He looked at her steadily, then took the pistol and aimed it at the missing center of the target. He fired twice, quickly, not taking the time to cock the hammer, and could feel the effort throw the muzzle off line. Then he opened the cylinder, popped the empty cases onto the floor, and jammed the pistol back into the case. He left without looking at her or saying a word, wondering why she was there, and what he was going to do next.
~ * ~
Olivia Feldman knew precisely what she was going to do. She had known shortly after she left Paul Blair's store.
After she had thought it through, she had gotten her car, parked near the small employee lot, and waited for Paul to appear. When he had, she had followed him, first to his home, and then to the Rose Point Sportsmen’s Club, where she had taken her gun box from her trunk and followed him inside. She had watched him and waited while he fired all his bullets, speaking to him only when he had two shots left, her arms crossed in front of her, her right hand on the butt of her .32 beneath her jacket.
But he had made no threatening move toward her, and now she heard the tires of his car send the loose stones of the driveway flying. She knelt and took a thin metal probe and a small plastic box from her gun box and walked the length of the room. Behind the targets was a plastic foam backstop, and she began to dig into it, tearing small pieces away until she reached the spent bullets, being careful not to touch the bullets with the probe.
He had been shooting a .38 revolver, and he had loaded wadcutters into it. There was nothing special in that. Most target shooters used wadcutters. What was special was that she had not seen him shoot that .38 before. The .38, she thought, was the key.
She worked a bullet out, then another, and another from where they had entered after passing through the black area of the target, and dropped them one at a time into the plastic box. She was pleased by how little they had been mangled. The few deformities probably came from when they struck other bullets in the backstop. Most of them looked like .38 slugs, but she thought there were also a few .45's among them, and definitely a peppering of small .22's, which she let remain on the floor where they fell. The others she continued to put into the box.
By the time she was done, she had what she thought were twenty spent .38's, more than enough to ensure that at least one of them was from Paul Blair's gun. And if any of them matched the slugs that came out of the Crusader's victims...
Well, then she would know why Paul had said what he did that afternoon. It would mean that he was the killer all along, and was trying to deflect suspicion from himself by placing the blame on Peter Hurst. It was the perfect setup -- kill an enemy of Christ for your own reasons, and then make it look like someone else's doing. The sword in the rectum was just ugly enough to suggest a mind warped by sodomy and sanctity, a revenge of a boy brutalized in his childhood.
That's not fair. You can't accuse him of this.
That's right, Mr. Blair. You just tell me what I can't do, in the hopes that I'll do it.
She might not have thought of it without his prompting. For a while, after she had left his office, she had seriously considered Peter Hurst's guilt. They had quickly learned that Reinhold had been discussed at the CCYC meetings, and a followup check of school records had shown that Peter had been a student of Reinhold's. It was possible.
But how could Peter Hurst have killed his own molester? Or committed and gotten away with a series of crimes that had taken place when he was a child and then a teen-ager? It was preposterous. Peter Hurst was a victim and a pitiful, right-wing fanatic, full of rage and perhaps capable of violence, but that didn't mean he was a murderer. What did Paul Blair hope to accomplish by placing the blame on the boy at this late date?
But she was getting ahead of herself. Get the bullets examined first, get a match, and then -- get the killer. The rest would all follow.
She closed the plastic box of bullets, and put it back into her gunbox. It rattled like bones as she walked out the door to her car.
Chapter 51
Tom Fredericks was away overnight, but would be back in Buchanan the next day, which was Sunday. Olivia left the box of bullets in the lab, along with a note that asked Fredericks to compare the markings of the .38 slugs with those used in the Crusader killings. Then she called his home number and left a message on his machine begging him to go in to the lab as soon as he got back on Sunday. A positive match on Paul Blair's bullets would be enough to get a warrant issued for his arrest. Then they could seize his guns for evidence, do some test firing, and make 100% sure that the .38 was the murder weapon.
If she was able to arrest him, though, she didn't think she'd even need the firearms evidence. He would confess. He had been sent on a mission by God, and she suspected that he would be proud of that, and, faced with even flimsy evidence, all too ready not only to admit what he had done, but to proudly take credit for it.
But something nagged at her. If he was the killer, and her psychological profile of him was a realistic one, then why had he wanted to blame Peter Hurst for the last crime?
Or was he just a stone killer, only using religion as an excuse for murder? Would he unconditionally deny everything? Did he just get some kind of jollies out of shooting and stabbing people? Was this U. S. Marshall for the Lord routine just an act?
She thought about it for a long time before she was finally able to go to sleep.
~ * ~
Peter Hurst did not sleep at all. Just as Olivia Feldman was thinking about him, so was he thinking unceasingly about Olivia Feldman.
And dreaming about her, in those few placid moments between fitful starts and awakenings, and wondering just exactly how to do it. In his dreams, she was tied the way the girl in the magazine had been tied, and he was doing things to her, but with a pistol instead of a club, and when he was done, he knew that he would kill her.
