Defenders of the Faith

by Williamson, Chet

  "A kit?"

  "Yeah...to shoot it, you know, a needle and stuff."

  "When was this?" Paul had felt warm before, hot with anger and retribution. But now he felt cold. The knowledge was clutching his heart with fingers as chilly as death.

  "I...um...a few months ago. Like, like three months maybe?"

  "Could it have been in May?"

  The man's face brightened at the possibility of agreeing with Paul. "Yeah, yeah, I think maybe it was. Around there."

  "One more question. Did he ever buy any more drugs from you? Any more heroin?"

  The fat man actually thought hard, trying to please this calm, terrifying man who was holding a gun in his face. "No, no, he never did. That's the truth, really."

  Paul nodded. "I know."

  "Look...will you let me go now? Please? I swear to you I won't say nothing to nobody about this."

  "No, you probably won't. But I don't care if you do anymore. I don't care."

  ~ * ~

  The man in the suit kept the gun extended. The fat man's face quivered with terror, and he squeezed shut his small piggy eyes so that he would not see the shot when it came.

  But instead of hearing the gun fire, he heard instead the sound of the door locks being opened. Still, he did not dare open his eyes, not even when he heard the door swing shut. He tried to hear the sounds of the man with the gun over the blare of rock from his radio, but heard nothing. He kept his eyes closed, and stood there trembling.

  His next customer, a truck driver, found him like that twenty minutes later. It wasn't until the trucker called his name that the fat man opened his eyes and sucked in a huge breath and knew that he was going to live.

  Chapter 53

  At another time Paul Blair might have killed the man. A peddler of pornography, and a drug dealer besides. But there had been enough killing. If the man deserved to die, let the Lord guide someone else to that work. Paul was done with it.

  His despair was so great that he felt he was done with everything, that life was a burden too great to bear. Peter Hurst, the boy he had thought of as his son, was a murderer, having killed not only those like Douglas Ryan who deserved death, but the innocent as well.

  He had killed Rand Evans, Paul was sure of it. His tirade against Christian rock, the unlikely and totally unexpected circumstances of Rand's death, then Peter moving in so quickly to make Jessica his girlfriend -- it all fit together now. Peter must have planned it in advance, buying the drugs and staging the killing so it would look like an accidental overdose. And it had. Everyone had accepted it without question, Paul included.

  He found himself driving aimlessly, heading back toward Buchanan, and pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the ignition, and sat and thought about Peter Hurst. Why had he gotten those magazines? There could be only one reason -- to seek out adulterers to kill, or people who might spread the AIDS virus, or some other insane and half thought out reason.

  But no more. Paul had to stop it. He would go to the police now, right away. Olivia Feldman would be the one. She knew what had happened to Peter, and, for that matter, what had happened to Paul. She would listen, and might be more sympathetic than those who didn't know him. He didn't expect her, or anyone, to approve, but he hoped she might understand, just a little.

  He looked through the window at nothing, and it started to rain, lightly at first, then with heavy, pounding drops that hid most of the world from view.

  ~ * ~

  In her carriage house apartment, Olivia Feldman looked out at the rain coming down through the trees, and wished that Tom Fredericks would call with the report on the bullets. He might have gotten back early this morning, but in a worst case scenario, she realized he might arrive late in the evening and not even go into the lab until Monday.

  Then the phone startled her out of her worries, and she snatched it up on the first ring. "Hello?"

  "Olivia, Tom," said the laconic voice at the other end.

  "Yes, Tom, you got my message?"

  "I not only got your message, I got your results. Got in late last night and went in first thing this morning, you sounded so anxious. You want to hear?"

  "Shoot."

  "They're the same. I think you got your boy."

  Olivia barely choked down a triumphant yes. "They match then."

  "Of the slugs you gave me," Tom answered, "I had twelve out of twenty that I could compare markings on, and they were a definite match with your murder slugs. I left a full report on your desk."

  "God love you, Tommy."

