“May I help you?” she asked, in an Irish brogue.
“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll. I’m here to see Father Terhune.”
“Father Terhune is it? Well, the good father is in his study preparing a sermon. It wouldn’t be wise to disturb him.”
“But we spoke on the phone. He’ll want to see me.”
“And I’m tellin’ ya he left instructions not to be disturbed.”
“Telling him I’m here would be the Christian thing to do, don’t you think?”
“I suppose next you’re gonna tell me you’re an envoy from his Holiness, the Pope.”
“Even the Pope would be in favor of you interrupting Father Terhune,” said Driscoll, with a smile.
“You’re a sly one, you are.” She motioned for him to come inside and pointed to a chair in the corner of a richly furnished room. “Have a seat, why don’t ya? I’ll see what I can do.”
Soon, Driscoll heard the sound of wheels in motion laboring down the corridor.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Driscoll. I’m Pat Terhune,” the priest said, rolling his wheelchair into the room. “I see you got past my sentry.”
“You’re safe with her around.”
“Right you are about that.”
Father Terhune was clad entirely in black, save for an open clerical collar. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses framed kindly blue eyes set in a boyish face.
“Let me say it’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. Your reputation for commendable police work makes you a hero to me and to all of my parishioners.”
“Thank you,” said Driscoll, handing Terhune the illustration. “Is this the youth you called about?”
“As sure as the day is long,” said the priest.
“Would you know his name, Father?”
“Everett Luxworth.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Quite.”
Driscoll sat back in his chair. “Forgive me for raising the question, Father, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask it. Doesn’t the confidentiality of the confessional prohibit you from speaking out?”
A soft smile formed on the priest’s face. “He asked me to call you.”
“Luxworth?”
“The lad had been coming to see me, regularly, over the past few months. He considers me his therapist.”
Their conversation was interrupted as the sentinel reappeared with coffee.
“Cream and sugar?”
“A touch of cream. No sugar,” Driscoll said, annoyed at the loss of momentum.
“As I was saying, Lieutenant, Everett saw himself as my patient. We clerics handle our fair share of spiritual counseling, you know. In any case, he came to confession twice a week. He was troubled. He raised issues of self-respect and was seeking a way to get a handle on his anger. It was only when the image hit the newspaper and I confronted him with his likeness that he broke down and confessed to the killings. It was then he asked me to call the authorities. I told him I’m not here to sit in judgment. The church is not a law enforcement agency, I said. But he begged me to stop him. And told me if I didn’t, he would kill again and that I alone had the power to save a soul that he was prepared to send to hell. It would be on my conscience if I didn’t stop him, and the only way to stop him was to call the police. When he left the confessional, I felt it would be his last confession and that he would never return.”
“And so you placed the call.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where this Luxworth lives, Father?” Driscoll asked.
After staring at the Lieutenant for what seemed like minutes, he answered the question.
“Two-two-five Sussex.”
“Thank you,” Driscoll said, standing and preparing to leave. “Father, one last question. Does Luxworth have a sister?”
“I wouldn’t know, Lieutenant. He never mentioned one.”
Chapter 50
Driscoll wasn’t banking on Father Terhune’s information. He had met many a confessor on the job. And for some reason this one didn’t feel right. Perhaps it was the absence of a sister acting in tandem. Driscoll wasn’t sure why his instincts said no. But he’d have to track down the lead.
“Cedric, run an Everett Luxworth through the system and give me a call if you get a hit.” Driscoll folded his cell phone and headed for the suspect’s residence.
225 Sussex was a two-story frame structure in need of maintenance. A cluster of mismatched mailboxes, hanging haphazardly near the front door, suggested it might be a single-room occupancy home. Its peeling paint and eroding gutters suggested that here, gentrification had missed its mark.
