The Priest's Graveyard

by Ted Dekker

  “No underwear?” Danny bit into his sandwich and took a sip of tea to wash it down.

  “No! Butt as white as a split volleyball. A flat one at that.”

  “And you just left him out there?”

  “Well, for a little bit, sure. It was too precious a moment to ruin—Hal out there wandering around muttering and me in here watching him. I couldn’t stop laughing. Hal had a sagging white butt, I’m telling you.”

  The image, however humorous, momentarily suppressed his appetite.

  “I assume you eventually rescued him?”

  “Of course. I called to him from the deck, and he turned to me and asked if I noticed that the sprinklers weren’t working. He’d been going on for a few days about the grass getting brown, but our sprinklers came on at night, and he’d gotten it into his mind that they needed to be checked.”

  “Every good man wants to give his lovely wife a green lawn.”

  “Well, he obviously thought so.”

  “Why was he naked?”

  “I’m getting to that. When I asked him why he was in his socks, he said it was so he could tell if the grass was wet. When he saw me staring at his waist he looked down, stared at himself for a bit, then looked up at me with an impish grin that only Hal could do. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I’m naked. You horny?’”

  Ellen slapped her knee and laughed until Danny thought she might split her side. He joined her.

  Moments like these—moments when pure goodness put to shame the selfish ambition of abusers—compelled him to do what he did.

  Danny lived and killed so the Ellens of the world could grow old with their husbands and laugh when those old men wandered into the backyard wearing only socks and pajama tops.

  He and Ellen ate their club sandwiches while she dug up a few more stories that made Danny laugh, one in particular about the time a porcupine got stuck in their chimney. Hal was the self-sufficient type who would work a challenge to its bitter end before calling for help. On that particular day, his temperament earned him a blackened face full of quills.

  Whenever Danny spent time with Ellen, his convictions grew stronger and his compulsion to cleanse the world grew more urgent. Truth be told, if this sweet woman was ever victimized, Danny would likely forget his vow never to draw out his subject’s pain in anger or for revenge.

  He kissed Ellen on the cheek and left her house half an hour later, eager to resume his task. Slowly he piloted the car south toward Long Beach, then west toward the hills of San Pedro, reassured of his calling.

  It took him an hour to arrive and position his car behind an oil storage container on the bluff above Kellerman’s house. Another ten minutes to work his way down the hill.

  Danny had spent a full week figuring out how to disable the security system. He’d subsequently been in the house on three separate occasions to observe the layout and search for incriminating evidence. As a result, he knew precisely how he would gain entrance on this day: through the closet window. He had cut the glass along the frame two nights earlier.

  A firm bump with a gloved hand now popped out the glass. He crawled in, then replaced it.

  If he’d learned one thing as a young assassin, it was that the only skill more important than combat was mission preparedness. Surveillance. Intelligence. Positioning. These were nine-tenths of any victory. The rest came down to flawless execution and ruthless violence, both of which he’d mastered despite his youth.

  Danny let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then set his bag down and withdrew his syringe. He readied the needle and squatted in the corner behind the closet door.

  Patience.

  Like many successful individuals, Kellerman was a person of habit. Indeed, it was the man’s predictability that had enabled Danny to follow him to a hotel one night, where he’d slaughtered a prostitute and then returned her to his van in trash bags. Danny had watched through night-vision glasses as the man buried the body parts in the desert landfill east of the city.

  It was an open-and-shut case, the first and last time Danny felt any need to tail the man. How such a successful attorney who traveled so broadly for a living could be this demented was beyond him.

  Danny was so sickened that he’d begun looking for the first opportunity to take the man out. Each week of delay meant another dead woman. Why weren’t the police on this? Perhaps they were.

  Either way, Danny would end it tonight and wash his mind of the man.

  The few times Danny had observed Kellerman returning home, presumably from work, the lawyer arrived around six. Traffic must have held the man up this night, because his entry door didn’t open until six thirty-five.

  Danny stood and waited in the dark closet.

  The man walked about the kitchen for a while before coming back to his bedroom. He did his business in the toilet and flushed. Washed his hands. Burped. Twice.

  All of this, every footfall indicating that the vile creature still lived, disgusted Danny to no end. The temptation to skip the usual procedure and kill the man now felt nearly overwhelming. Why waste the drugs on him? Danny had no intention of giving this one a choice.

  So why go through all the motions?

  His thoughts were cut short by the opening closet door.

  Danny felt no anxiety, only calm. His advantage over the man was insurmountable. Even if Kellerman had a black belt in tae kwon do—Danny didn’t know, because he hadn’t gone that deep into the man’s history—it would not affect the outcome.

  The man turned on the light and walked in. Danny waited for him to cross into his field of vision before reaching out and injecting him with the drug.

  As expected, Kellerman snorted like a bull and crashed back against a line of hangers, half of them empty.

  “Hello, Mr. Kellerman,” Danny said. “I’m here to settle the score for the women you’ve killed. Think of me as your Grim Reaper.”

  “What?” He drew his hand away from his neck, bloody. His face went red and he swore.

  “That wasn’t the dying apology I was looking for,” Danny said. “I’m sorry, but your time is up.”

