should say it’s for the FBI. The name is Kara Carr.”
“Who is she?” Penfield asked.
Marcus turned back to Penfield.
“You may not know her, but you can guess who she is. Find her if it’s not already too late.”
Penfield stood and walked toward the door.
“A cage?” Marcus asked. His voice had changed back to the deep and menacing voice Penfield had heard during his first visit. “Much like a box buried deep in the ground.”
Penfield stopped and turned back to Marcus.
“It’s a good trick of the voice. But that’s all it is, a trick.”
“Marcus isn’t here anymore.”
“Then who am I talking to now?”
“He gave you my name. I am the darkness. I am the shadow.”
Penfield took a step closer to the table.
“You’re Marcus Carter. You’re nothing but a pitiful man living out the rest of his days in a mental hospital.”
“What test do you have for me, Alex Penfield? How shall I prove myself to you?” Marcus asked in the deep voice.
“I have only one question for you. Who is behind these killings?”
“Where is the light? I don’t see the light,” Marcus said, but his voice had changed again. It was the voice of Penfield’s father.
The question stunned Penfield and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hide the pain it caused.
“Help me, Alex. Please help me out of this place,” Marcus continued in Penfield’s father’s voice. “Do you have a message for your father? Shall I tell him that you miss him?” Marcus asked in the deep voice, and then he laughed.
Penfield walked the rest of the way to the table. He placed his hands on the edge and leaned closer to Marcus.
“You can’t bring back the dead and that’s why you’ll never have Angela. She finally escaped you. Live with that, you bastard.”
Penfield stood upright and turned away from Marcus again. He was almost to the door when Marcus called out to him a final time.
“Look upon me.”
Penfield turned and saw Marcus still sitting at the table. But there was someone or something else in the room – a shadow, its dark reflection on the wall directly behind Marcus. It was taller than Penfield by a few feet and its horrible wings spread out so that the tips extended the full width of the wall
Penfield watched in horror as the wings folded back into the shadow being’s body and the darkness was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Do you think it’s legit?” McMahon asked.
Penfield turned away from McMahon and looked back across the parking lot to the Central State building.
“The name Kara Carr?”
“Yes. Is she the next victim or is he sending us on a wild goose chase so he can target someone else?”
Penfield turned back to McMahon.
“Now we’re convinced he is involved?”
“Either way, we have to try to find her. I already sent a message to my team when you were still in the room with Marcus,” McMahon said.
Penfield paused a long moment.
Then he asked, “What if she’s not really dead?”
“Who? Angela?”
“Marcus was right about one thing. Angela wasn’t the type of person to quit,” Penfield said.
“Yes, under normal circumstances. What Marcus Carter did, though, is anything but normal. It would have broken the best of us, especially someone who was as close to him as Angela.”
“Her suicide is the exact way you’d go if you wanted to disappear. Tell me that thought didn’t cross your mind when you first heard what she’d done.”
“No, it didn’t. And here’s why. Why would she want to disappear? Who was she running from? Marcus was locked up. There was no one who could hurt her.”
“Okay. Why death by drowning then? That’s a horrible way to go. Slow and terrifying as the water rushes down your throat and fills your lungs. We know Angela had her service weapon. Why didn’t she put it in her mouth and end things instantly? Or why not take that bottle of pain pills she had and put herself permanently to sleep?”
“Because she wasn’t thinking clearly. She was about to kill herself. She wasn’t exactly being rational at that moment,” McMahon said.
Penfield didn’t respond.
“None of this matters anyway,” McMahon continued. “Even if we could make Angela magically appear, it’s not like Marcus is going to suddenly reveal everything. The best we could hope for is a slip of the tongue, some little piece of information that leads to something else. You know how it works.”
“Then why come back today?”
“How can you ask me that? I’ve got four bodies that I know of, probably another four or five buried God knows where, and I’ve got no leads to show for it,” McMahon said, and he slammed his hand on the hood of his SUV. “I’m sorry. I know you’re helping me out here and you didn’t have to do it.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
McMahon paused a moment.
Then he asked, “What do you think Marcus was talking about in there when he said, ‘Where is the light? I don’t see the light.’ His voice changed at that moment too.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard him say anything like that before.”
“There’s something else,” McMahon said. “When you were at the door, Marcus told you to look upon him. You got this look on your face that I’ve never seen.”
“What kind of look?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to explain. It sort of looked like astonishment.”
“How did you expect me to look after that conversation with him? You heard the nonsense he was spewing.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” McMahon said, and he pulled his key fob out of his coat pocket.
“Going back to the office?” Penfield asked.
“Where else?”
“Is there anything you need from me?”
“I wish there was a way you could help right now, but unless there’s a way you can make evidence magically appear…” McMahon said, and his words trailed off.
