by Mike Omer
Mel tapped a response, and Katy’s attention wandered. The street was nearly empty, except for someone walking behind them. Hadn’t he been following them for a while? She tried to remember when she’d first heard his footsteps. She glanced furtively backward. It was a man, and as soon as she turned her head, their eyes locked.
She quickly turned away, heart thumping. The guy seemed . . . weird. Something was wrong with the way he lumbered, with his posture, with his face.
“Oh, look.” Mel laughed. “Now she’s saying—”
“I think the guy back there is stalking us,” Katy whispered. He was about ten yards away. Could he hear her?
Mel glanced back abruptly.
“Don’t!” Katy hissed at her.
“He’s just walking,” Mel said casually. “It’s the street, Katy. People are allowed to walk.”
But now they were both quiet as they strode, tense. There was hardly any traffic. Was he walking faster? He was definitely walking faster. He was gaining on them. There really was no one else on the street. How could that be? Was it that late?
Mel grabbed Katy’s hand. She tried to smile, but her eyes were wide, lips trembling. Without saying a word, they both began marching faster, breathing hard. She didn’t dare look back, but she heard his footsteps and even his breathing. Deep, raspy, wrong.
They were running now, and Mel glanced back and let out a shriek, and Katy felt as if her heart were lodged in her throat. The night’s air was cold, and she swallowed it in fast gulps, burning in her lungs.
And then she saw Buddy’s Drugstore on the other side of the street, and she yanked Mel’s hand, dragging her friend across the road, through the parking lot, and past the glass door, which thankfully was unlocked. Once they were inside, Katy slammed the door and stared outside through the glass. It instantly fogged with her breath, obscuring the dark street.
“Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?” Buddy asked from behind the counter, face twisted in anger. “You tryin’ to break the door?”
Mel sobbed, a faint stain on her crotch. Katy wiped the glass and peered outside. There was no one there.
He lowered his head, walking back home, heart pounding in his ears. His mind was in turmoil, and he had difficulty concentrating. He kept imagining those two girls as he came closer and closer. His fists clenched and unclenched. The need gnawed in his guts, clouding his thoughts, making his movements erratic, lurching. He needed to go back home, get himself under con—
And there was a woman, a baby in her arms, walking toward him. He could smell the baby. Its scent was as sweet as nectar. He didn’t remember where he was going anymore. Because a baby couldn’t fight back, couldn’t run. And all he needed to do was grab the baby when he was close enough and run with it somewhere safe. A few minutes alone with the baby, and he’d be better, he knew.
The woman walked past him, a few feet away, and he almost made a grab for it.
Almost.
But he managed to stop himself in time, think it through. The woman would fight. She knew how he looked. He didn’t live far away. The police would find him.
He turned around and watched her melt into the darkness. What was wrong with him? He was supposed to be in control.
He would go back home and talk to Daniel. He’d know what to do.
But which way was home? He was momentarily lost, his surroundings looking strange and unfamiliar. He panicked, his breathing fast and shallow, dizziness assailing him. Opening his mouth, he was about to scream, when a car drove past him, honking. He blinked, startled, and the street swam into focus. Of course he knew where he was. He lived just a short walk away.
But just across the street was a shop he recognized all too well. He’d stopped in front of the display window endless times before, mesmerized.
On the right side was a huge aquarium, full of glimmering fish, the aquarium’s blue light rippling in the water. It illuminated several cages to its left. A pair of white rabbits in one, several hamsters in another, and a very large cage with four Labrador puppies.
He’d entered the store once, thinking of buying two or three puppies, but had lost his nerve when the girl behind the counter had asked if she could help him. No girl behind the counter now. The store was dark, aside from the aquarium’s blue light.
The store stood in the corner of an alley, and it had a small window on the alley’s side. But it was still large enough for a grown man to crawl through.
And it could be broken with a brick, the shattering glass hardly heard over the sound of the traffic.
