“Are you going to be able to run?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Damien said hollowly. “I can run.” His eyes were heavy and his shoulders slumped. Parker thought of the picture in the file folder—Daniel Banner, age 6, with a black eye and fractured collarbone.
“I think you’re in shock,” Parker said, pushing the last doorstop into place.
“No I’m not.”
“You are. But shock is good right now.” Somehow, analyzing their situation made it seem less hopeless. “You can deal with everything when we’re safely out of here.” He used his heel to kick the doorstops, one by one, hammering them into the narrow space beneath the door. There was no more sound coming from within.
“Did you get the gun or the phone?” Damien asked.
“No, neither,” Parker answered, ramming the last wedge into place. “Now let’s get out of here.”
The door buckled with an ear-splitting wham, moving the whole line of wooden doorstops an inch and launching the flashlight down the hall. Parker—still sprawled on the floor—kicked the door shut and began stomping the doorstops back into place. Light returned, Damien having detached himself from the wall long enough to rescue the now-dimming flashlight.
Whump! Again the door popped open, farther this time. Parker jammed it shut with both feet and scrambled to relodge the doorstops. One was missing. He could hear breathing and laughing from behind the door.
The third impact opened the door two inches, and Danny’s hand emerged through the crack, reaching, grasping. Parker kicked the door again, trying to uncoil like a jackhammer with every possible ounce of pressure. The hand retreated, and Parker was able to close the gap again. This was unsustainable, he realized, and glanced back to where Damien had been. But the light was gone now, along with his companion, and Parker’s outlook sank further.
“Damien?” His voice echoed down the hall. “Are you there?” No response. The laughter grew louder from in the boiler room.
“Damien, where are you?” he shouted.
Another explosion of weight against the door fired another of the doorstops across the hall into the darkness, leaving only three in place. The hand appeared again, groping for the doorknob. Parker thought of running for it, wondering if he could retrace his steps in the dark—when he heard the squeaking of wheels and a rumble of sheet metal coming in his direction. Then he saw the light.
Using the shoulder of his good arm, Damien was wheeling an enormous, old lever-style voting machine toward the door.
“Help me tip this over,” he commanded.
Parker jumped up and wrapped his arms around the top of the machine, pulling with all his weight. It teetered, then came crashing down, lurching forward into the door.
“There are more,” Damien said, and disappeared, leaving Parker in darkness again. He returned moments later with an identical machine, which the two of them tipped against the first.
“Now follow me,” he said authoritatively as he took off down the hall with great speed and surprising lightness, leaving Parker struggling to keep up. Damien hurdled chairs and dodged tables, unhampered by his gruesome injury. They took a left, heading back the way they had come.
“Stop a second,” Parker demanded, doubling over and fighting to catch his breath. All that time on the treadmill had been far more leisurely than this. “I think we’re—”
Damien shushed him. “What’s that? Do you hear that?” There was a rumble behind them and a scraping sound—quiet, but growing louder.
“I hear it.”
The two voting machines thundered past them, skidding down the hall on their sides as if they weighed nothing.
“Go!” Parker shouted. They took another left and then a right, pushing themselves, both sure they could feel Danny closing in. They raced past Brynn’s body, up the stairs, and down the hall.
“This way,” Damien huffed, veering left.
“No, the entrance is over here,” Parker said. He was indulging the idea of stealing the detective’s car. After all, he had the keys in his pocket.
“Trust me. I used to go here. We can lose him this way.”
They dashed through a large cafeteria, staying low, through a narrow kitchen, and out a back exit near a loading dock. The sharp, cold air brought no sense of freedom, serving only to heighten the terror that gripped Parker.
They were behind the school, an area illuminated only by the full moon and light pollution, yet surprisingly bright.
“Kill the light,” Parker whispered. “Let’s regroup at those trees.”
The trees in question were bare, diseased, and leaning precariously on a chain-link fence. Parker arrived first, pushing himself as far back into the scant darkness as he could.