“I understand. Have a safe drive back.”
“You too.”
Penfield stepped to the side as McMahon climbed into his SUV and drove off. Penfield then walked back to his car. He leaned against the side of the vehicle and looked at the Central State building again. He’d been dishonest with his friend, but he didn’t see how he had any other choice. How could he tell him that he had heard those words before? That would have sparked a million other questions that he had no answers for.
Where is the light. I don’t see the light.
Those two sentences had been the final words to come from his father just seconds before he’d died. There had only been two other people in the room. Penfield and his brother. His brother had gone straight back to New York after their father’s death. One thing was for sure. He hadn’t made a detour along the way to see Marcus Carter and tell him those things. Yet Marcus somehow knew what had been said. Penfield couldn’t understand how.
He searched his memory for an occasion he might have told Marcus or Angela that, but there had been none. They’d been co-workers and friends, but their friendship wasn’t so deep that he’d share such intimate moments with either of them.
Finally, there was the image Penfield had seen on the wall behind Marcus right before he’d left the room. He’d seen it for a second, maybe two. He didn’t know if he’d imagined it, the result of a stressed, tired, and anxious mind after dealing with a truly evil man.
It had seemed so real and it had been more than a shadow. There had been details in the darkness. Penfield thought he’d seen thin veins running through the demonic shaped wings that had spread across the wall. Whatever it was, Penfield knew it had been so disturbing that he’d never get it out of his head.
15
There Wa
s Another Way
After their discussion with Father De Luca concluded, Renee and Father Greco took a taxi back to the Florence station. They had to wait over an hour for the next train. The ride back to Rome was much less crowded than their ride earlier that morning. Renee and Father Greco had the train car mostly to themselves, but the relative privacy did little to stimulate a conversation.
They’d barely said anything during the taxi ride, nor during the long wait for the train. They both seemed shocked by the revelation that the writer of the journal did, indeed, exist. Of course, there was another mystery that had presented itself during the conversation with Father De Luca.
His assertion that David Lombardi hadn’t possessed the language skills necessary to have written the journal in Aramaic made Renee question who had actually written it. Granted, Father De Luca’s opinion of Lombardi’s talents may have been inaccurate. There was also the possibility that Lombardi had improved his knowledge of Aramaic after having left Italy for America, if the journey described in the journal was to be believed.
After arriving back at the Roma Termini, Renee thanked Father Greco again for arranging the trip, as well as his earlier task of translating the journal for her. She reiterated her promise that her work would not embarrass the church. The truth was that she had no intention of writing a book, but she suspected that Father Greco already knew that.
Father Greco said goodbye to her without alluding to a potential future meeting, although Renee had told him that her return flight to the United States was in two days’ time.
She thought about trying to arrange for an earlier flight back, but she found that she needed the time to herself to process her emotions. She’d had two goals for the trip to Rome. The first had been to convince Father Greco to translate the journal. The second had been to confirm the existence of Father Lombardi. She’d succeeded at both, yet there was a strange part of her that felt like the trip had been a failure.
The truth of Father Lombardi and his murderous deeds did little to help her understand the actions of Marcus Carter, Lombardi’s probable grandson, beyond there being a possible mental disorder that had been inherited.
Still, that didn’t explain why Marcus had copied the details of Father Lombardi’s killing spree. Lombardi had taken the faces of his victims for some bizarre religious reason, a lunatic’s reasoning that he could disguise his true nature from God. That didn’t explain Marcus’ decision to remove the faces of the people he’d murdered.
Marcus had acquired the journal during the MAI investigation, and he’d had it translated by an expert. Yet he must have known those details before the translation since many women had been murdered and skinned before anyone knew of the journal’s existence.
Renee wondered if Marcus’ grandfather had trained him. Nevertheless, there was the fact that David Carter, Marcus’ grandfather and the man Renee believed to also be David Lombardi, had been sick and on his deathbed months before the killings ever began. What had ultimately triggered Marcus to begin his journey into depravity and madness? Renee wondered.
Renee packed her bags early the evening before her flight. She was anxious to get home and see her son, but she was also confused as to what to do next. She lay on the bed and closed her eyes, not to sleep, but rather an attempt to relax her mind so the answers might come more freely. It had been a method she’d used to great success in her previous job.
Her eyes had only been closed a few seconds when her phone on the nightstand buzzed. She looked at the display and saw the number for Father Greco’s office.
“Hello.”
“Buonasera, signora Rankin. This is Father Greco.”
“Good evening, Father. How may I help you?”
“I believe your flight leaves tomorrow. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I have an early departure.”
“Is it possible for us to meet tonight? I apologize for the late notice, but there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Would you like me to come to your office at the college?” Renee asked.
“No. Perhaps an outdoor location. The weather is nice tonight.”