When he awoke, he went over in his head the reasons she had to die. First of all, she suspected him. That was why she was in Paul's office, wasn't it? To ask the suspect's employer questions? But maybe she was there for another reason too -- because she liked Paul, and Paul liked her too, Peter could see that. Maybe they were already doing it, and soon maybe they'd even get married, and then it would be over between Paul and him, and Paul might start telling her secrets, things he knew, and that wouldn't be good at all, would it? And she wasn't a good woman, not good at all. That had been obvious when she spoke in front of his group, mocking them. No, she was an unrepentant sinner, that much was certain, and she was a Jew too, even though she didn't look Jewish...
And the reasons went on and on, spinning round in his head until he knew that he should not, could not let her live. In between the reasons, the sleeping dreams came and went, and soon the visions of ropes and metal and flesh grew dim and were replaced by another dream of violence, a dream that he hardly ever had anymore, not since he had killed Douglas Ryan.
He dreamed of a hot day in the woods, and a terrible, painful weight on his small, young body, and of a pain that blotted out everything -- thoughts of his home, his mother, his father, thoughts of any life to come beyond this red, wet day. He dreamed of the man who had saved him with a soft voice and a loud gun, and of being held tenderly in the darkness, and of opening his eyes to bright lights and a woman's voice...
...and her face...
He awoke, opened his eyes, and stared into the darkness of his room, and the final reason took shape.
He would have to kill Olivia Feldman, not because she suspected his triumphs, but because she knew his shame.
And he would make her pay for that knowledge. He would make her feel all the pain he had felt on that green and red and burning day, and far more. He remained awake through the rest of the night, deciding how he would do it, and by the time Sunday morning came and he was dressing for church, he had spawned his plan.
Chapter 52
He had been a defender, but now he had become the opposite. A corrupter, a defiler of the innocent he had sought to protect.
> Paul Blair had gotten no rest the night before. When he knew he would not be able to sleep, he had gotten up, sat with his Bible in the den, and placed the two compact discs of Verdi's opera, I Lombardi, into the carousel player.
They were crusaders too, he thought, listening to the musical story of the Lombards in the First Crusade, and many of them, due to misplaced passions, had died and brought death to others. But in the end, the good triumphs, and the reward is received in Heaven.
Perhaps, he thought, that was where he had gone wrong, in expecting his reward in this world, when he should have sought for it in the next. In this world there was only pain and death and suffering, and in his attempt to alleviate it for other Christians he had caused all too much himself. And what he had done to Peter was inexcusable.
He had joined forces with the late and unlamented William Davonier to make the boy a monster in his own right, one who would kill for the most inconsequential reasons. And now, this latest death, this mutilation, was more than Paul could excuse.
Robert Reinhold's killing had been a great sin that blackened not only Peter's soul but Paul's as well. And by the time the music had ended in a swell of glory, Paul had made up his mind that such a thing must never be repeated. The only way to do that was to go to the authorities and tell everything that had happened, beginning with that day in the woods all those years before. He would lay his crimes before the law and pay them the price they asked -- his liberty or his life. And then he would lay his deeds before God, and accept whatever judgment his Lord made.
But he would not go to Olivia Feldman and her jails and courts alone. He would have to take Peter with him. He had no desire to punish the boy, but only to make sure that Peter never killed again. He had seen deeply enough into the boy's soul to know that such a guarantee was impossible. And he felt sure that Peter would not want to voluntarily turn himself in.
Paul would have to talk to him, sit him down and make him see that the only way he could ever make a cathedral out of his life was to tear down the abattoir that had first been built. It might take years of treatment, but he had no doubt that Peter could be back on the street someday, cured, healthy, doing God's work without bloodshed. But in order for that to occur they would have to bear their deeds and souls to God and man.
He sat in silence, held his Bible, and waited for morning.
~ * ~
When it came, he showered and shaved carefully, then put on a dark suit, white shirt, and a tie. He wanted to look respectable when he went to the police station and asked for Olivia Feldman. He thought of calling Peter, but didn't know what he would say over the phone. This was something that would have to be done face to face. There was time to go to Peter's house, and hopefully catch him before he left for church.
But before Paul left his house, he put Peter's .45 and his .38 revolver into padded cases, along with a box of the wadcutters he had used with the .38. He would give them to Olivia Feldman when he and Peter told her their story. If she needed proof beyond their word, the guns would supply it all too well.
Paul arrived at Peter's house just as the boy's car, a light blue Honda Civic, pulled out of the driveway. Paul thought of honking the horn, but if he did that, Peter’s parents might come out. So he decided to follow Peter to his church and talk to him in the parking lot.
But to his surprise, at the end of the street Peter turned right instead of left, and headed out of town. Was he, Paul wondered, attending some other church this morning?
As the area changed from residential to commercial and the traffic increased, Paul found it harder to keep track of Peter's car, and on Route 11 he was caught by a red light that lasted well over a minute. By the time he came over the crest of the hill where he had last seen the Civic, it was gone. Paul increased his speed, but drove for several miles without a glimpse of Peter's car.
He turned around in the parking lot of a McDonald's, sure that the boy must have either outrun him or turned off a side road. At any rate, Paul had lost him, and decided to go home and try to contact Peter later in the day.
