Fear the Darkness: A Thriller (Brigid Quinn Series Book 2)

by Becky Masterman

  “That place out back with the white walls?”

  “That’s the one.” He looked at me more closely, as if picking up on something he hadn’t noticed when I arrived, having so much on his own plate. “You look a little under the weather. Very pale and dark rings under your eyes. Do you have allergies?”

  I said, “The Neilsens. Tell me again why they left St. Martin’s.”

  “It was her asshole of a husband. I think Jacquie was getting a lot of support here, before Joe’s death, you know, when he came out about his homosexuality, and after his death, too. The only thing Tim let her do was to bury Joe here. Then they left for good.”

  “What about Joe himself? I’ve been told he wasn’t well liked.”

  “Well liked? I thought he was a spoiled little shit.”

  “You know, it’s admirable that you’ve been able to get that Tourette’s under control enough to become a clergyman.”

  He looked a little blank.

  “Do you talk this way with everyone or is it just me?”

  Elias grimaced. “It’s something about you. I guess I figure you can take it and it’s a relief to speak my mind. Have you ever thought about how difficult it is to be the person everyone expects you to be twenty-four hours a day seven days a week?”

  Yeah, I kind of understood that from working undercover. The thought crossed my mind that Elias Manwaring might have some skeletons in his closet from a past as well, though I couldn’t imagine his being as bad as mine. After all, mine were real skeletons.

  “Back to Joey. What was his problem?”

  “This is church. We have to like everyone. People can see that, so they take advantage.”

  On the whole I thought drug smuggling and prostitution was a whole lot more clear-cut than church work. “How did Joe take advantage?”

  “Oh, not only him, but Jacquie. He was a problem for his parents, acting out, getting into trouble, sneaking out at night, some drinking, yadda yadda yadda. Jacquie gave him to us to fix him, though if you were to put it that way to her she’d deny it and say he was perfect.”

  “You saw him drink?”

  “My son told me he bragged about it.”

  “Did he get along with the other kids?”

  “I think they tolerated him as well as I did.” Elias looked at me, thinking. “You could get an opinion filtered through my perspective, or you could talk to Ken.”

  “Ken?”

  “My son. He was in the group.” Elias picked up a cell phone that was lying next to his computer, pressed a button for speed dial. Waited. “Hi, Lu. I’ve got Brigid Quinn here and she’s asking questions about Joe Neilsen and the youth group. Would you let me know when you get back with Ken?”

  He disconnected and turned his attention back to me. “They should be home from school soon. I don’t think he had photography club today.” There was one of those little pauses where you both wonder who’s going to talk next and what it will be about. “You want some coffee?”

  “Sure, that would be fine.”

  Elias frowned. “I just remembered, I drank the last of it.” He didn’t seem to consider that he could make more. “Water?” he asked.

  “Sure, water.” Anything to kill time until Lulu called back.

  He left his office and came back with a glass of water, no ice. “Sorry, we’re trying to be environmentally conscious and not using plastic bottles.”

  I took the glass from him and drank some. “That’s okay. This hits the spot.” While he was gone I had thought of something else. “While we’re waiting, tell me a little about the youth group. Sounds like Ken is involved in a lot of activities, like most kids today.”

  “We try, though it’s difficult to get him into sports or anything else that gets him off his ass. I tell you, Brigid, I hate kids. And PKs are the worst.”

  “What’s a PK?”

  “Sorry. Preacher’s Kid. They can be snotty because they don’t want people to think they’re goody-goody. Ken’s not so bad, though.”

  “Did he get taken to the hospital yesterday? Or isn’t he a coffee drinker?”

  “No, he didn’t go to church. We can’t force him. I don’t know if he wants more attention from me or what, but it’s kind of like the plumber at home, you know? I gave at the office.”

  I said, “Is there anything about this job you enjoy?”

  Elias rubbed his face hard with both hands. The hands looked soft. “Sorry again, getting off track. What did you want to know?”

  “Mmmm, how about what kinds of things the youth group does.”