“That sounds fine.”
“I assume you know where the Castel Sant’Angelo is.”
“Yes, I toured the museum there during the first week I was here.”
“Let’s meet outside there in an hour, if that is agreeable with you.”
“I’ll see you there,” Renee said, and she ended the call.
She climbed off the bed. She thought of phoning the front desk and asking them to order her a taxi. Then she decided to walk to Castel Sant’Angelo. She had three flights to take the following day. It would be good to stretch her body before it was to be squished into a cramped and uncomfortable airline seat.
The weather was pleasant as Father Greco had said. The sun had been setting when the priest had called her. There was still some light left when she stepped out of the hotel. The sky was now a dark blue and the full moon glowed in the distance. Renee walked along the River Tiber most of the way.
She saw Vatican City off to her left as the river bent to the right toward Castel Sant’Angelo. She’d learned on her tour of the building that it had been built by the Roman emperor Hadrian as a mausoleum for himself. Later, the Vatican popes had used the round structure as a fortress. Today, it was a museum and one of the finer ones she’d seen in the ancient city.
Renee looked at her watch as she got closer. She was about ten minutes early, but she saw Father Greco leaning on the cement wall that ran alongside the river. He was standing near the entrance to the bridge known as Ponte Sant’Angelo, also built by the emperor Hadrian.
Father Greco saw her a moment after she’d spotted him. He turned from the river and walked toward her.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” Father Greco said.
“It wasn’t a problem, especially after everything you’ve done for me. Is there someplace you’d like to go?”
“Perhaps we can talk here by the river. This is my favorite part of the city. I come here often after work.”
They walked over to the wall by the riverbank. Renee looked at the bridge, which was still full of pedestrians.
“That is a beautiful bridge,” she said.
“Yes, many fashion ads have been photographed there. Film productions too.”
“What did you want to talk to me about?” Renee asked, getting to the point of their meeting.
Father Greco didn’t respond, at least not at first. He looked out toward the River Tiber again. It was only after several seconds had passed that he finally spoke.
“I have a request to make of you.”
“Which is?”
“Whatever this quest is of yours, I ask that you stop.”
“Are you worried again that I’m out to make the church look bad? I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth.”
“I do not believe that is in your heart. It’s true that we do not know each other very well, but I feel that I have some sense of the type of person you are. There is goodness in you, Ms. Rankin. I know that you would not try to hurt anyone.”
“Then what are you concerned about?” Renee asked.
“I do not think you fully understand what you are dealing with.”
Renee knew the priest had not meant to offend her, but she couldn’t help but feel a rage building inside her. Father Greco had no idea what she’d been through. If hell did exist, she doubted it could be any worse than what she’d experienced a decade ago. Everything had been taken from her and she’d had to watch it all burn in front of her eyes. Had Father Greco ever had to deal with something like that?
“You’re right when you said that we don’t know each other very well, so don’t assume that you know what’s best for me. I know exactly what I’m dealing with. David Lombardi was a cold-blooded killer, as was his grandson. I’ve seen his handiwork close up with my own eyes. Can you say the same?”
“I am sorry. I did not mea
n to upset you. I know that you have suffered a personal loss and I do not presume to understand how you feel. But know this. Whatever pain the victims suffered is over. They are in God’s embrace now. They are free from pain.”
“I used to believe that, a long time ago. Now, after the things I’ve seen, I’m not sure I believe in God anymore.”
“I do not think you truly mean that,” Father Greco said.
“Tell me, Father, if there was a God, why didn’t he stop David Lombardi from taking those innocent lives? Why didn’t he stop Marcus Carter?”
“It is not our place to question God.”
“If it’s not our place, then whose is it?” Renee asked.
Father Greco didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. You’ve done nothing but help me since we first met,” she continued.
“There is something you may not have considered. If Father Lombardi did not have the ability to write that journal, then who did?”
“I’ve done nothing but ask myself that question since we left Florence,” Renee said.
“And what conclusion did you come to?”
“David Lombardi had help. There is no other explanation. But no matter how hard I want to know, I’ll probably never learn the full story.”
“You do know the story. It’s there in the journal. Father Lombardi gave you its name.”
“You’re referring to the voice? The thing that said its name was MAI?”
“Yes.”
“That was Lombardi’s madness speaking. There was no other voice but the one in his head.”
“Then how do you explain the journal written in a language long gone?”
“You’re saying the voice helped him?” Renee asked.
“It was the demon that took his soul.”
“I don’t believe in demons, Father Greco, at least not the ones you’re referring to. There are plenty of demons that walk this earth and they’re all human beings.”
“I don’t dispute that man can be evil, but the devil is also real. It wears many faces and it speaks many languages. The journal would not be beyond its ability.”
Nature of Darkness Page 12