Driscoll approached the house, which was marked by a steel security gate more suited for the rear of a boiler room than a multiple family dwelling. Of the six weatherworn mailboxes, only three had names on them. None read “Luxworth.” Only two of six doorbells were labeled. Evans and Peterson. The word super appeared below Peterson, so that’s the one he rang.
“Who’s there?”
“Mr. Peterson?” Driscoll hollered. “May I have a word with you?”
Driscoll heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of another door opening inside the residence. In his mind he envisioned a balding man, clad in a soiled T-shirt, trudging along on falling arches. Peterson turned out to be a strikingly handsome man in his late thirties. He wore his well-groomed hair parted on the side. His eyes were Mel Gibson blue and he sported a mustache, trimmed in Clark Gable fashion. Clad in a shimmering white robe, he looked more like a movie star on a break than a superintendent of a run-down rooming house in Brooklyn.
“May I help you?”
“You Peterson?”
“That’s me.” The man spoke in a theatrical, effeminate voice.
“Everett Luxworth. He live here?”
“Yes. With me. But you just missed him. He went down to the florist not five minutes ago.” The man smiled, showing off a dazzling set of pearly whites. “Love your suit.”
Driscoll figured Luxworth to be this man’s live-in partner.
“What is it you want with Everett?”
“My name’s Driscoll. Lieutenant John Driscoll. I’m with the New York City Police Department.”
“Would you like to wait inside?” Peterson asked, anxiety and curiosity piqued.
“That’d be fine.”
The interior of the apartment was a far cry from the house’s drab exterior. The living room, its walls papered in lilac and fern, was elegantly furnished with a satin ottoman, facing matching love seats, as its centerpiece.
“Would you like some rose hip tea? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
“Why not?”
Peterson disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a Japanese lacquered tray supporting an earthenware pot and two clay mugs. He poured tea into Driscoll’s cup and the two men took their seats, Driscoll on one love seat, Peterson on the other.
“Is Everett in some sort of trouble?” Peterson asked.
“I need to speak with him. Some routine questions.”
“He is in some kind of trouble, isn’t he?”
The door opened and Luxworth stepped into the room holding a bouquet of fresh-cut carnations. He resembled the sketch. Not an exact match. But the resemblance was there, nonetheless. Driscoll had a sinking feeling. He doubted the man was Angus.
“I didn’t know we were expecting company,” Luxworth said absently as he fussed with a Waterford vase. “There!” he said, happy with his floral display.
“Everett. Is there something you haven’t told me?” Peterson asked.
“What do you mean?”
“This gentleman is Lieutenant Driscoll. He’s from the police department and he’s here to see you.”
“Me?” Luxworth said, alarm in his voice.
“Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” the Lieutenant suggested.
“We’ll do nothing of the sort. Antoine stays right here!”
“Your call,” said Driscoll.
“Everett, have you
been playing with matches again?”
“Matches? No. But I’ve been known to carry a torch or two.” Luxworth cast a sidelong glance at Peterson.
What was that all about? Was this guy an arsonist? Driscoll let the matter go unanswered, for now. “I’m here with some questions regarding the murder of several tourists in New York,” said Driscoll, eyes fixed on the suspect.
“I knew I saw your face before. You’re that Lieutenant Driscoll! From the newscasts. Oh my,” said Peterson.
“That no-good son of a bitch of a priest,” Luxworth muttered, his eyes brimming with anger.
“This isn’t a game, Luxworth. Several people have been killed. Father Terhune says you’re to blame.”
“I didn’t think he’d really tell on me! I wasn’t serious when I told him to call the police.”
“Told him what?” asked Peterson.
Luxworth collapsed on the ottoman.
“Your roommate confessed to a series of brutal crimes,” said Driscoll.
“Everett, I thought we were beyond all that.”
“I’m so sorry, Antoine. I’m so sorry,” Luxworth sobbed.
“Sorry for what?” said Driscoll.
