by Brenda Novak
When she’d finished her confession, Father Xavier found he had even more respect for his young friend. He convinced her it was time to let her parents know where she was. They didn’t welcome her back with open arms, but their relationship began to mend. She had been to Atlanta a few times to visit, and was calling dutifully once a week.
She was healing.
As the wind lashed her face and the rain plastered her hair to her skull, she ran across the parking lot and was almost hit when a car screeched around the corner and pulled up beside her. The passenger door swung open, and she was overcome with relief. She knew this car, and the man driving it. How she had gotten so lucky that he was driving by as she was struggling to get out of the storm? It must have been divine intervention. All she saw was shelter and, hopefully, a ride to St. Catherine’s. He was yelling at her to hurry up and get in, and with a quick prayer to Mary to keep her safe, she did.
Fighting with the door, she finally managed to slam it behind her. She was soaked to the bone, shaking with fear and cold. The man in the car gave her a huge smile. For a brief moment she thought he looked like Satan himself; silhouetted against the storm he was hidden in shadows, his hair standing on end, his eyes blank holes in his face.
Then the light went on in the car and she saw he was just the ordinary, handsome man she knew. She laughed at herself; it was just the storm making her spooky.
“Thanks so much. I almost blew away there.”
“I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the Word of God, and for the testimony which they held.”
“Pardon me?”
The man said nothing more, just smiled and put the car in gear. Mary Margaret’s internal alarm bells went off, but before she could do anything, she heard the locks on the doors snap closed.
Thirty-Eight
The storm worsened, and conversation drifted off, each detective lost in their own thoughts about the case or the storm or what to have for dinner. Taylor sat on the floor under a small stack of blankets, feeling incredibly foolish. She’d been through many storms before, but this one had a different feeling about it: a malevolent, evil oppression. She shook her head, trying to get the feeling of doom out of her mind. How silly was she? Thirty-four years old and afraid of a little storm.
Thunder shook the building, and they heard a rushing noise like a freight train getting ready to ram through the walls. There were a few nervous laughs from the darkness, but everyone was listening to the rushing wind intently.
Baldwin reached over and touched her shoulder to get her attention over the noise of the storm. “Were you here the last time the tornadoes came through downtown?”
His voice gave her a little comfort. Strange, it seemed to be hours since their spat on the stairwell. But Taylor was used to that. She didn’t lose her temper often, but when she did, she did it thoroughly and without thought. Once it was over, it was over. She did feel a little embarrassed by her outburst, but she was too worried about the storm to deal with it at the moment. Besides, she thought, fear makes strange bedfellows. She blushed in the dark at the fleeting image that came with the thought, cleared her throat and replied to Baldwin’s innocuous question.
“No. I was on vacation and saw it on the news. I’m glad I wasn’t here. Sometimes I prefer to watch the wrath of God from afar.”
“Wrath of God, huh? Think it’s that bad out there?”
She gave him a sidelong glance, trying to decide if he was mocking her. She had the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about the storm.
But Baldwin sat calmly, legs drawn up and hands dangling loosely in between.
“You never know,” she said lightly. “How are we going to find the boyfriend?”
“The moment we’re cleared to get out of here, we drive to Vanderbilt and take the place apart. Someone knows who these girls were seeing. From all you’ve told me, Shelby Kincaid didn’t necessarily confide in her parents. She could easily be seeing someone as well. Three girls seeing the same man? If we’re right, now we have a suspect and a possible motive.”
“You mentioned cults earlier when we talked about the aconite. Do you think the girls were aware of each other, that the relationship with this man was open, so to speak? Or done in a group? These kids love to experiment now, and if they had a charismatic leader pushing them into a group situation…”
“It’s entirely possible. It all depends on our suspect. But I’m inclined to say no, simply because of the timing. It feels like he’s snatching and dumping, going through some sort of ritual sacrifice. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“I want to talk to Shelby’s mother again. I did get the sense there were things left unsaid during the interview.”
“You have good instincts. Follow them.”
“So do you,” she said, surprised how pleased she was by the compliment. “The problem is, we’re three steps behind this creep. I have the worst feeling, like he’s out there on the storm’s winds, doing something right now. Silly, I know.”
“It’s not silly at all. It’s how I always feel when I’m working a serial. Completely out of control, and every step I make could be the wrong one and cost a life. It’s the chance we take, working these cases, knowing no matter what we do, we might be too late.”
He said it without artifice, and she realized, for all the seriousness of the conversation, she enjoyed talking to him. You’re out of your mind, Jackson.
“Something else is bothering me. They’re all so different. I mean, Jordan Blake was supposedly trouble on a stick, and her parents are quite absent. Shelby Kincaid was the extreme opposite, with overprotective parents and a reticent personality, super focused on her studies. Jill Gates is in between, and her parents certainly sound like they’re attentive, at the very least. Would one man be drawn to three wildly different personalities? I thought serials went for the same type.”
