And I was. Because the girl we were following was the daughter of a man I’d watched blow his brains out, his hand controlled by Malephar.
The girl was Celia Bittner.
¨¨¨
“Celia who?” Patterson asked as we hastened after Danny and his partner.
“Bittner,” I said. “Didn’t you know Jack Bittner?”
“I know all the parishioners at St. Matthew’s,” he answered, a trifle defensively.
We clattered down the stairs. The light blue tiled walls amplified our steps, made me doubt our ability to remain unseen. And how long was that our goal? When did surveillance become action?
When the policemen attacked Celia?
There was no way she was in danger now, I told myself. For one thing, each killer worked alone. Add to that the public setting and the earliness of the hour, and I felt confident that Celia was safe.
For the moment.
What if, I thought as I reached the basement level and moved abreast of Patterson, they planned on following her home, waiting until Celia stepped out of the house so they could snatch her?
That made sense, I decided. Which meant it was imperative that we talk to Celia now, before she reached a more isolated location.
Patterson thrust out an arm, barring my way. I followed his gaze and discovered we’d almost revealed our pursuit to the policemen.
So? a part of me wondered. Don’t we want them to know they’re being watched? What good will it do to hide in the shadows?
“Careful now,” Patterson said, and we continued on, remaining a safe distance behind the cops. Patterson got me through the turnstile, and I saw as I entered the waiting area along the tracks that the crowd size was just right for our needs. Populated enough to remain inconspicuous, but not so crammed with riders that we’d lose Officers Hartman and Raines.
“They’re lining up for the next car over,” Patterson murmured.
I followed his gaze and saw that Celia and her mom were waiting in the area directly ahead of us, while the policemen were part of a smaller cluster to their left.
“I’m going to speak to them,” I told Patterson.
He gaped at me. “You’re gonna what?”
“You heard me.”
From the tunnel to our left came the distant rumble of the approaching train.
“What’re you gonna say?” he demanded.
“The truth.”
“You’re going to walk up to them and announce that Celia’s the next victim of the Sweet Sixteen Killer?”
“Her birthday’s this week.”
The rumble of the train amplified.
“You think Raines is just going to attack her here in the subway? With his partner right beside him? And Danny’s just gonna stand there and watch?”
I looked away. “Who knows?”
“I thought you and Danny were friends.”
“We went through hell the other night. That brings out the worst in people.”
Patterson’s gaze burned into me, and I prayed he wouldn’t press me further. Perhaps providence intervened, because the train roared into view, its brakes squealing and its gears cranking to a halt. Moments later, the doors were whooshing open and people were disembarking from the opposite side.
Patterson and I moved into the wall of waiting people. This close, I realized that Celia was nearly five-foot-ten, and nicely built. Her skirt was short enough to reveal muscular thighs. By contrast, her mom was bony and not nearly as tall. I could only see part of her profile, but she looked like a hard woman, her hair bleached an unnatural blond and hairsprayed so thoroughly it scarcely moved. Her skin was tanning-bed brown, her nostrils large, and there were the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, perhaps from frowning so often. I thought back to what Danny had told me about her, about how she’d ripped out Jack Bittner’s heart by taking away his daughter, about how she’d been a nightmare for Jack ever since she left him for another man. I hated to judge someone too harshly, especially when I didn’t have the full story, but what I now saw of Celia’s mother fit the precise profile I’d created for her, which wasn’t at all flattering.
The train doors opened, and the crowd piled in. Patterson hunched over a little and looked askance at the policemen, who were in turn staring raptly at Celia and her mom.
The throng of passengers shifted, and Danny’s eyes seemed to light on me. Then I passed through the double doors and hustled to the seat opposite Celia. Patterson opted to stand, gripping a vertical steel bar to my left, a spot I now realized that would shield me from the gaze of the policemen.
The train doors closed, the automated voice announced our next stop, and we started to roll.
I had no idea how much time I had to speak to Celia, but I remembered Danny telling me that Celia and her mom lived on the South side. If that were true, and if they were indeed headed home, I could have as much as thirty minutes, ample time to plead my case and to warn Celia to take the proper precautions.
But now that I gazed upon her, I realized the difficulty of my task. Just how did you tell a teenaged girl—one you’d never even met—that she was being targeted by a serial killer? It sounded ludicrous, even to me. How preposterous would it sound to Celia?
The memory of seeing her in Danny’s mind recurred, and as it did I remembered how terrible it had been to inhabit the twisted psyche of the Sweet Sixteen Killer. In Danny’s mind she had looked much as she did now, yet there had been a lurid, sexualized quality in Danny’s head, a perverse filter that rendered her more alluring, more tempting than she actually was. To me, Celia was merely a girl who would one day become an attractive woman. Through Danny’s eyes, she was a sex object. A temptress who teased him with her come-hither glances. Her eye shadow advertised plainly to Danny that she wanted sex, and her freckled cheeks, rather than reflecting innocence, expressed a wanton quality, a desire to be used and used roughly.
A woman said, “There are two policemen in the other car.”