“Lieutenant, Everett suffers from depression. He has an inferiority complex as big as Texas! It makes him do anything-and I mean anything-to get attention. Even convincing a parish priest that he’s the serial killer hunted by the police for killing those poor people. But my Everett wouldn’t swat a mosquito. Everett, what am I to do with you?” Peterson cradled Luxworth in his arms.
Driscoll’s cell phone sounded.
With his eyes fixed on the weeping Luxworth, Driscoll listened intently to what Cedric Thomlinson had to report. A minute later, the Lieutenant ended the call and turned to face Luxworth.
“Everett, just how was it you managed to kill all those people over the past twelve months if you were confined to the psychiatric ward of the Coxsackie mental health facility for setting trash cans ablaze? They didn’t let you out until four months ago!”
“Thank you, God. Thank you,” said Peterson. “And this time you’re to take all your medication. The Lexapro, the Wellbutrin, and the Zyprexa! Is that clear, Everett?”
“Okay,” whimpered Luxworth.
The Lieutenant chose not to dwell on the combination of medication. From conversations with his sister’s pharmacist, he had become familiar with the drugs and what they were used for. He said a silent prayer for Luxworth as he headed for the door.
Chapter 51
“Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen! Right this way! See the sword-eating Claudius and the tiger-faced lady! Right this way, ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages!” The circus barker stood behind his rainbow-colored podium at the entrance to the Midway, a corridor of wonders that led toward the circus’s big top. “Our Midway is now open, ladies and gentlemen! And later tonight, our big top will open for the main event! A wonder of wonders! Not to be missed!”
The Pie in the Sky Circus was a traveling extravaganza that toured the East Coast, delivering weekends of joy and pleasure. Under three multicolored tents, it featured a “barrelful of clowns,” a troupe of trapeze artists, and a host of animal acts.
It was a bright Friday afternoon when Margaret arrived on the fairgrounds outside of Lester J. Coddinton Elementary School in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. The caller to the Tip Line, a clown named JellyBeans, had told the police to look for a red and yellow camper, just to the right of the big top.
Margaret walked to the camper and knocked on its door.
No one answered.
Just as she was about to knock again, a voice sounded.
“Who ya lookin’ for?”
Margaret followed the voice to the back of the camper, where she found a wafer-thin midget seated on a stool.
“You JellyBeans?” she asked.
“Nope. Ya lookin’ for work. Are ya?” said the little man.
“No. I’m looking for a clown. Goes by the name of JellyBeans.”
“Jelly’s my friend. Whaddya want with him?”
“He’s expecting me,” said the Sergeant.
“He’s expecting you, is he?” The little man squinted as if examining the Trojan Horse.
“That’s right. We spoke on the phone.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s personal,” said Margaret, amused.
“I’m on to you Immigration people, ya know. Always buttin’ in and stirrin’ up trouble. You people make me sick.”
“You gonna tell me where JellyBeans is or do I have to bust you for interfering in the investigation of a crime?” Margaret flashed the tin. JellyBeans! Good God!
“You callin’ my friend a criminal? Come down off that high and mighty horse of yours, sister, and fight like a man!” The dwarf climbed down from his stool, not a simple task, and squatted, kung-fu style.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” said Margaret, laughter now erupting. “Look. I’m not here to arrest anyone. I’m just here to ask your friend a few questions. Like I told you before, JellyBeans is expecting me.”
“Scared the pants off ya, didn’t I?” the dwarf gloated.
“That ya did.”
“Well if you must know, my bestest friend, Jelly, is sleepin’ it off right here in this camper. He drank buckets of swill last night and the show goes on in less than three hours.”
“Would it be asking too much to wake him for me? I’m asking this as a favor, mind you,” said Margaret, fighting the impulse to squat down to the little man’s level.
“Well…okay,” said the dwarf. “Give him a minute to freshen up.”
The dwarf disappeared inside the camper. Shortly after that, he stuck his head outside.
“Da-da-da-dah! His highness, Lord Jellsworth, will see you in his royal chamber! Step right this way.” He held open a rusted screen door.