“The different personalities are interesting to me as well, but they all have similar physical characteristics. I think what makes them alike in looks attracted this man, not what made them different. What’s bothering me is the mixed presentation. Leaving semen and fingerprints tell me this is a disorganized killer. Multiple victims in a short time frame, staged scenes, the herbs, all point to a very organized offender. In other words, these could be his first crimes and he doesn’t know any better, doesn’t know how to clean up after himself. Or he could be very much in control, is building up to something bigger and splashier, thinks he’s smarter than us and will get away with it, or doesn’t care if he’s caught. Because he’s exhibiting hallmarks of both, that tells me he’s decompensating. He’s making mistakes now. I’m inclined to think he’s a disorganized offender, and there’s something else going on.”
“How do you do this? Profile, I mean. Quantico is on everyone’s radar right now. What y’all do up there is fascinating. Everything you just told me makes perfect sense, but how does it help us catch him?”
He tensed, and she mentally kicked herself. When he answered, his voice wasn’t as easy. “There’s a science to it, no doubt, but for most of us, it’s the ability to trust our gut. We rely on experience and instinct. Years and years of instinct. If you’re a good investigator, it rarely leads you wrong, until…” The unspoken words hung in the air. Until it does.
He was no longer relaxed, stood and started to pace. Taylor sighed to herself. And you were doing so well. Good job upsetting him. Another thought hit her, this one more immediate.
“Hey, Price? Do you think the generators came on in the jail?”
She could barely see the alarm on her boss’s face; the batteries were running down in their only flashlight and the light was fading quickly.
“We better hope so. All of those locks are electronic; the doors would have swung open if the lights went off for more than five minutes. Last thing we need, a bunch of half-cocked prisoners wandering the streets. How long have we been in here anyway?”
A small light glowed on Fitz’s wrist.
> “’Bout a half hour, Cap. Think it’s cool to get out of here yet? I’m getting a little claustrophobic.”
“I think we’re good. Let’s go see what’s happened.”
Thirty-Nine
Mary Margaret was sitting on her hands, which were tied low behind her back. She had managed to scoot around a little in the confines of the confessional, but only enough to wedge her fingers under her butt.
The events of the past hours were all a blur. She remembered the man picking her up, their quick exodus to St. Catherine’s Church. She was so relieved to be indoors, away from the fury of the storm.
Father Xavier had greeted them, obviously relieved to see she was okay and thankful that her friend had delivered her safely to his door. He guided them into his office. The man she was with asked for something to drink, and the priest poured them steaming cups of his aromatic tea. She could vaguely recall the taste of the tea: amazingly bitter, despite the three spoons full of sugar she had dumped in. Regardless, it was warm and she was safe within the confines of her mother church.
Almost immediately, her mouth had gone numb and her stomach felt violently upset. She vaguely heard Father Xavier remark that he wasn’t feeling well either, and then all was black.
It seemed like hours later when she came to. She didn’t know immediately where she was. Her stomach felt like it was filled with knives, her hands were going numb. She thought hard and realized she was still in the church. In fact, she could tell that she was inside the confessor’s side of the confessional.
She had no idea how long she’d been stuck in here. The gag in her mouth was cutting off her breath, and she figured if she breathed slowly through her nose she didn’t feel she would suffocate immediately. Her stomach heaved violently. Her whole body was going numb; she couldn’t feel her limbs anymore.
She heard footsteps and listened intently. They grew closer. She could tell there were two people coming toward her. One was shuffling, one was marching with purpose. She heard muted voices, muttering and moaning. She tried to scream, but the only sound that she could manage was a tiny whimper. She felt ashamed. At the moment of her death she should be full of grace, praying to the mother Mary to give her strength and acceptance. She didn’t doubt for a minute she was dying; she felt as if she’d left her body already. Her mind was able to register what was happening, but her body was slipping away and wouldn’t respond. She couldn’t feel them, but the tears began to roll down her face.
The door to the priest’s side of the confessional was thrown open. The box shook with the force of a body hitting the wall inside. Mary Margaret could see a man’s face, dim and veiled through the partition screen. The door to the confessional slammed again. They were left in darkness.
Mary Margaret could barely make out the white collar around the man’s throat. Something told her it must be Father Xavier. She whimpered again, trying to get his attention. His head lolled to the side. She wondered briefly if he was dead. When a moan escaped his lips, she breathed a slow sigh of relief through her nose. Neither of them were dead yet.
She tried to speak through the gag in her mouth, which had loosened.
“Futther,” she whispered. “Futther, ere ou kay?”
She was rewarded with a moan, and barely made out the word “devil.”
“Futther, ere oo okay?”
She watched him carefully through the screen. His breathing was labored; he was not gagged. Mary Margaret could see a trickle of blood flowing from the side of his head. She could tell his lips were moving, though no sound reached her ears.
