by Brenda Novak
Father Xavier couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. This nightmare must be stopped, and he did not have the power to do so. He needed to find a way to leave this man, to pray and reflect, even to break the seal of confession if it would save more lives. He decided to go on with the observance of the confession.
“For your penance, my son, I cannot imagine there are enough Hail Marys that can be said. You must find a way to make reparations, to cleanse yourself of these thoughts and continue down a different path that will end this quest without more killing. Turn yourself into the police, and all will not be lost. Please, I beg of you, do these things and…”
The man started on his Act of Contrition, as if he’d heard nothing the priest had said. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments. But most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”
Father Xavier couldn’t help it, the words came before he could stop himself. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
The man replied, “Amen.”
“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”
“His mercy endures forever.”
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, my son.”
He heard the man stand and open the door. He jumped to his feet; though the confession was traditionally an anonymous process, he felt he must see the man. He needed to see what the face of evil looked like.
By the time he opened the confessional door, he only caught a glimpse of the man’s back, retreating so quickly from the room that he was a blur.
Father Xavier sat down hard on the seat of the confessional. He heard a rumble of thunder, as if the heavens were displeased.
“Oh dear God, what have I done?”
He got up and rushed to his office. He needed to pray and consult with the Bishop. Perhaps he could find a way to break the seal of confession; surely it would be allowed if it meant saving lives. He put on a pot of tea and sat in his most comfortable chair, thinking hard. He had no way to identify the man who had just left. He’d never seen his face, only heard his sinister, low voice.
He could hear the storm raging and looked out the window. The wind had picked up, thunder was roaring closer, and lightning began flashing every few seconds. He took it as a sign. He needed to talk with the Bishop immediately.
He reached toward the desk to pick up the phone. The lights went out in the Church. He managed to fumble and grasp the phone receiver, but there was no dial tone. The storm had knocked out the electricity and the phones. He was left to sit in the darkness and pray for guidance. He started to do so with fervor.
Thirty-Five
The rain came down hard enough to leach in through the windowsill. Droplets formed a tiny river, slipping down the wall to puddle on the shiny hardwood floor. Jill lay on her right side, watching the progression. She figured it had been pouring for hours now. Wave after wave of thunder and lightning had been rocking the small room. At one point, she thought she heard tornado sirens blast.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been locked in the room. She remembered very little of what had happened over the past few days. At least she thought it had been a few days. She’d studied sensory deprivation in a psychology class and figured her perceptions could be completely off the mark. The continuous rain wasn’t helping. She knew for a fact she’d eaten three meals: two cheese omelets and one hurried bowl of macaroni and cheese. The urge to sleep had overtaken her before the meals were finished. When she woke each time, the food had been cleared away, only a glass of water left behind. She was glad of the emptiness; she was feeling sick to her stomach.
Standing shakily, she tried to get her bearings. She went to the window, but the shades were permanently drawn within the windows. Double glass, no cord. She wandered to the door, but it too was locked, just like it had been the past fifteen times she’d tried. The only other furnishings in the room were the double bed she had been rumpling, a bedside table, and a small lamp giving off the dimmest glow.
There were no noises except the vicious storm. She jumped as another flash of lightning hit, close enough to make her hair stand on end. The meager light from the lamp was extinguished. The electricity had gone off. Backlit by the violent flashes, she made her way back to the bed.
She was so tired, too tired even to cry. She lay facing the window, wondering what in the world was happening to her. She must be drugged somehow. She wasn’t panicked; she was more curious as to what was happening. She should be scared, she should be panicked, but everything was softly glowing—the drugs, she told herself – you’re being drugged. At least she knew there would be people trying to find her. The father of her child, for one. Gabriel wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He had been so good to her, so sweet. An angel. The affair had been going on for only a few weeks when she’d gotten pregnant. He was thrilled. She’d expected screams and threats, begging to end the pregnancy coupled with ‘I’ll always stand by you.’ But he was as excited as a new puppy. She wasn’t two months along before he started coming up with names. Boy’s names. He was absolutely positive that Jill was giving him a son.
The time had flown so quickly. Though she wasn’t completely sure it was the right thing to do, she’d agreed to keep the baby. She’d only shared the news with the doctor at the health clinic at Vanderbilt. She hadn’t gotten up the guts to tell her parents, nor had she shared the news with her friends. She hoped they just thought she was putting on weight. Though she was getting so big now, she supposed it wouldn’t stay secret for much longer. Baggy clothes only hid so much.
The lightning was so close, the thunder simultaneous, filling the room with light and shaking the walls at the same time. She had no idea what was going on, where she was, what in the name of God was going on. She hid beneath the covers, praying for the storm to end.
Jill awoke later with a start, crying out, choking. She looked around wildly. The same room, the same bed. She tried to gather her breath. She had dreamed of trees bending unmercifully in the wind, lightning crashing, and drowning in a river of blood.
“It was only a dream, Jill, it was only a dream.”