He had just begun cleaning up his room when Daniel opened the door. Daniel’s eyes widened.
“What the hell happened here?” Daniel asked.
The man in control raised his hands in a reassuring gesture. “It’s just hamsters,” he said.
Daniel’s face twisted in disgust. “Hamsters?” His eyes scanned the bucket of soapy water, the bloodstains on the floor, the messy cleaver and cutting board, the pieces of bone and skin. “What did you do?”
“I just needed some blood, for my condition. It’s no big deal.”
“Where did you get hamsters in the middle of the night? Is there an all-night delivery for hamsters?”
“I broke into a pet shop.” His voice was matter of fact. He had everything under control again. “Their cage was small. It was easy to take.”
“Where?” Daniel’s face suddenly went pale. “Where did you do this?”
“There’s a pet shop not far from here.”
Daniel slammed his palm on the door, and the sound made the man in control flinch. It was the first time he’d ever seen Daniel lose his temper. He was always so nice and cheerful. That was one of the best things about him. Without saying a word, Daniel turned away and left the room.
He decided to give Daniel some space. He focused on cleaning the bloodstains. When he was done, the water in the bucket had dirty pink tufts of fur floating on the surface. He took the cleaver and board to the kitchen and began to wash them in the sink. He felt Daniel step into the room and watch him as he did it.
“Listen,” Daniel said. His voice was soft, gentle. “You can’t do shit like that. The police are looking for us. You can’t break into a damn pet shop near your home, okay?”
“I had to,” he began to say. “I needed—”
“I know what you need. I understand. You don’t act alone, okay? You come to me. We’re in this together—you know that.”
“Sure, but I needed some blood, fast. And they’re just a few hamsters. It’s not a big deal.”
Daniel seemed to mull it over, then lowered his head. “This whole thing with Catherine put too much stress on you. I . . . I’m sorry. You shouldn’t risk yourself on my account. I should turn myself in.”
“No! Absolutely not!” He was aghast. “You can’t do that. I’m fine . . . I’m really fine.”
“You’re obviously not. I can understand what you’re going through. You’re under a lot of pressure with the police investigation. It’s no wonder you’re getting these uncontrollable urges.”
“It won’t happen again, I swear! I’m back in control.”
“Yeah?”
“It was a one-time thing, and it was stupid. I’ll come to you immediately if I have any urges again.”
For a moment they were both silent. He finished washing the cleaver, his hands trembling, and put it aside to dry.
“We’ll go hunting again,” Daniel said suddenly. “I need to as much as you do.”
“When?” He felt the wave of relief washing over him. No more talk about Daniel turning himself in.
“Soon. I need you to pick up some stuff tomorrow, on your way home.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“White paint and a knife. Maybe some candles.”
“What is it for?” the man in control asked, feeling confused. They’d never discussed it.
“We’ll need it for the next time,” Daniel said. “Can you do that?”
“Yes, but
—”
“Good.” Daniel looked at him closely and then seemed to reach a decision. “Get the stuff, and we’ll go hunting tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER 11
Monday, October 17, 2016
O’Donnell decided to avoid the station that morning. It’d been forty-eight hours since the body of Catherine Lamb had been discovered, and her captain, Royce Bright, ascribed an almost mystical significance to that number. When a murder wasn’t resolved within forty-eight hours, he called the assigned detectives to a meeting. The dreaded forty-eight-hours meeting could take up to two hours, thus morphing the already terrible forty-eight to fifty. It was typically a mess of suggestions, threats, and the occasional story about the old days.
She could do without it. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever, but she hoped to have a tangible lead before he cornered her. And it seemed likely that Patrick Carpenter held that lead.
Marching into Mount Sinai Hospital, she saw that Agent Gray and Zoe Bentley were already waiting for her in the lobby. She checked the time—five minutes past nine. Gotta hand it to the feds: they were punctual.