  "You gonna pick up this guy?"

  "Yeah. I'll call Judge Burke for a warrant now. By the time he's done Rich should be in. Thanks a lot, Tommy. I owe you one."

  She hung up the phone and started laughing, low in her throat. She felt buoyed and exhausted and relieved and jubilant all at once, and went and poured herself another cup of coffee. Then she sat in the rattan chair in the kitchen breakfast nook and looked into the thick green foliage of her landlord's back yard. His family was away for the weekend, and the grounds were all hers. She felt like putting on a bathing suit and walking through the warm rain, the thick wet grass under her feet.

  But she would do that later, maybe this afternoon after Paul Blair was safely behind the walls of the county prison, and she had filed her report and had a drink with Rich Zielinski to celebrate finally closing the case that had been open so many years. Now she had to take care of business.

  She was happy to find that Judge Burke was home when she called. She explained the case and the firearms evidence, but when she said Paul Blair's name, the judge was silent for a moment. "Are you sure of this, Lieutenant?" he said in the stentorian tones that wilted criminals when he used it from the bench. "I know this man. He doesn't seem the type."

  "I realize that, your honor, but I'm absolutely sure. Mr. Blair has been a suspect for some time now on just circumstantial evidence, and this new firearms evidence is incontrovertible. I gathered it myself. His gun killed five victims that we know of over a period of fifteen years." There was still silence. "He's the one, judge. May I have a warrant?"

  "Of course," he said brusquely, as though annoyed that she asked when he knew very well what she wanted. "Come by here in a half hour and I'll have it for you." He hung up without saying goodbye.

  The time for relaxing was over. She hung up and walked toward the bathroom, thinking that by the time she had a shower, Rich would be at headquarters, and she could call him and tell him to meet her at the judge's house. But just as she was about to slip off her robe, the phone rang again. When she picked it up, Peter Hurst was on the other end.

  ~ * ~

  Peter had wasted no time after he left the porno shop. He had bought three swingers' magazines, one recent one and two back issues. Once he had gotten a good distance away from the store, he had pulled over and, using a pencil and several different types of cheap pens, he circled dozens of what were undoubtedly false names and real phone numbers of the naked men pictured therein, most of them with erections. He tried to choose the roughest looking types he could find, and as many as possible whose faces were partly obscured. It would give the police a lot less to go on, and a lot more false trails to follow.

  When he was finished, he put the pens and pencil back in his jacket pocket, tossed the magazines in the back seat, and began to look for a pay phone.

  The first call he made was to police headquarters. He deepened his voice when he asked for homicide, and did so again when a Detective Zielinski answered. "Is Olivia Feldman there, please?"

  "I'm sorry, Lieutenant Feldman's not on duty today. Can I help you?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "You want to leave a message for her?"

  Peter said nothing more, just hung up. Then he grinned inside the phone booth, listening to the heavy pellets of rain strike on the roof. "Thank you, Jesus," he said. She would be home then. That was perfect. And what was even more perfect was that there was only one O. Feldman in the Buchanan
phone directory. It was on Congreve Road, a pretty rich neighborhood, but maybe she had an apartment over a garage or something. He hoped she didn't live with her folks. That would make things tricky, but not too much. The houses up there were few and far between. But he had to have her let him in. For his plan to work, there couldn't be a forced entry.

  Forced entry. He chuckled at the sound of the words in his mind. He would force an entry all right. He stuck coins in the slot and dialed the number.

  ~ * ~

  "Hello?" Olivia said impatiently. She hoped it wasn't her mother in Lock Haven. She often called on Sunday mornings because she knew Olivia would be home, and it was the perfect situation to yammer at her about going to church and meeting some nice man. Olivia never had time for it, but she had even less this morning.

  There was no response, but Olivia thought she heard low sobbing or breathing on the other end. One of those calls? she wondered, and was about to hang up when she heard the caller speak.