  “Hiking, movies with a message, writing their own worship services.” He rubbed his face again, then pushed the skin back so it only looked like he was smiling. “It’s a blast, at least that’s what Lulu says. She’s the head of the youth group.”

  “Lulu said the Neilsens threatened to sue the church.”

  His cell phone rang, interrupting his answer. The tone was the opening bars of “Amazing Grace,” no fooling.

  “Hey,” Elias said. “What’s he done now?” Listening. “Okay, we’re coming over.”

  “Was this a bad time?” I asked, picturing some minor family drama.

  “Oh, sounds like just another day in paradise. Lulu said they walked in, Ken listened to the message on the machine, and started to cry.”

  Thirty–two

  The rectory was a short walk away from the church, a gravel-coated path down a little hill and across a cactus-studded field. It was quicker that way than driving, Elias said. That was all he said, then buried himself in thought as he trudged toward the place he pointed at. I trailed slightly behind, finding it odd that I was puffing to keep up with this out-of-shape guy, and noticing that my walking was not so good.

  Lulu was watching for us at the screen door with a metal coyote on the front and opened it before we got there. A spaniel was beside her, licking the top of her sneaker. You could tell things were serious because she hadn’t trotted out a plate of cookies. She said, “Don’t be hard on him, Elias.”

  Elias wasn’t listening. He seemed to have built up some steam as we walked from the rectory to the house, and the steam was looking for a way out. We found Ken sitting in the middle of the couch in a neat but carefully shabby living room, with the kind of furnishings that would warm a church mouse’s heart. I didn’t think you could get plaid Herculon in Early American anymore, and couldn’t imagine it was new when the Manwarings bought it. I sat down on it, too, not because they thought to invite me to do so, or because I particularly wanted to comfort Ken. I was feeling a little out of breath and dizzy, and my brain was misfiring again after the walk from the church.

  Already saddled with his dad’s corpulent body, Ken looked like collateral damage from his father’s profession. Too many potluck dinners where the one common ingredient was cream of mushroom soup. He was blowing his nose, pushing up his glasses that slid down with the blow, and blowing his nose again.

  Elias didn’t waste time with preamble. He was a priest and could smell a confession coming. That soft hand I saw at the church turned into the iron finger of judgment as he jabbed his son in the temple lightly, but definitely. “Start talking,” he said.

  From that point on I could only listen while Ken talked and Elias asked all the questions. And Elias would have been good at Gitmo. Actually they always say people really want to tell the truth, and interrogation is just a way to help them do it with some dignity. That was how Ken was now. It looked to me like he’d been laboring under this burden ever since Joe’s death.

  Punctuated by supsups and sniffles, Ken described what I had heard about but never dealt with at close hand. The Choking Game.

  Lulu gasped at the very name. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Kids do it to each other. It makes you pass out. Some kids say there’s kind of a rush when it happens but I never—”

  “I hope to hell you never—”

  “Stop it, Elias,” said Lulu. “How does it happen, Ken?”

 
Ken put the heels of his palms against either side of his neck. “You do this thing where you press here—”

  “Don’t, Ken,” Lulu said.

  “He’s not,” Elias said. “Where did you learn about this?”

  “We heard about it at school. Some kids—”

  “Who else played the game? Which kids?”

  Ken shook his head.

  “Which kids?”

  Ken said, “He’ll beat me up.”

  “Right now I don’t blame him,” Elias said, grabbing Ken’s shirt and twisting the cloth.

  “Elias!” Lulu said.

  Even I held my breath for a second. Then Elias glanced at me and let go. I couldn’t tell if his face was red from embarrassment or anger. Maybe a good thing I was there.

  “You don’t understand,” Ken said. “He’ll be in a shitload of trouble—”

  “You’re in a shitload of trouble right here, my friend.” The tone was menacing, but under better control now. After a moment Elias squinted at Ken like he was looking from a different angle. “It’s Pete, isn’t it?”

  Ken’s silence confirmed it.

  “I know Peter,” I said. “Is Peter a problem?”