“This isn’t exactly cover,” Damien observed, his voice a shrill whisper. “And I can’t climb this fence with handcuffs and a broken elbow.”
Parker noticed the makeshift T-shirt cast coming loose at the bottom.
“I don’t think he got his gun,” he said, looking for an upside, “and if he had a backup piece, I think he would have used it.”
“Did you see what he did back there?” Damien asked. “Those voting-booth things must weigh fifteen hundred pounds each. He doesn’t need a gun and he knows it.”
“So what do you suggest we do?”
“Go on without me.”
“No, Damien. I won’t.”
“We have no choice. I’m done. Look at me.”
Parker put his hand on Damien’s bare shoulder and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’m not going to abandon you like everyone else.”
“I’m not being noble, you idiot! If we separate, he’ll follow you.”
“Oh.” Parker wanted nothing less than to split up. He knew Damien was useless as an ally and would only slow him down, but there was something unbearably frightening about being hunted alone. “Why do you think he’d go after me? You’re wounded.”
“He can afford to let me get away. I’m the killer, remember? No one would believe my version of what happened here tonight. You on the other hand—he can’t have you talking to the police, the papers, the prosecutor. You’re a giant liability.”
“You’re right.” Parker surveyed his possible routes of escape. “Try and find a phone. Call the police and ask for Detective Kirkpatrick. Tell her I need her to rescue me.”
“Take the light,” Damien said, holding it out to Parker.
“You think that’ll help lead him away from you?”
“Can’t hurt.”
Parker snatched the light, leapt up on the fence, and began climbing—something he hadn’t done in twenty-five years. To his surprise, he was able to swing over the top on his first try. The neat landing he envisioned did not pan out, however, and his feet slipped out from under him. His elbows made contact with the ground again, sending a shock of pain in both directions. He clawed his way off the ground, up the chain-link fence, until he found himself face-to-face with his new ally. Their eyes locked for a moment, wrapped up in adrenaline, fear, and the strangeness of it all.
“Be careful,” Damien said.
“You too.”
TWENTY-FIVE
PARKER MADE HIS WAY UP THE ALLEY, EMERGING FROM between two shuttered storefronts. Despite the demon-possessed serial killer on his tail, he took a moment to fret about the safety of the neighborhood. The street was deserted, save for a homeless man pacing and mumbling at the litter as it scooted by in the strong breeze.
Ten years ago Parker would have expected to find a pay phone or two in the vicinity, but there were none. Across the street, two nearly identical red-tagged homes sat side by side. They were either abandoned or full of squatters, Parker decided. Either way, he was sure that introducing a dark, deserted old house to the present equation was a move in the wrong direction. Instead, he moved north up the street.
Parker weighed his options, reminding himself that Danny would not hesitate to kill anyone who got in the way. He needed to avoid families, homes with childr
en or old people. He needed a phone. He’d try to contact Corrinne. Or Troy. He’d even take Officer Dykstra right now. Failing a telephone, a business—someplace crowded or at least public—would do.
Cresting the hill, Parker saw nothing of the sort below. There was an old church—and Parker had certainly had more than his fill of those recently. Beyond that, another row of houses all dark and foreboding, a brownfield, and a factory or plant of some strain, likely idle.
I should never have stopped asking which way to go, he prayed. I’m asking now. I need wisdom or a sign. Anything.
At the top of the steeple, light from an unseen source glinted off the cross. It seemed to be beckoning. Parker didn’t hesitate; he threw himself down the hill, at times stumbling on the old brick street until he found himself smacking up against the door of the church, his lungs collapsing in on themselves.
The front doors were solid, each bearing a tall, narrow window, reinforced with wire mesh. Clearly, he would not be able to break in here, although he imagined Father Michael could gain access in no time at all. Even if he managed to break through the glass somehow, the windows were high up, far removed from the handle and ostensibly the latch. Desperately, he yanked on one of the doors—locked—and then the other.
It swung open easily, sending Parker tumbling back onto his butt. As the door closed slowly on its hydraulic arm, he saw the hand-lettered sign: Saturday Night Mass: 8:00, Open for Meditation Until 11:00. He could almost hear his grandfather approving. Security be damned, the church should be open for the people.