  "Detective?" it said. "Detective Feldman?" It was a young man, and he sounded as though he had been crying.

  "Yes?"

  "This is Peter Hurst, ma'am. I work for Mr. Blair?"

  "Yes, I saw you in his store the other day."

  "Yeah..." She heard him take a deep breath. "I've got to talk to you, ma'am. It's very important." He had been crying, she was sure of it, and he seemed about to begin again at any minute.

  "What's this all about..." She had been about to call him Mr. Hurst, but decided that a more maternal tone might be better. "...Peter?"

  "It's about Mr. Blair," he said. "I've found out...some terrible things. I need to talk to somebody...to you...about them."

  It was almost too good to be true. Maybe Paul Blair was right -- maybe there was a God. "All right, Peter. If you want to make a statement, why don't we meet down at police headquarters."

  "Noooo," he wailed, "I don't want it to be a statement, not official, I just want to talk with you, to tell you what I know."

  "Well, that's fine too. Now why don't you meet me downtown in, say, fifteen minutes." The shower -- and the judge -- could wait.

  "No." The voice trembled, but sounded stubborn. "I can't go to that place, ma'am. I've never been in that place since...since I was little. I'm sorry, I just can't."

  Jesus, she thought, to be seared that deeply by memories. She felt sure that his parents hadn't had to bring him downtown more than a couple of times. But apparently that had been enough. "All right then," she said gently. He seemed like a wounded bird that a rough word would send flapping off in pain. "What about if we met on the square downtown, under the arcade."

  "No, no, I don't want anyone to see me...not with you, with a detective, not yet..."

  "Fine, look, why don't you come to my place then? There'll be nobody here, and I won't take any notes or tape anything, all right?"

  "I don't know...I mean I want to, but..."

  "Peter, nobody's going to hurt you, okay? And you don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. But if you have something you think you ought to tell me, I'd really like to hear it. Okay?"

  There was a long pause. "All right...all right, I guess so."

  She told him how to get to her place, and to drive past the main house until he reached the carriage house at the rear of the grounds. He thanked her, and said he'd be there as soon as he could.

  After she hung up, she quickly got dressed and put another pot of coffee on to brew, wanting to have something to offer Peter when he got there.

  Chapter 54

  Rich Zielinski had arrived at police headquarters five minutes after Tom Fredericks had left. The phone had rung as soon as he walked in, and he fielded a call asking for Olivia Feldman. Fat chance of getting her today, Zielinski thought, and smiled as he passed the closed door to Olivia's office.

  Sunday morning was sacred to his boss, not because she went to church, but because that was the morning she liked to stay home with the Sunday New York Times, and Sunday Morning on CBS.

  Zielinski wondered who it had been on the phone, then decided they'd call back if it was important. He went into his own cubicle, opened the bag of egg and sausage biscuits and coffee from Hardee's, and gave the Buchanan Sunday News a cursory, fifteen-minute reading. Then he tossed the bag of trash into the wastebasket and decided he'd better do a little work while manning the fort. So he started to go through some files on a robbery/murder that had taken place two weeks before. It was a scenario that had become all too usual, a crack addict robbing a convenience store, getting panicked over nothing, and blowing away the clerk. It was open-and-shut, but still the homework had to be done. Amazingly enough, you could still lose these cases if all the paperwork wasn't done right.

  He was flipping through the file when the phone rang again. "Homicide," he said.

  "This is Paul Blair," said the voice on the line. "Is Lieutenant Feldman in?"

  Zielinski recognized the name. Olivia had talked to this man about the Crusader killings. "No, she's not in this morning, Mr. Blair. Can I help you with anything?"

  "Is she at home?" He sounded tense, like something was on his mind.

  "She will be in tomorrow, sir. Would you like to leave a message for her to call you?"

  "No. No, thank you." Then Blair hung up.