  Elias answered with silence before saying, “He’s another kid Ken’s age in the youth group. Father’s a cop and very strict. When Ken says Pete will be in a shitload of trouble for playing this game he’s not exaggerating.” He turned back to Ken. “Have you done it since Joe died?”

  “No!” Ken said.

  “Now tell me, what does this have to do with Joe’s death?” Elias asked.

  “He talked about how you could do it to yourself, and when your body sagged the cord would give way if you tied it right and you’d fall down and then come to.”

  “When did you do it last?”

  “When we got back to the church from that last hike up to the Romero Pools. Everybody else got picked up and we were waiting for you to take us home. We were hanging out in the library.”

  “You did it on church property,” Elias repeated. “They really could sue us. That’s just fucking terrific.”

  Lulu glared at Elias and said, “Why Joe? You didn’t even like Joe.”

  “He was always, like, being all show-offy with everything. His parents didn’t just go on vacation to the White Mountains, they went elephant trekking in Thailand or something weird like that. Everything was, like, oh, I’ve got a media room. I’ve got a personal gym. I’ve got a pool with a slide. Shit like that. He never stopped. Not like he ever invited us over.”

  “At the church,” Elias repeated.

  “Pete liked to dare him to do stuff, told him like hey if you can ride an elephant into the jungle you should be able to do this. Then Pete would make fun of Joe without Joe even noticing. So Pete tells us about something his dad showed him, something called carotid control that cops use on bad guys. And we watched some videos. And he asks if Joe would do that and Joe says sure he could do that.”

  “What videos?” I asked.

  Ken sighed. “It’s all on YouTube.”

  “Did you post Joey on YouTube?” Elias asked. His face grew red again.

  Ken looked so low he’d have to reach up to tie his shoe.

  “Show us,” I said.

  Ken heaved his body off the couch and led us into the alcove where his computer sat, open to view from most of the house. At least these parents were careful about that, but you couldn’t control what happens in other houses. I had worked enough child pornography cases to know that real well.

  Still sniffling, Ken booted up his computer while the three of us stood behind him watching. There was a wall nearby for me to lean against, my hands in my pockets to hide their trembling. The spaniel kept working on Lulu’s sneaker, creating a dark wet patch on the toe. Lulu remembered herself. “Can I get you something? Water?”

  “No thanks. I’m fine.” We didn’t look at each other during this exchange, like we were afraid we’d miss something if we looked away from the screen.

  Ken brought up his search engine and keyed in “youtube choking game.” There were over four thousand results. On the first page it was mostly news items and public service announcements warning about the dangers. Ken paused, reluctant to go on.

  “Do it,” Elias said.

  “Dear,” Lulu said. I was unsure who she was speaking to.

  Ken keyed in a code and pressed ENTER.

  “Are you on this video?” Elias asked.

  “No!” Ken said as loudly as Elias and then in a quieter voice, “I was filming. My phone.”

  The video came up and with a tap of Ken’s finger started to play. The camera panned over a bookcase. Elias leaned closer to the screen to study the spines of the books. “Tillich. Bonhoeffer. Yep, that’s the fucking church library, all right.”

  “Shut. Up!” Lulu said.

  The camera slipped to the left to show the boy I knew from the photograph his mother had given me, standing in front of the books. He was thin and gawky, short, and like most teenagers hiding his insecurity behind bravado. As an adult I could see this, while Ken and Pete would have no idea of the pain behind the face. Joe laughed, a laugh that would have annoyed me even more if he was still alive, then started speaking in what he would imagine was a solemn tone. “Astronaut Joseph M. Neilsen reporting in. First launch for Space Monkey. One small step for man, one—”

  A voice, presumably Peter Salazar’s, interrupted, “You are such a stupid jerk.”

  Joe laughed again, either thinking the boys talked to each other this way, or craving the attention so much he didn’t care what form it came in. “Commander Peter Salazar, are you ready?”

  The boy belonging to that name moved into place in front of Joe. I could only see his back, but it looked enough like Gemma-Kate’s buddy. Peter was considerably taller than Joe, but otherwise similar, dressed in the same adolescent uniform, blue jeans and T-shirt.