Pulling himself to his feet, Parker entered the church and was presented with an immediate choice: head up a few stairs into the rear of the nave, or down a few stairs into a drab hallway. He put off the decision and turned his attention to covering his back. What he needed was a way to lock the door behind him, to barricade himself in. The two wooden doorstops on the floor wouldn’t do the trick—he knew that from experience. Besides, this door swung out, not in. But maybe that was a good thing, Parker thought. Perhaps Danny’s strength would be less useful pulling than it had been slamming forward. After all, at some point, wouldn’t the door handles just break off?
The doors themselves were substantial. Antiques by the look of them. Their outer hardware was apparently original to the building. But inside, they had been retrofitted with the same sort of crash-bars as Parker’s own facility—the kind that locked and unlocked with a hex key. On a hunch, he went up on his toes and slid his fingers along the ledge above the door. A shower of dust came swirling down and an L-shaped Allen wrench clattered to the floor. Parker recovered it, his fingers sweaty and hands shaking, and on the fourth try was able to insert it into the lock mechanism and spin it counterclockwise until the bolt was in place.
Feeling significantly safer, he pocketed the key, took another few seconds to catch his breath, and descended the stairs, intent on finding a phone. Somewhere between the alley and the church, he’d remembered the Kent County Sheriff’s Department. They had authority throughout the city, Parker knew from one of his recreational fact-finding missions, but were officially unaffiliated with the Grand Rapids Police. He’d start with a call to them, then he’d access his voice mail and get Corrinne’s number from the message he’d saved. He thought of her walking him to his car and the way she’d pinned Dylan Eiler to the ground with such ease. He’d happily be rescued by her tonight.
The hallway downstairs smelled strongly of new carpet. It took a few tense seconds to find the light switch, and a few more for the fluorescent bulbs to stop flickering. The hall was a straight shot, undecorated save for a large print of Jesus—hair feathered, teeth white, cheeks rosy and high-boned. There were six or seven windowless white doors on either side of the hall, each with a carefully stenciled label.
Pastor’s Office, Church Office, Christian Education, Children’s Minister, Social Services. They’d all have phones, Parker realized. Jackpot. He gave the first door a yank. It was locked. As was the second. And the third. He rushed from door to door, down the hall then back up, praying for a forgetful staff member, an absent-minded janitor, a poorly constructed mechanism. He kicked the door to the church office with as much force as he could muster. It didn’t give. A minute later, Parker was back where he started, having spent the hallway’s potential. He left the light on and remounted the stairs to the vestibule.
Plan B.
The church proper was gorgeous, lit up like Christmas, particularly at the front where the sanctuary and transepts were filled with burning candles. Parker chided himself at the sight. What was he doing skulking around the bowels of the church? The building was open, the lights on, candles burning—there would be a priest here, an ally, a sympathetic man with keys to the offices below. Parker tore up the aisle, feeling irresistibly drawn to the large crucifix suspended in the apse, the outstretched arms of the likeness of Christ offering comfort and safety.
“Hello?” Parker called, the word disappearing into the high ceiling. No one answered, and he saw no one. “Is anyone here?” he shouted. Still nothing.
Parker’s newly acquired knowledge of church architecture brought him to the chancel and up the choir aisle, where he expected to find a door to the vestry, likely continuing into the sacristy and eventually out the other side of the church.
The door was indeed where Parker expected to find it, and it was wide-open. And standing in the doorway, blood caked along the side of his smiling face, was Daniel Paul Ketcham. He charged into Parker, sending him tumbling along the chancel, crashing into the altar.
“Too predictable, Saint,” Danny said, approaching with long, quick strides. “You thought we couldn’t enter a church. Admit it.”
“Sort of,” Parker muttered. With the aid of the altar, he pulled himself to his feet, surprised at his lack of surprise.