He was driving back toward Buchanan, when he happened to glance into the parking lot of a store that sold pornography. He was just thinking how good it was that trash peddlers were barred from having stores in downtown Buchanan and had to settle for the strip areas like Minton Township, when he saw Peter Hurst's Civic parked in the lot.
The sight brought his foot off the gas so that he was easing onto the shoulder of the road when he saw Peter himself, dressed as if for church, come quickly out the front door. He ran to his car, something clutched under his arm, climbed in, and drove out of the lot, heading back toward Buchanan.
My God, what has he done? was Paul's first thought. Had Peter gone into the pornography store and killed someone? It was all too possible, and, he feared, probable. There were no other cars in the lot. The boy might have waited for such an opportunity and then gone in to dispatch another sinner. Although Paul wanted to follow Peter, he knew that he had to see for himself what he had done.
He crossed the lanes, drove into the parking lot, and parked near the door. The windows were painted over, so he could not see inside. He got out, went to the front door, and opened it cautiously. There was rock and roll music playing inside, and he stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Paul sighed in relief as he saw an overweight, middle-aged man sitting behind a counter at the front of the room. The man was smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine about cars. He was gloriously alive, and gave no indication that any blood had been shed in that store on that morning.
But then, Paul thought with another twinge of panic, what had Peter been doing in here? And what had he taken out under his arm? What would make him come to this foul place on a Sunday morning?
Paul walked up to the man at the counter and said, "Excuse me." The man looked up, eyes narrowed against his drifting cigarette smoke, and said nothing, but eyed Paul appraisingly. "That boy who was just in here?" The man still did not respond. "What did he do?"
The fat man took the cigarette out of his mouth and drawled, "What boy?"
"The one who just left. Wearing a suit and tie."
"I didn't see any boy," the man said, looking back at his magazine.
"No, you see, it's important," Paul said. "I know you probably don't like to, uh...tell tales about your customers, but this is very important."
"Hey," the man said, still looking at his car magazine. "You wanta buy anything?"
"No. Definitely not."
"Then fuck off. Get outta here."
"You don't understand, I need to know why that boy was in here."
"You don't need to know shit. Now buy somethin' or fuck off."
Paul looked at the man, feeling hot anger build in him at being spoken to in that way. He had to know why Peter was there. He had to find out. "You're not going to tell me?"
The man put his magazine down with a slap that startled Paul. "Look, fuckhead, I got an axe handle behind here, okay? And it would look pretty fuckin' good upside your fuckin' head. Now fuck off!"
For a moment, Paul answered the man's angry glare with one of his own. Then he turned, went out the door to his car, and got in. He glanced around the parking lot to make sure that no one else had arrived, then reached under the seat, unzipped the padded case that held his .38, loaded it with five cartridges, and held it by his side as he walked back into the store.
The fat man gave a mock sigh of exasperation when he saw Paul re-enter. "Jesus Christ," he said, reaching under the counter and coming out with a three-foot piece of wood, "you don't listen good, do ya?" But before he could even raise it menacingly, Paul had stuck the pistol in his face. The man gawked at it, then dropped the axe handle and slowly gestured upward toward the opposite wall. "That's a security camera, man -- that sees everything you do."
"So does God," Paul said softly. "Now come around from behind there and answer my questions or I'll shoot you." The man did as he was told, and was soon standin
g next to Paul, his hands in the air. "Let's lock the door first." The man nodded feebly, walked with Paul to the front door, and threw several locks. "Now, said Paul, "why was the boy here?"
"He bought some swingers' magazines, that's all."
"What are they?"
"Just...like a magazine for swingers, you know, with photos and addresses and shit."
"People who want to have sex," Paul said.
"Yeah, yeah, sure..."
It didn't make sense. The idea that Peter would try and find sexual partners from one of these magazines was incomprehensible. And why buy them on Sunday morning, when he would normally have been at church?
"Has he ever been in here before?"
The man's face clouded over, as though he were trying to remember. Then Paul saw his eyes brighten, but almost instantly feign ignorance. "No. No, I never seen him before."
"You're a liar," Paul said, holding the pistol perfectly steady. "He was in here before for something, now what was it?"
"I don't..." the man babbled, "...I don't, don't know, don't remember, I swear..."
"You're lying."
"I, I...some magazines, he bought some skin mags."
"Is that all?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure, that's all..." The man's lies were laughingly transparent.
"Tell me the truth. You tell me the truth and I'll let you live, you lie and I'll shoot you."
The man's eyes filled with tears and he began to whimper. "Aw Jesus, mister, I got a kid...a little girl..."
"And it's your choice whether or not she's orphaned. Now what else did you sell that boy?"
The fat man almost choked on the words, and Paul was afraid he was going to vomit from fear. "Some...drugs."
What was happening here? What was Peter doing? "What kind of drugs?"
The man breathed heavily, and long ropy strands of mucus slid from his nose over his upper lip. He sniffed, but they clung there like worms. He had to say the word several times before he got it out. "Heroin," he said finally. "And a kit."
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