The arms reached her out of nowhere, and she realized Gabriel was holding her, whispering in her ear, soothing her with nonsensical murmurs. Was she dreaming? She didn’t have the energy to fight, didn’t protest when he laid her back onto the bed gently. She didn’t have the ability to shout when he rose and went to the door. Her screams merely echoed in her head as she heard the door lock behind him.
Thirty-Six
The thunder and lightning were moving in, the rain pouring in sheets against the windows of the squad room. The storm was unsettling; the squad room was filled with the smell of anxiety.
Price stuck his head out of his office. “Strategy meeting, conference room, fifteen minutes. And be aware, we’re under a tornado watch. Have your stuff ready in case we need to hit the basements.”
There were groans and shuffling. Marcus stopped typing and logged off his computer. Lincoln made a slow circuit around the room while Fitz flicked his lighter ever closer to his emergency cigarette. Taylor shifted her boots off her desk but didn’t get up. She stiffened as she saw Baldwin step back into the room, windblown and remorseful.
Price had seen Taylor slam back into the squad room, noticed her body language change when Baldwin came in. He gave her a surreptitious glance, thinking she may have had time to cool down from whatever had pissed her off so badly. No, she was still simmering, nearly giving off smoke from the fires lit inside her. He sighed. He needed his best detective back, all the way. He didn’t have time for a turf war.
He walked to her desk, eyebrows raised.
“Everything okay there, sugar?”
She gave him a small smile. “Right as rain.”
“Ha-ha.” He looked at her closely, started to speak, then decided to leave it alone. She was a big girl. He didn’t need to fight any battles for her.
Taylor looked at Price’s receding back. He was hollow eyed, tired and obviously just as shocked as his detectives that another Vandy student had disappeared. She felt a pang of remorse. He was a good man; she admired him. She resolved to pull it together, yet again. Mitchell Price was one person she never wanted to disappoint.
Price called, “Okay everyone, screw fifteen. Let’s go ahead and chat about our next moves now. We can do it right here. We have a case to solve. Let’s try to get it in before the storm really hits.”
As if to answer him, the lights went out, plunging them into darkness.
“The generators are going to come on, right?” Marcus’s voice had a little waver in it, the perfect tension releaser. The group fell back on the tried and true: take it out on someone else.
Fitz called, “Hey, Marcus, you afraid of the dark?”
“No, you big old fat fool, I’m just asking if we have generators for this shithole.”
Price started a laugh but covered it with a cough. But Taylor didn’t hold back. Her giggling was infectious. They were all roaring with laughter when the tornado sirens went off.
Taylor grabbed a Maglite from her desk drawer. Suddenly sober, she instructed, “Everyone to the basements.” They all got up to follow her out.
Baldwin felt badly. He hadn’t meant to fight with Taylor, just to help somehow. She’d reached out to him when he was at his lowest point. He wanted to give something back. He’d rushed in without taking the time to figure out if Taylor would accept any overtures from him. He was a complete stranger, shoving his way into her case and into her life. No wonder she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. He felt the despair creeping up his spine but shoved it away. He couldn’t fold this easily, not yet. He needed, well, he didn’t know what he needed, but it was something he knew only Taylor Jackson could give him.
He caught up her on the steps. “Are those the new tornado sirens going off?”
“Yep. After that one hit downtown a few years ago, they put ’em in. This is the first time I’ve heard them go off downtown, though. Kinda wild, you know?”
Her voice had lost its earlier edge. She had extended the olive branch. He accepted it with open arms.
“It is. I hope this is a false alarm.”
They set up shop in the basement, taking cover from the malicious winds tearing at the building. Taylor’s voice rang out clear and sharp.
“Might as well have that status meeting now. Here’s where we stand. Jill Gates is a junior at Vanderbilt. She’s from Huntsville, Alabama; a blonde, like Shelby and Jordan. Her parents reported her missing this morning. They say they haven’t spoken with her in four days. Four days, people. He could have snatched her up before he killed Shelby.”
“Shelby had been missing for how long before she was found?” Baldwin asked.
Taylor’s flashed the light at him. “Three days, as far as we know. Her roommate Vicki last saw her Friday night. We found her body Monday morning. If MP had taken the report Saturday instead of assuming it was a college kid doing their thing over the weekend, we might have been able to save her.”
The bitterness in Taylor’s voice broke his heart. He knew why she’d attacked him now. She was blaming herself for this whole mess. And he finally realized how he could help: solve this damn case, and give her some peace of mind.
“Let’s try to establish a timeline here. When does Sam think Jordan was killed?”
Taylor looked to her second. “Fitz?”
“Let me see that flashlight.” He shuffled some papers and pulled out the autopsy report on Jordan Blake. “Sam estimates she wasn’t in the water more than five days or so.” He thought for a moment, counting on his fingers. “With that time frame, she could have been killed on Wednesday or Thursday, then dumped into the river.”
Marcus reached over and flipped the page. “So he kills Jordan on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, then immediately grabs Shelby?”
Baldwin started nodding. “Okay, if that’s how it went down, he killed Shelby sometime on Sunday night and dumped her at the Parthenon. Jill’s parents report her missing today and say they haven’t talked to her for four days. That means the last time they talked to her was Sunday?”