“Where’s your little friend?” Danny asked, scanning the church. “Rigging up a bucket of holy water? With a pinch of garlic and a little silver, maybe?” He stepped closer. “Or how about a cross? Maybe that will keep us away.” He snatched the brass cross from the altar and hurled it at Parker’s chest, knocking him again to the marble floor and clattering down next to him.
“A cross.” He scoffed. “Is there anything more pathetic than a bunch of Jesus freaks celebrating under the emblem of your own god’s death?” He pulled his knife from the scabbard on his belt. “Tell me, Saint, where is my little freethinker?”
“He’s far away by now. He’s safe, which means you’re through.”
“Nice try. But he’s safe nowhere. The man’s an escaped prisoner. His face is on every TV channel in the city. And who are they going to believe: a self-professed Satanist or a highly decorated detective? His blood is all over you, Parker. When Damien turns up, he’ll be placed back in our custody. And when he tries to escape, we’ll be forced to kill him. But first we’re going to kill you, before you squirm out of our grip again.”
The ka-chung of a door closing echoed up the church, followed by footsteps ascending the stairs. A man came walking up the aisle evenly. Despite his blurred vision, Parker could see the clerical collar and black garb.
“Get out of here!” Parker warned. “Run! Call the pol—” Danny silenced him with a foot to the chest.
The priest pulled a handgun from within his coat and leveled it at Danny. “Drop your weapon,” Father Xavier commanded, “and put your hands on your head.”
Danny wheezed a laugh. “Sign of the times, I guess,” he said, raising his hands but not dropping the knife.
“I haven’t called the police yet, my son,” Xavier said. “Why don’t you just leave this house of God and let me tend to your victim?”
“I am the police, Padre. I’m a detective with the GRPD, and this man is a murder suspect. Now, please lower your weapon and allow me to do my job.”
“Since when do policemen use knives?”
Danny shrugged. “Since when do priests carry guns?”
“Father Xavier!” Parker yelled. “He’s the
one!”
Xavier squinted. “Parker?”
With a snap of his arm, Danny put the knife squarely into its target. Xavier fell to his knees, his gun clacking to the ground. He pulled the knife from his throat in a wide arc, sending blood spurting everywhere. His other hand went tightly around his throat—a vain attempt to hold it all in—then he went facedown to the floor, a deep red puddle growing around him.
Danny’s eyes, wide and ecstatic, were locked on the gruesome scene. Parker tore his own eyes away from the dying priest and again found them drawn to a cross—the one lying on the floor, inches from his face. He knew he wouldn’t get a better opening. He needed to act now, while Danny was distracted.
He grabbed the cross by the very top and swung it toward Danny with all his might. It made a full rotation, an inch from the ground, and its heavy base connected solidly with Danny’s ankle. He stumbled back a step, his feet getting locked up against the brass crossbar, then caught the curved communion rail midthigh and flipped backward. He fell several feet into a small city of burning votive candles.
Instantly, Danny’s paint-and-chemical-soaked coat and hair went up in flames. He rolled to his feet and ran down the side aisle, shedding his coat as he went, the only sounds the puffing of his breath, the clapping of his dress shoes against the floor, and a loud, unsettling click from his ankle with every step.
Parker rolled under the rail, down the steps, and scrambled over to Father Xavier’s still form. The pool of blood around him was now several feet wide and still growing slowly. Parker squeezed the vomit back down his throat and pushed two fingers to the side of Xavier’s neck. There was no hint of a pulse.
Danny had reached the font in the back of the church and was baptizing himself by immersion, headfirst, extinguishing the flames. Parker knew he had just seconds. Where was Xavier’s gun? He frantically looked around the body, under pews, lifting kneelers, coming up empty.
Another glance to the back of the church revealed that the baptismal font was once again without occupant, and Danny was nowhere to be seen. Parker felt a surge of terror. Between facing Danny empty-handed and rolling Father Xavier onto his back, the latter was preferable, but not by much. He took a deep breath and yanked up on the priest’s arm. The body slid several inches on the wet tile but refused to turn. He tried again, surprised by the thin man’s dead weight.
Playing Saint Page 29