  Danny pulled out his gun, silencer already fixed in place, and pointed it at the man. He wasn’t going to mess around with this one. Truthfully, Kellerman had made him wait longer than anticipated in this stuffy closet, and Danny was anxious to be done. He still had to clean the scene and dispose of the body, which would take the better part of the night.

  Cain Kellerman dropped to one knee as the drug started to kick in. The full effect could take anywhere from seconds to minutes, depending on how much Danny had managed to inject.

  “Hold on…” The man’s face was now white; he held out a trembling hand, palm out. “Just hold on!”

  “I have what I need,” Danny said.

  “I can give you more…This is Bourque? He sent you?”

  The Bourque Foundation. Kellerman’s employer, who had lured him away from criminal law some years ago. Danny knew little about the man behind the foundation.

  “What about him?”

  “Jonathan Bourque. He’s cleaning house, isn’t he? Killing off the people who know what he’s up to? His attorneys? So now he’s after me, too?” The man’s breathing started to thicken. “I can pay you more than he can.”

  “I’m not for hire. I’m here because you’re a killer. A sick snake who abuses women in the worst way.”

  “Getting Bourque will get you the sickest snake of them all. They think he’s clean, you know. He used to be a priest…but the bodies of his victims could fill a graveyard. I can get him for you.”

  “I’m here for you, and honestly, I can’t imagine anyone worse than you, no matter how many bodies he’s buried.”

  “Who am I? Just one more on a list of people Bourque’s killed this week. Who are you? Just one more killer on his payroll.”

  “You’re misunderstanding,” Danny said. “Your employer, Jonathan Bourque, did not send me.”

  “I can pay more.” He reached out and grabbed a hanging
belt to steady himself. “Name your price.” He ripped the glasses from his face. Blue eyes glistened with tears of desperation. “Please, I’m begging you. I don’t deserve to die. I’m a nobody over there. I just do what they want us to do with the cash. I…I don’ wan’ die.”

  “Why did you kill the women, Cain?”

  His face wrinkled up. He was pathetic.

  “I’m notta bad man I…”

  Danny shot him twice in the chest to save them both any prolonged agony. The man knelt as if made of stone, then toppled over face-first.

  Silence filled the house. Only the cleanup remained.

  Jonathan Bourque. The name hung in his mind. Took up occupancy in a secure place there.

  Danny would have to see about this man who apparently was killing off his attorneys to protect himself. What kind of man would do that?

  What kind of priest?

  8

  THE DAY LAMONT vanished from my life began just like any other day in the glass house by the sea.

  He was gone for three days on a quick trip to Japan, and he would return Thursday, which meant he would be home by Thursday evening at the latest. I was certain to treat every day as if he might return early, because he sometimes did.

  The sun was already well over the house when I climbed out of bed that Thursday. I had been very careful not to make any messes. In fact, after the way Lamont had treated me to a candlelight dinner overlooking the sea, I was determined to make his return very special.

  I went through my normal daily activities—showering, cleansing, taking my pills, dressing in a clean pair of flannel pajamas, making my bed, wiping out the shower, wiping out the sinks, polishing his shoes, dusting the electronics, rubbing off any marks from the glass, and cleansing once more to be sure—but because I wanted to treat Lamont, I set out to do more.

  Using a gallon of warm water and four ounces of vinegar, I carefully cleaned the marble floors until they were as shiny as a mirror. I polished the stainless-steel refrigerator and the stovetop, then all of the appliances, until they sparkled like stars.

  Lamont’s bedroom was one level down, in the basement, and it was the one room that I normally did not clean because it would upset his flow, as he put it, and I did not like it when his flow was upset. But on that Thursday I dared to sneak down and dust his nightstand and his dresser. He had a trophy room off his bedroom, but I did not go in there.

  The exertion made my head dizzy, so I had to rest a few times, once for a full hour when I accidentally fell asleep on the leather couch. By the time I finished everything, the sun was going down. I decided to take another shower so I could be spotless for him.

  Freshly dressed and squeaky clean, I prepared some food—a cucumber salad with olives and mayonnaise, some sliced salami, crackers, and tomato soup—so he could have a snack after his drive from the airport.

  I checked and rechecked the entire house twice to be sure everything was just perfect, then sat down to wait.

  When the living room clock chimed seven, I started to wonder why he was so late. I checked the digital clock on my nightstand to make sure I was reading the right time. Seven oh two. He must have hit traffic.

  When the clock struck eight I grew worried. The cucumber salad would be getting rubbery and the soup would be cold, so I busied myself by preparing them again.

  By nine I was biting my fingernails. By the time ten o’clock came and went, I was climbing the walls.

  Had he been in an accident? Anything could have happened. If there was a problem, the authorities would visit the house to tell me, right? There was no regular phone in the house, not that I knew of. Lamont used his cell phone for everything.

  He’d given me a special black-and-​yellow cell phone preprogrammed with his number for emergencies only. I’d called him on it once when I was lonely, and he rushed home. But that was the only time I’d used it. It was important that I use it only for dire emergencies.