“Yeah, that’s what the report says. That means he took Jill before he killed Shelby.” Taylor was getting upset. “We should have another body showing up here anytime, huh?”
Baldwin was sitting close to Taylor in the dark room. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Not necessarily. Don’t give up just yet. What else do we know about Jill?”
“I got off the phone with Jill’s parents right before we got stuck in here,” Lincoln said. “They’re heading up from Huntsville. They’re just blown away by all of this.”
“Did they give you any other information?”
“They said she was seeing someone, but they don’t have any idea who it could be. She never confided in her parents about that kind of stuff, but they said she was being especially secretive lately. She didn’t go home over Fall Break and told them she was going to stay on campus to get ready for exams. They called her on Saturday, but she was in a rush and got off the phone real quick said she had to meet a friend for dinner. That’s the last they talked to her.”
“Good, that’s good. Taylor, didn’t you say you had the feeling Shelby had a boyfriend, but her roommate wouldn’t give you anything on him?”
“Yeah, I got the sense she was keeping something from me. With Shelby’s background, I felt it might be a secret affair.”
Price finally spoke. “And we know for a fact Jordan was involved with someone, willingly or unwillingly. Her pregnancy confirms it. If Jill Gates also had a mystery lover, we’re getting somewhere here.”
Marcus and Fitz spoke at the same time. “Same boyfriend.”
Baldwin gave them a big smile. “Same boyfriend. We find him and maybe we’ll find the killer.”
Thirty-Seven
Mary Margaret struggled with her backpack and umbrella, her glasses sliding down her nose. She was trying to make it to St. Catherine’s to meet Father Xavier before the storm hit full force. The sky was a deep green; she’d seen tornado skies before and was certain that the fierce swirling winds were bearing down on her as she ran. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, and deep chills ran down her spine. She shook it off the unsettled feeling. The lightning was close. It was simply static electricity making her hair bush out and stand on end.
A huge gust of wind caught the umbrella and tore it out of her hands. “Damn it!” she screamed, watching it fly away. It was the worst curse she allowed herself to say aloud, but the guilt of losing her temper hit her immediately. Another Hail Mary from Father Xavier. There was no way she was going to be on time for their scheduled meeting. She thought longingly of the warm fragrant tea he would be brewing in his cozy office. She never ran late for their sessions. She hoped he wasn’t worrying about her.
Mary Margaret loved her theology classes at Aquinas College. It was a relief for her to be in the company of so many young students who shared her beliefs. When she found her way back to the Church, the doors swung wide and welcoming for a young woman in search of herself. There was no judgment, no dirty looks. Of course, no one knew her background. Mary Margaret had only confided in one person about her past.
She’d met Father Francis Xavier a few months back. He was new to Nashville, too, a young, principled and compassionate priest. She felt an immediate connection with him and started going to mass at his home church, St. Catherine’s. He was a stranger in town, a little lonely, and always willing to discuss the mysteries of theology with his new friend. One night, she asked him to take her confession. It was the only way she could think of to share her pain and humiliation with another person without r
epercussion.
Mary Margaret’s family lived in Atlanta and had left the Catholic Church before she hit her early teens. Her grandmother, a full-blown, off-the-boat Italian Catholic, had converted to Baptist for an unknown reason and harangued the family until they switched as well. The main force of her argument was her fear that if they were not saved, she would never see them in heaven.
Mary Margaret had never been terribly religious. As she entered her teens she found many more exciting things to do than going to church four nights a week and spending weekends in revivals. She fell into a group of misfits who got her drinking, then using drugs. Ultimately, she began having sex with the boys in the group. Atlanta provided many excitements for a rebellious teenage girl, but she soon grew bored of her life and wanted to strike out on her own. With one hundred dollars in her pocket, she left town.
She made her way across the country, hitching rides with strangers, working for cash in small town cafés, trading herself if she got too low on cash to purchase drugs. She made calls home to her parents, but they were so upset with her that they wouldn’t talk to her. She wasn’t happy living on the edge. She was lonely, run down and a little sick of herself and her behavior. She began having thoughts of returning home. And then it had all caught up with her.
Somewhere in the backwoods of Colorado, she’d hitched a ride with the wrong man. He’d beaten her and raped her, then dumped her in a campground. A church group on a day hike found her bloodied and bruised, but alive. They’d taken her to the nearest hospital, a small community endeavor run by the Catholic Church.
It was the words of succor from the nuns that had brought her back to life a changed woman. One of the nuns told her of a college in Nashville, Aquinas College. It was a perfect place for her to start over. The nuns allowed her to live with them for a time, helped her study for and acquire her GED. They celebrated her triumph when she was offered a small scholarship to Aquinas. With their meager savings, they got her on a plane to Nashville and paid her first year’s rent on a small apartment across the street from the school. This set up made it simple for her to walk to class and placate her caffeine addiction at the local Starbucks. She took jobs on campus to pay the rent and worked as hard as she could to begin a new life. Her faith in her newfound religion had become the cornerstone to a whole new world.