“Sorry I’m late.” She walked over. “Traffic.”
“No worries,” Tatum said. “You said on the phone that Patrick Carpenter wanted to meet us here?”
“His wife is here.” O’Donnell led them to the elevators. “He asked if we could meet him here so she wouldn’t be alone for long. I thought it might make him more cooperative.”
It was more than likely that he hadn’t told his wife about Catherine’s murder to avoid unsettling her. If that were the case, he’d want to get rid of them as soon as possible, and the best way to do that would be to answer their questions. Hopefully giving them some names in the process.
“Wasn’t he cooperative when you talked to him before?” Zoe asked.
“He was, until I began asking about congregation members.” O’Donnell entered the elevator, the others following her. “Then he began talking about invasion of privacy and breach of trust. I hoped your fancy federal badges would make him a bit more helpful.”
The elevator door opened into a long hallway, a nurse’s station just to their right. A plump nurse with a large mole on her chin stapled multiple pages with zeal.
O’Donnell approached the nurse. “Excuse me, we’re looking for Mrs. Carpenter’s room?”
The nurse didn’t raise her eyes. She stacked half a dozen pages, positioned them under the stapler, and slammed her hand on it, as if smashing a bug. She examined the result and nodded to herself approvingly. “Are you family?”
“We need to talk to her husband.” O’Donnell flashed her badge.
The nurse didn’t seem impressed. She got another stack of pages and put them on the counter. O’Donnell found herself flinching as the nurse’s meaty hand came down on the stapler. This was a clear case of stationery abuse, but that was outside the Chicago Police Department’s jurisdiction.
“Room 309.” The nurse began to prepare her next stack.
O’Donnell hurried away, another slam echoing in her wake.
The door to room 309 was open, but O’Donnell knocked on it politely.
“Yes?” A cheerful feminine voice came from inside.
“Mrs. Carpenter?” O’Donnell peeked into the room. “Hi. We were hoping to talk to your husband, Patrick.”
“Oh, Patrick will be here in a few minutes,” the woman said. “Please come in.”
“We can wait for him in the hall,” O’Donnell said, uncomfortable.
“Nonsense. There are no chairs in the hall, and I have some cookies here. Please, come in—I insist.”
The three of them shuffled into the room and sat down on chairs by Mrs. Carpenter’s bed.
Mrs. Carpenter was a rosy-cheeked woman with long smooth chestnut hair. Despite being in a hospital bed, she was dressed in a bright-green shirt, which bulged over her pregnant belly. The hospital’s blanket was draped over her feet. When they came in, she put down her book, Praying for Your Unborn Child, and smiled warmly at them.
“Do you work with the church?” she asked.
O’Donnell fumbled for an answer. “Not on a regular basis, but we have an interest in some of the congregation members.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Carpenter said, who obviously misinterpreted the “interest” the three of them had. It was equally obvious that O’Donnell’s earlier hunch was correct. Patrick hadn’t told his wife about Catherine.
“My name is Leonor.”
“I’m Holly,” O’Donnell said hesitantly. “And this is Zoe and . . . Tatum. Nice to meet you. Any idea how long until Patrick returns?”
“He’s on his way, but I delayed him because I needed some things from home,” Leonor said. “I’ve been here for almost a week now, and you can imagine how many back-and-forth trips Patrick had to do for me. And it’s not just to our house. I send him to my parents to do the laundry. Patrick is an incredible husband, but doing laundry, not to mention folding it, is beyond his capabilities.”
“That’s very nice of him,” Tatum contributed.
“It really is. And he does so much for me. I’ve been driving him insane with my long lists. But can you imagine staying a whole week in a hospital bed, hardly able to even stand up without a nurse watching you? I need my own clothing just to feel normal. I would have gone home, but Patrick insisted that I stay here, monitored. You know how men can worry. At least I have books. If I didn’t have those, I’d count the floor tiles.” She mimed whispering. “There are fifty-two.”