  At eleven o’clock I decided this was a dire emergency. I hurried to my nightstand, pulled open the drawer, and withdrew the black-and-yellow phone. I couldn’t get it to come on, so I had to charge it.

  My head was throbbing with worry and I had to mutter comforting words to myself to remain calm. This will all work out. This will all work out. Everything always worked out with Lamont. He was the only thing in my life that had ever worked out.

  But my concern swelled like a volcano. I couldn’t live without him! What if he was dead? What if Jonathan Bourque had killed him? What if his plane had crashed? What if a truck had slammed into him on the Pacific Coast Highway and pushed him over a cliff?

  I tried the phone again, and this time the screen lit up. Please let him answer. Please, please.

  He didn’t answer. It rang ten times then went to his recording. “I can’t get to the phone right now. I will call you back.” My fingers began to tremble and my eyes filled with tears.

  I called the number twelve times over thirty minutes and got nothing but his message. I was frantic. Something was terribly wrong and I was completely lost.

  In my mind, Cyrus was at my door, waiting for me to stick my head out so he could throw a noose around it and haul me away to finish what he’d started.

  The monsters were hiding behind the shrubs on either side of the driveway. We’re gonna kill you, Renee. You just wait, we’re gonna cut you open and suck the blood right out of you.

  None of my worrying set off the chime that announced a car in the driveway. No amount of staring made the black-and-​yellow phone ring.

  It didn’t occur to me until two or three in the morning that all of the doors were locked from the outside, including the door that led out to the deck, which Lamont locked as part of his ritual. Not that I wanted to get out, but if I did, how would I open any of the doors?

  Even the windows were sealed shut. One less thing to worry about, he’d said. He’d spot-welded all of the latches long before I came to the house.

  We’d covered this, but I couldn’t remember what Lamont had told me to do if I ever had to get out. I was on a psychotropic drug and also a sedative to help me cope, and loss of short-term memories was one of the side effects. Memories like how to get out of the house.

  I did not sleep that night. By the time the horizon turned white with the new day, my frayed nerves were starting to shred. I was mumbling at the monsters, daring them to keep Lamont away. I began to curse Jonathan Bourque profusely, certain that he was behind Lamont’s disappearance.

  I paced the kitchen and living room, my fierce eyes fixed on the door, begging it open. “Please, please, please, please…” It remained closed like the door to a vault.

  I called the number on the special black-and-yellow cell phone repeatedly, and each time heard only his message: “I can’t get to the phone right now. I will call you back.”

  The phone was one that could only place calls to numbers programmed by the owner, who was Lamont, and 9-1-1. The latter would bring the police. Did I know the address? I couldn’t remember. Mail never came to the house, but to a mailbox down the street. Maybe authorities would know the address by the 9-1-1 call.

  The thought of police terrified me, though. If Jonathan Bourque was behind this, and I was sure he was, he would have the police under his thumb. What had Lamont said? Something about how corrupt the law was. I should take the law into my own hands, like that vigilante did. Meaning don’t trust the police, right?

  But I was no vigilante. I was a scared girl who weighed only a hundred pounds, and I was all alone in a big glass house by the sea. I started to cry.

  With tears running down my cheeks and exhaustion overwhelming my body, I finally collapsed on the leather sofa and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  It was afternoon before I woke and sat up, wondering why I was in the living room. But then I remembered, and I began to run through the house calling Lamont’s name. He wasn’t in my room, nor the kitchen, nor the billiards room, nor the storage room, nor his bedroom.

  My wo
rld was crumbling, and I was powerless to prop it up with sound reasoning or comforting thoughts. My predicament was painfully simple.

  Lamont had vanished.

  I was alone.

  I had no way to get out of the house.

  This last matter was a mere bug on the screen of my mind. I was preoccupied by loss, not self-preservation. In the absence of any reasonable alternative, I set my jaw and resolved to wait until Lamont returned, no matter how long it took.

  I had plenty of food, enough to last for weeks, for all I ate. I had clothes, a bed, music, water, everything I needed until Lamont came home.

  By nightfall I had convinced myself that my anxiety was all a mistake. Something very simple was keeping Lamont away. I’d misunderstood him when he’d said Thursday.

  I hummed and sang to pass the time. I ate. I cleansed. I cleaned. I took my medication except for the sedative, because I didn’t want to sleep. I embraced denial as if it, not Lamont, was my savior.

  My determined resolve collapsed on Saturday at midnight, when I remembered with perfect clarity that Lamont had indeed said Thursday. He’d said Thursday, and it was now five minutes past twelve on Sunday and he wasn’t home.

  Lamont was either gone or dead. Just like my dad.

  I fell to my face on the shiny marble floor and wept. I scolded myself for being the kind of person who always ended up alone. I begged Lamont to come and get me. I cried out for my mother even though I knew she was dead.

  Slowly my tears ran dry and I lay there, facedown, for quite a long time. Then I pushed myself to my feet, retreated to my bedroom, and climbed under the covers.

  I did not clean up the mess I’d left on the floor from all my weeping and slobbering. That would have to wait just this once.

  I rose Sunday morning and, not bothering to put on my slippers, drifted through the house like a ghost, knowing I wouldn’t find him. Still, I looked. Even under the beds this time.