I looked over, startled, at Celia’s mother, whom I discovered with alarm was glowering at me with her arms crossed.
She grinned nastily. “Didn’t think I’d say anything, did you?”
I knew I was blushing, and I knew that made me look even guiltier. I took a breath, strove to maintain a level tone. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her penciled-on eyebrows went up. “You know exactly what I mean. You don’t think I notice all the men feeling my daughter up with their eyes?”
I began to sweat.
Celia’s mom sat forward, her slate-colored eyes searing me. “She’s a child,” she said. “Do you understand that, you pervert? A child. Don’t we parents have enough to worry about with all the horror going on in this city?”
Murmurs of approbation sounded from around us.
I shook my head, sweating freely now. “I feel as bad about the murders as you do.”
“Oh you do, do you? And I suppose you’re a parent?”
“I’m a priest.”
“Then he’s definitely a pervert,” some man remarked, a comment that elicited mocking laughter. I looked up at Father Patterson for help, but he pretended not to notice me. I could see, though, how tight his jaw was, the way his neck muscles were twitching. He was furious, whether with me or Celia’s mother, I had no idea.
We approached our first stop.
“You know what?” Celia’s mom said, rising and grasping one of the support bars. “I am going to tell the cops. Who knows? You might be the killer after all.”
“Asshole,” someone muttered.
I felt the stares of a dozen people, every one of them hostile. Patterson didn’t speak, perhaps preserving his anonymity with Celia and her mom.
Celia.
I turned to her, realizing I’d forgotten all about her during her mother’s tirade. She was watching me, but her expression was unreadable. She hadn’t defended me, but she hadn’t joined in her mother’s attack either.
Everything going on around me, a
ll the taunts and laughter—even Celia’s mother’s strident condemnation—seemed to fade. I saw before me a child, a girl so beloved by her late father that his world was ruined when she’d been taken from him. Strangely enough, it was the memory of Jack Bittner, even with his flaws, that compelled me to address Celia.
“I knew your dad.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath from Celia’s mother. Celia herself looked liked she’d been slapped.
I hurried on. “I know you don’t know me, but my name is Father Jason Crowder, and I was with your father when he died.”
“It was you?” Celia said in a voice almost too faint to hear.
I slid forward in my seat. “He loved you, Celia. More than anything, he wanted you to be safe.”
“Stop talking to her,” her mother commanded.
“Which is why I’m telling you this. You’re in serious danger. You’re—”
Celia’s mom interposed herself between us, brandished a threatening finger in my face. “You stay the hell away from my daughter, you son of a bitch!”
“—being followed,” I went on, “and not just by me. There’s someone after you.”
“What are you saying?” Celia asked, her face pinched.
“Don’t talk to him!” her mom demanded.
“The Sweet Sixteen Killer,” I said, and then everyone in the car was talking over each other, many of them rising and staring at me. The city had been like an untended kettle over the past several months, and now it was shrieking, hissing, boiling over, and the train was rattling to a stop, the automated voice announcing our location. Yet I barely heard it, barely noticed anything save Celia, who was watching me with horror but also, I thought, belief. Her mom was shouting at me, maybe on the verge of physically assaulting me.
But I had to say all I could to her, had to impress upon her how real the peril was. “Don’t go anywhere alone. Stay with a friend if you can, in a house where someone owns a gun.”
“Stop talking to my daughter!” her mom shouted.
Celia ignored her. “My step-dad has a gun.”
“Then stay at home. Sleep in your parents’ room if you have to.”
Several voices had risen to shouts. Commotion filled the train car as we shuddered to a stop. I stood, saw Patterson was peering into the car that contained Officers Hartman and Raines.
Who were, I realized with a sinking heart, standing at the exit doors and staring hard in our direction.
They’d spotted me.
They’d would be in our car in moments. And here was Celia’s mom accusing me of accosting Celia, a dozen other riders whose faces reminded me of pitchfork-wielding peasants out for a good lynching. It was a sinister combination.
“I have to go,” I told Celia. “Please believe me—I’m only trying to help you. Your dad wasn’t perfect, but he loved you dearly. Honor his memory by keeping safe, okay?”
Awestruck, Celia gave a little nod.
The car stopped. All eyes were on me.
“You’re not getting away,” Celia’s mom declared.
“He knows something about the Sweet Sixteen,” a woman said.
Random hands pawed at me, but I swatted them away, muscled toward the exit. “I do know who the killer is,” I said.
“Yeah?” a male voice asked.
“Bullshit,” a pale, skinny guy said.
“Who?” a young woman demanded.
The doors opened. No one in our car moved, but people in the car beside us began to jostle out. Hartman and Raines were the first ones through the doorway.
I stepped onto the concrete, some of the riders following me, their expressions avid.
“Officers!” Celia’s mom shrilled. “This man was threatening my daughter! He knows something about—”
“That’s him,” I blurted as the policemen rushed toward me. “The Sweet Sixteen Killer is Officer Tyler Raines.”
Chapter Sixteen
The platform devolved into bedlam.
Passengers from the other cars were pouring out to get a glimpse of what was happening. The riders from our car were filling the gaps around us, all eyes riveted on me.