  Ken’s voice said, “You gotta move to the side or I don’t have him.”

  Peter moved slightly to the right and reached up his hands to Joe’s neck. Paused. “Do I really have to touch him?” he asked.

  “Wait,” Ken’s voice said again. “Better get in front of that chair so when he goes down—”

  “Oh man,” Peter said, and grabbed Joe by his shirt to move him over by an armchair. “Happy now?”

  “I’ll be okay,” Joe said, though not looking so cocky anymore, maybe a little nervous at the thought of actually falling down. “Go for it.”

  Peter reached up again.

  “Little to the right,” Ken said.

  Peter moved one step to the right. “This good?”

  The camera moved a little more as Ken stepped to the left. Peter brought his hands up again, and with the heels of the palms pressed against the sides of Joe’s neck. “This look right?”

  “I guess,” Ken said.

  Joe said nothing. He closed his eyes. I felt the three of us standing before the computer hold our collective breath. It took longer than I would have imagined. Then his knees buckled and he fell into the chair. His head lolled on the cushion.

  “Whoo!” Peter yelled and jumped back, and Ken gave a corresponding “Whoo!”

  Joe was still.

  “Wasn’t he supposed to come to right away?” Peter asked, looking straight into the camera, at Ken.

  Joe’s body started to jerk. Both hands wrenched up and hit his own face like a berserk puppet. His feet bent backward, curling under the bottom of the chair, and his back arched in what could have been a grand mal seizure.

  The phone dropped so that all we could see were some cabinets at the bottom of the bookcases.

  “Call nine-one-one.”

  “No! Joe? Hey, Joe.”

  “Wait, pull him off the chair! Get him flat!”

  We heard a tussle, things hitting, maybe Joe’s head on the wooden floor. I watched the seconds of the video tick, one, two, three, four, and—

  “Aw, fuck man! We thought we lost you! That was so coo
l!”

  “Shh, somebody might hear.”

  “Man, that was awe-some!” That was Joe’s voice. “Let’s do it again.” The day he didn’t die.

  Video ended, the rest of us stood frozen in front of the computer. I heard Lulu whisper, “Oh my God.”

  Ken started sobbing again. “I killed Joe,” he said.

  “What makes you think you killed Joe?” Lulu asked, putting both her hands on his shoulders.

  “If I hadn’t agreed to do that with Pete, Joe wouldn’t have gotten the idea and tried to do it to himself. Because we wouldn’t do it again. I bet that’s what happened, he went underwater and held his breath. Or something.”

  “Not even Joey Neilsen would do something that stupid.” Elias repented of the hasty words and put his arm around the kid, suddenly losing the harsh tone. “Just because you can think of something doesn’t make it so.”

  “Or maybe something happened to his brain and that’s why he drowned,” Ken said.

  Obviously Ken wasn’t paying attention to his father’s wisdom, and Elias wasn’t long on patience. “You didn’t kill Joe,” he said. “Did he, Brigid?”

  “Nah, he didn’t kill Joe,” I said, as if I was the expert Elias made me out to be. I figured being Father Elias Manwaring’s son and all, he had enough on his shoulders. “Do you have Peter Salazar’s address?”

  “In my office. This office,” Elias said, sounding a little shaken. He wandered off and returned shortly with a small stapled booklet that said St. Martin’s Church Directory on the front. He carried it into the kitchen; I followed and watched him page through to the alphabetized directory and write down the address on a pad for me.

  “You flipped past some pictures. Is his family in there?”

  “I think they had their picture taken.” He flipped to the back of the booklet and paged through photo after photo of full-color families all with Sunday clothes and the same smile. I recognized some people from the times I’d attended services with Carlo, but didn’t spot Mallory as he paged past the H’s and into the S’s, where Peter Salazar appeared with his younger sister, mom, and dad. There was Ruth, and there was Peter, the boy who had made friends with Gemma-Kate. And there was the father, with a bulldog face and barrel chest, puffed out aggressively even at the photographer.