Leonor obviously loved to talk, and O’Donnell could imagine being stuck in that room for a week by herself made her desperate for company. No wonder she was so adamant they sit inside. Still, O’Donnell couldn’t help but wonder what the woman needed actual people for. The conversation was entirely one sided, and the three of them could have been replaced by potted plants without significantly altering the dialogue. She was now talking about her pregnancy. O’Donnell only half listened.
“ . . . our fourth pregnancy. The first three were early miscarriages.” Her voice trembled slightly. “But then this one came, and it seemed to be going so well! God rewards pure and selfless souls, and we’ve been trying so hard. Last week, when the bleeding started, I was so terrified—I was sure I’d lost the baby. But then when we got here, I felt him kick. I was so relieved. And they said I have to stay here for a while. I thought they meant a few hours, at first—”
Someone coughed politely behind O’Donnell, and she turned around. A man stood at the door, a duffel bag slung on his shoulder, a large plastic cup in his hand. He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants, his cheeks clean shaven. But his dark hair was disheveled, and his eyes were swollen and bloodshot.
“Hello.” He clenched his jaw.
“I told your associates they can wait here with me,” Leonor said.
His shoulders slackened as Leonor said associates. He’d probably been worried they’d told her who they were or, even worse, told her about Catherine.
“Good.” He tried to smile. “I brought you the books you asked for and a new tube of toothpaste. And I hope I got all the clothes right.”
“I’m sure you did.” She leaned to the side, as if to get up.
He was by her side in a second, gently pushing her back. He kissed her forehead and handed her the plastic cup. “Here,” he said. “Fresh shake.”
She let out a small laugh. “You and your fruit shakes. Every day it’s the same.” She took a sip from the straw and cringed slightly. “This pregnancy makes everything taste a bit strange, you know?” She smiled at O’Donnell.
“I remember,” O’Donnell said. “I couldn’t stomach red peppers. And I used to love them before.”
Patrick turned to look at them again. “Would you like to talk outside?”
“Of course,” O’Donnell said. “It was really nice to meet you,” she told Leonor.
They stepped into the corridor and made their way to a secluded corner. Patric
k turned around, glancing at each of them in turn.
“Is there any progress with finding who . . .” He blinked and looked away. “Who did this to Catherine?”
“We have some leads,” O’Donnell said. “Mr. Carpenter, this is Agent Gray and his partner, Bentley, from the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Patrick gawked, confused. “What does the FBI have to do with Catherine?”
“We wanted to ask a few more questions,” O’Donnell said, ignoring his inquiry.
“What do you need?”
“Can we go over the last time you talked to Catherine again?” O’Donnell asked. They’d discussed it before, on the phone, but she wanted to see his face when they talked about it.
“Sure. Uh . . . it was three days ago, around noon. Catherine called me to say she was sick and wasn’t going to church. She wanted to know if I could cover for her and meet some of the members who wanted to talk.”
This matched the call records from Catherine’s phone. “Do you often cover for each other?” she asked.
“It happens. Not too often, but sometimes there are urgent counseling sessions, and one of us is indisposed.”
“And was there an urgent session that day?”
“I don’t think so. She just wanted me to take over for her.”
“And did you?”
“I told her I would, but then my wife began bleeding again.” Patrick glanced down the hall. “And I forgot. I remembered later, and I called Catherine to tell her, but she never answered.”
“And did you stay here?”
“Most of the evening, yes. I went out to get some stuff for my wife at one point. And I left when she fell asleep.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t remember. Probably around midnight.”
“Can you tell us the names of the people Catherine was supposed to meet that day?”
“No. That’s confidential.”
O’Donnell raised an eyebrow. “Any of the members you and Catherine consult have a criminal past?”
Patrick’s jaw tightened. “I’m not about to talk about the congregation members here. I won’t break their trust by divulging their secrets to you.”