The footsteps came again, and the door to the confessional was thrown open briefly. A hand snaked in and ripped the gag from her mouth. She heard the voice, disembodied, as if she were hearing the Holy Ghost speak aloud.
“Confess your sins, little one. Confess and be shriven, go to your heaven with an unsoiled soul.”
The door slammed shut again, but before she could cry out, she smelled gasoline. Heard the flick of the match. Felt the heat as the flames exploded around her.
“Father,” she screamed, somehow finding the strength to cry aloud. “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” The flames grew around her, scorching her hair, filling the tiny grave with smoke. She began to cough, knew she would speak no more. She prayed silently.
As Mary Margaret lost consciousness, she heard one last word. A strangled whisper. She didn’t know if it was from her God or the priest being immolated with her, but the word filled her with peace, and she stopped struggling against her earthly bonds.
“Forgiven,” the voice said.
And the flames took them.
Forty
He stood watching the flames, a small smile playing on his lips. He raised his eyes to the dark and boiling skies. “And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven…”
Forty-One
The skies were still roiling with gray and black clouds, and rain continued to pour down. Lightning reached out a fiery hand toward the earth. Nature wasn’t finished with her punishment, but the winds had lessened.
Downtown Nashville looked like a war zone. Trees, trash, metal; all were strewn around in the streets like litter after a celestial concert, carelessly dropped by receding waves of humanity. People were venturing into the streets to survey the damage, their eyes wide with the excitement and fear that accompanies every natural calamity. The sense of awe was palpable; it was dazzling to be involved in something that they had no control over.
Workplaces were left with flickering lights or no electricity at all, so many had shut down for the rest of the day. It was better for the people not directly involved in the cleanup to get out of the way. The tornado had cut a swath two hundred yards wide right down the main downtown streets of Nashville, but most of the outlying areas had only suffered superficial damage. There were no reports of deaths.
Fitz, Marcus and Lincoln had snuck off to their respective homes to see if they had taken a hit from the storm. Price had to deal with the law enforcement aspects of helping with the cleanup. He wasn’t very popular with the rest of the detectives in the CID at the moment. After a brief meeting with the chief of police, he’d called in all the off duty detectives. They weren’t happy to find they needed to go help Patrol work the roadblocks that had been put up around Nashville to help NES get the power back on.
With everyone gone, Taylor finally felt like she had some breathing room. She and Baldwin stayed in the homicide office, planning their next steps. The storm damage was impeding their ability to cross town to Vanderbilt to interview everyone again, and the phones were all down. The school had been evacuated, the student and administration scattered.
After a frustrating hour of waiting, they gave up, decided to take a break and get some food. She was glad for a momentary respite from the case to clear her head and recharge her batteries.
As they drove out on Interstate 40, circling around downtown, they were impressed at how quickly the clean up was progressing. Many of the streets had already been cleared. The damage was not as severe as it had initially looked, but many trees were uprooted and power lines were strewn across the streets.
Taylor decided it would be best to get out of the way, so she suggested they head back to her side of town to get some dinner. She lived in Bellevue, a small community just west of Nashville. It didn’t take them long to make the drive. The tornado had been confined to downtown. Once past the exits for West End, the streets were relatively clear.
She pulled into a neighborhood restaurant called Jonathan’s, and they went inside. The place was packed, a beehive of activity. It seemed no one wanted to stay at home; they’d all come out to share the day’s excitement. They made their way through the throng of people waiting for tables at the front door and went into the back bar.
They’d been making desultory chitchat on the ride over, mostly about the weather. The memory of her outburst had faded away. More comfortable together now, they ordered beers. Taylor brought out a
pack of cigarettes and offered one to Baldwin.
Baldwin gave her a grateful grin. “I’d love one, but I quit a few years ago.”
Taylor gave him a smile and lit the cigarette. “So did I.” She took a couple of drags, crushed it out and rose.
“Will you order me some fried clams? I need to go to the bathroom.”
“No problem.” He watched her walk away and saw many heads turn as she pushed through the crowd. He started berating himself. He knew now why he was interested in staying on this case, and it wasn’t only the murders themselves.
Taylor wove her way to the bathroom, grateful to find it empty. She stood in front of the mirror, pretending to smooth down her hair. She could have easily let Baldwin head to his own home, but instead she’d invited him to dinner. There was something about him that made her want to stay in his company. She’d lashed out at him earlier more from fear than anything else. When he’d offered to be there for her if she needed him when they were out on the steps, she’d had a yearning so strong it felt like a blow to the chest. Something about Baldwin had gotten under her skin, and she was furious at herself for letting that happen.
At the same time, she wanted to crumble into his arms, cry on his shoulder, try to explain the frustration, the pain she was feeling. She was lonely. He was the nearest attractive warm body, even if he was screwed up.