“Who’s Tyler Raines?” someone asked.
Patterson’s considerable bulk loomed between me and the approaching officers. “He is,” Patterson said, indicating the younger cop. Raines cringed when Patterson identified him, perhaps realizing it would be more difficult to prove his innocence when there were two accusers rather than one.
“He’s the Sweet Sixteen?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Hell, no,” Raines said. He had his cuffs out. Danny was stone-faced, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.
Before they reached us, Celia’s mom pointed at me. “This man was leering at my child and should be arrested for lewd behavior.”
“I’m about to deal with him, ma’am,” Raines answered, gripping me by the bicep and directing me away from the crowd.
“But he didn’t do anything,” Celia said, and I felt a brief burst of happiness.
Danny was following us. Patterson stood outside the train, a look of pained indecision on his face. Celia took a couple steps after us, but her mom snagged her wrist.
“The priest is the killer,” her mom said. “I hope they give him the death penalty.”
“He’s not a killer,” Celia said, ripping away from her mom’s grip. “He’s just trying to help.” Her face changed. “Is that you, Danny?”
Danny didn’t speak, only continued to stride away from the crowd with me and Raines. I realized that Celia would have met Danny at some point, but the thought promptly scattered as Celia’s mom shouted something unintelligible at her daughter.
Raines muttered, “So much for privacy, huh, Father? Thanks a lot.”
A voice from behind us called, “Where are you three going?”
A backward glance confirmed it was a Red Line worker, an older, plump, bespectacled woman with steel wool hair and a kindly face. She couldn’t have been more than four-foot-ten.
“This door lead somewhere?” Raines asked, nodding at a gray door inset in an alcove.
“Don’t most doors?” the woman asked as she waddled closer.
“Open it,” Raines growled. “By order of the Chicago P.D.”
“Don’t have to get all huffy,” she said, plucking a key ring from her belt and selecting a faded gold key. “This man in trouble?” she asked.
Raines nodded. “He has information we need.”
“Is he a suspect in the killings?” she asked as she keyed the lock and pushed open the door.
“Now what would give you that idea?” Raines asked.
“They’re all saying it,” she said with a thumb toward the still-gawking crowd. She peered up at me. “You don’t look like a killer.”
Danny spoke for the first time. “Looks can be deceiving.”
“Move,” Raines said, shoving me through.
The room we entered was a dingy gray and looked like a combination janitor’s closet and storage area.
The woman began to move away, but Danny said, “Hey.”
She stopped, gazed up at him through her thick spectacles. “Can I help you?”
Danny nodded at a door across the room, this one ancient-looking. Light green paint flecked off its bubbled surface. There had once been black text stenciled on it, but now it was illegible. “Where’s this lead?”
The woman frowned. “You don’t want to go there.”
Raines was watching Danny apprehensively. “What’s up?”
Danny gestured at the small room we found ourselves in. “This isn’t very private. We need to make sure no one hears us.”
The woman shook her head. “Nobody ever goes in here.”
Danny looked at Raines. “We can’t risk someone overhearing. Some people aren’t too good at keeping their mouths shut.”
I looked from one cop to the other, and in the thick silence charging the air I realized how furious Danny was with Raines. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what Rai
nes had said to me in the confessional, but he was canny enough to know Raines had let too much slip.
“There’s a conference room upstairs,” the woman suggested. “We have cookies.”
Without taking his eyes off Raines, Danny strode over, tapped the door with his knuckles. “This one. Open it.”
Brow furrowed, the woman riffled through her key ring. She finally settled on one, tried it. The lock wouldn’t turn. Her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth in concentration, she attempted another, which didn’t work either. In the sallow light of the small room, I studied Tyler Raines, who looked like he might be sick. I couldn’t blame him. He knew Danny was a serial killer. And now Danny was fuming.
Was Raines in as much danger as I was?
I hoped so. Julia Deveroux deserved justice. Her parents deserved justice. Prior to this whole affair I had been staunchly opposed to the death penalty, adhering instead to Father Sutherland’s view that every soul could be salvaged, no matter how abhorrent its sins. Although I knew this view was a godly one, I found it more and more difficult to cling to. How could a man who raped, tortured, and disemboweled a child be salvaged? Did he deserve to be?
“Ah,” the woman said, the lock finally snicking open.
Looking vastly relieved, she grasped the outer doorknob and made to go, but before she could, the door jerked out of her hand and a huge figure pushed inside.
“What are you doing with him?” Father Patterson demanded.
“None of your goddamned business,” Raines snapped. He shot a glance at the short woman, who appeared ready to hyperventilate. “Why didn’t you lock the door behind you? Jesus.”
“It’s fine,” Danny said. “He can come with us.” A nod at Patterson. “How are you, Father? It’s been awhile.”
“Not that long,” Patterson said. “How are you coping, Danny?”
Danny shrugged. “Not bad. You know, some days are better than others.”
“You moved out of your brother’s house?”
“Would you wanna live with my brother?”
“Danny, there’s something you need to know about your partner.”
Exorcist Falls Page 28