  What the hell was that all about? he wondered. Olivia seemed to be pretty popular this morning. He decided to give her a call at home and let her know about Blair's call, but when he dialed, there was no answer. That was funny, he thought. She usually had her machine on when she was out. Maybe she was just in the bathroom or something. He would try again later.

  But he would not reach her on the phone. He was too late. Peter Hurst had already arrived at Olivia Feldman's home.

  ~ * ~

  Through her front window, she saw him park his car next to hers. He sat inside for a moment, as if trying to steel himself to tell her whatever it was that upset him so, then got out. He didn't seem to notice the rain, though he was wearing a long, loose windbreaker against it. He stopped for a moment, leaned against his car, and either sobbed or took a deep breath, she couldn't tell which. Then he walked up to her door.

  When she opened it, she could see that he had been crying. With his rain and tear streaked face, and his hands jammed deeply into his pockets, he looked like the hurt and vulnerable little boy she had found years before.

  "Come in, Peter," she said, and stepped back for him to enter.

  "Thank you," he said in a hollow voice as he walked in.

  She let him precede her up the stairs to her apartment. "Hang your jacket on a hook there," she told him when they reached the top. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "Yes, please, ma'am." Maybe he was a little fascist, but he was unfailingly polite.

  As he unzipped his jacket, she turned to get a mug. But before her hand could touch it, something exploded in her head, and suddenly the mug seemed very far away, as if it were falling down a deep well whose sides turned from white to red to black, and when the side of the well turned black, she fell into it too, following the mug down into the darkness.

  ~ * ~

  Rich Zielinski had been working on his case file for several minutes, when he realized that he was missing a transcript he needed. He thought Olivia might have been reading it, and went into her office to see if it was in the pile of papers she stacked tidily on top of her desk whenever she left for the day.

  The stack was there, but what he saw on top of it made him forget all about the transcript. It was the firearms report that Tom Fredericks had placed there earlier that morning. At first Zielinski glanced at it idly, but the post-it note caught his eye:

  Congrats -- looks like you got yourself a Crusader.

  Tom

  He picked it up and read it then, and muttered, "Holy shit," when he read the name, Paul Blair.

  Christ, the guy had called not ten minutes ago, asking for Olivia. Zielinski jumped on the phone and dialed her number again. It was busy. Maybe she'd b
een out before and was talking now. Should he wait and try again?

  But what did Blair want with her? And would he go to her house?

  "Fuck this," Zielinski said, slamming down the phone. He stopped in his cubicle just long enough to slip on his shoulder holster and pistol, and then ran out to the officer at the desk. "I've got to go to Olivia's place right away. Try to call her. If you get through, tell her that Paul Blair was looking for her. Paul Blair -- you got that?"

  ~ * ~

  The rain was coming down no less heavily as Paul pulled into the long driveway that led to Olivia's home. He hoped she was there and not away for the weekend. Now that he had made up his mind to tell the truth and purge his soul, he felt he could not wait another day. If it turned out she wasn't there, he would go downtown and take his chances with whatever officers were on duty. Maybe, once he surrendered, they would call her, wherever she was. He had no doubt that she would come in quickly to hear his confession and his accusation of Peter Hurst. He just hoped that they would apprehend him before he hurt anyone else.

  Please, God, he prayed, let this end with no more deaths -- on Peter's conscience or mine.

  Then he saw what he had expected least, of all things, to see. Peter Hurst's Civic was parked by the carriage house.

  Paul was stunned. Why was the boy here? First he had gone to the porno shop, and then come to the home of the very police officer who was trying to solve the crimes that he and Paul had committed. Peter had hated Olivia, telling Paul not to trust her, that she would betray him. She was a threat to his very freedom...

  And what would Peter Hurst do with a betrayer and a threat?

  The truth hit Paul and made him slam his foot down on the brake pedal of his car thirty yards away from the carriage house. The trip to the porno store had to have something to do with Olivia. Just as Peter had used the drugs to disguise his killing of Rand Evans, so he would somehow use the magazines to cover up his killing of Olivia Feldman.