Margaret entered the narrow camper.
“Follow me!” the dwarf ordered, leading Margaret into what could only be described as the master bedroom. In miniature.
There, stretched across a diminutive bed, lay a second dwarf.
“Please, world, stop spinning,” he pleaded.
“I’m gonna brew us some fresh coffee, Jel. It’ll fix ya right up,” the tiny man said. Then turning to Margaret, “How ’bout you, sweetums? Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Margaret. And, yes, I’d love some coffee.”
“Glad to meet ya,” the dwarf said, exiting. “They call me Hot Stuff.”
With a burst of energy, JellyBeans hoisted himself out of bed.
“Tough night?” asked Margaret.
“My birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday! You’re the one who called the police, right?”
“Sure did!”
“Feel well enough to tell me about this guy they call The Thing?” Margaret asked.
“He done it.”
“He done what?”
“The killings. That’s what he done. There’s no hiding place for him now. Not with his mug all over the news.”
Margaret took out the sketch and handed it to JellyBeans.
“This the guy?”
“The spittin’ image. Bragged about the murders, he did.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Where he always is this time of day, the rascal. In his cage! Look for the red tent.”
“And where would I find that?”
“At the top of the Midway.”
Margaret left just as Hot Stuff reappeared laden with a tray supporting three cups of coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The two would have to eat without her.
Outside, Margaret spotted the red tent and approached it. At its base, “The Thing” was inscribed on a wooden placard advertising the macabre oddity that was featured inside. Some curious thrill seekers had already gathered, waiting to be entertained by what was sure to be a ghastly experience.
The barker lectured the crowd. “The creature you’re about to see once roame
d the deserts of Arabia. He is the first of his kind to be captured alive. Do not trust your eyes, gentle visitor. For the manlike being is not human. He only assumes human shape to induce in you a sense of security and safety. Stare bravely into his eyes. Pay attention to his every move. For, if he feels you waver, he will change into an abomination, and before you can say ‘Boo!’ he will feed off your very flesh. Be warned, this exhibit is not for those of you with coronary weaknesses. Pregnant women, and children who suffer from insomnia, should likewise avoid entering these fright-filled halls.” He pulled back a portion of the crimson curtain. “All other brave souls are now invited to enter. Once inside, follow the dimly lit arrows embedded in the stone floor. They will lead you to a wooden door that marks the entrance to his lair.”
They lined up to enter. When it came to Margaret’s turn, the barker asked, “Have you listened closely to the warning, madam? Do you believe in the supernatural?”
“I do.” She lied.
“Are you prone to nightmares?”
“No. Are you?”
“Ghouls have been known to invade dreams.”
“Can’t be any worse than my day job.”
“Enter, then, at your own risk,” he cautioned, gesturing theatrically toward the opening in the curtain.
Aligante did just that and followed the illuminated arrows, which led through a winding corridor. Howling and yelping sounds echoed around her. Some twenty feet in, she came upon the door, which opened automatically. She ducked inside and found herself in a small auditorium that had stadium seating. The crowd that had preceded her had already taken their seats. Margaret joined them. An eerie silence filled the theater, broken intermittently by the giggles of wide-eyed children.
A drum sounded, sending a chill through the audience. Lights came on, illuminating a small stage. In its center stood the barker holding a cattle prod.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your last warning,” he cautioned. “What you’re about to witness will frighten the most courageous of men. Remember, The Thing is not of our world, nor, sadly enough, since his capture, his own. This creature belongs to a species long cursed by all of humanity, a living anathema to God. And mind you, he has not eaten human flesh since his nightly foraging in the Arabian desert, where he feasted on unfortunate nomads. But he can wait hundreds of years for his next meal. I further caution you, ladies and gentlemen, if you wear a cross, you are warned not to wear it inside your clothing. Display it boldly as an emblem of your faith. Your faith, the very essence of safe haven for you. An abomination for him.”
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