Ocean Park

by Michael Walsh

  Conley crossed the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps masked by that of Kendricks and Mrs. Drewicz arguing loudly.

  “Probable cause, Mrs. Drewicz…ˮ

  “Police brutality…my lawyer…”

  The stairs were rough, splintered slabs, narrow treads and high risers. Conley steadied himself on the banister and descended.

  What’s down there, Richard? What are you going to show me?

  He brushed against the rough plaster wall and it rained white powder. He paused at the bottom and looked around the corner.

  Wires, pipes, and thick beams crisscrossed the low ceiling. The gray floor was a bed of ash. Cardboard boxes stood in piles against walls, tilting dangerously. Washer and dryer rested in a corner on wooden pallets. An oil furnace sat under a grimy window, rusty and old, like salvage from the ocean floor.

  To his right was the only bright thing. An upright safe stood at the foot of the steps, a man-high, kelly-green metal box with PREMIER painted in gold letters over a combination wheel. He ran his hand over the smooth, cold front.

  A strip of light shone under a flat door to a makeshift room of plywood and studs. Small sounds came from inside, the click and scuff of plastic.

  Conley listened at the door. More noise—fast ticks, loud whimpering. Richard was inside. Conley tried the knob. Locked.

  Movement on his right, very close. He turned quickly and felt a wash of warm breath.

  “What’s going on?” Kendricks asked, his face inches away.

  The whimpering stopped.

  He hears us.

  “Why are you here, Lloyd?” Conley whispered. “Where’s Mrs. Drewicz?”

  “Upstairs. Madder’n hell and twice as noisy. Thought you might need backup.”

  Shuffling inside the room. The acrid smell of gasoline filled the damp air.

  “Richard Drewicz,” Conley called, banging a fist on the door. “Police. Open up.”

  The smell grew stronger. Conley stepped back and gave the door a kick that made the jamb shudder. Whirrs and clicks suddenly sounded behind them. He turned.

  Mrs. Drewicz stood hunched at the safe, pink slippers painted with the gray ash from the floor. She spun the combination lock and worked the silver lever like a pump handle.

  He kicked the door again and the frame splintered. Richard stood beside a pyre of plastic jewel cases, a red gas can in one hand, silver lighter in the other. The room reeked of gasoline. He held the lighter to the pyramid, punching it forward as he thumbed the spark roller.

  Shots.

  Bullets rang, pinging off metal, and thwacked into wood. Kendricks hit the floor and cursed, clutching his thigh.

  Mrs. Drewicz stood poised at the open safe, the butt of a .22 rifle buried in the crook of her shoulder. Hands were steady, feet spread for balance, yellow eyes narrowed to dull ellipses, feral spheres.

  Conley crouched, drew his automatic, and fired. Three quick pulls of the trigger, three bullets into her ample torso. Her dress fluttered and she fell back, propped upright by the open safe door.

  Richard screamed and ran to her. Conley tore the lighter from his hand and kicked the .22 away.

  Voices called from the kitchen.

  “Man down,” Conley yelled and knelt next to his partner.

  “Told you she was mad,” Kendricks said.

  Footsteps clattered. Mrs. Drewicz’s body was blocking the stairs. The Salem cops rocked the big steel panel, and her lifeless body swayed back and forth. Richard clung to her, sobbing, until they finally caved forward and the safe door clanged shut.

  Conley ripped Kendricks’ pants leg away. Not much blood, and Kendricks was already trying to stand. A cop pushed him back down and opened a first aid kit.

  Conley collected DVD jewel cases scattered on the floor. Names in jagged black ink marred their surface. There were so many. The name Chrissy was scrawled on one. Megan on another. More names. All girls.

  More.

  Matt was afraid he already knew the secret.

  ****

  Late that afternoon, Conley’s phone rang. Mazzarelli had good news. Mrs. Drewicz’s bullet had taken a chunk of flesh from Kendrick’s leg and it hurt like hell, but he’d be home in a day or two, good as new.

  Sheila Thompson sat next to Conley in front of a computer screen at the Salem Police station. Richard Drewicz’s DVDs made a small tower on the desk. Conley chose one and opened the case. Sheila stared at the blank screen as he loaded the disk.

  The sound of ringing phones and serious voices drifted through the thin walls. Aromatic steam rose from strong coffee in the mugs they held, a small comfort.

  “I’m scared, Conley.”

  “So am I.ˮ He pressed PLAY.

  A date appeared—two years ago—across a picture of Mrs. Drewicz’s living room. Blinds were closed, but bright light shone on a man on the couch. He casually read a magazine, then snapped his head to the right to the sound of young voices. Two children appeared, tow-headed little girls in summer dresses.

  Thompson groaned.

  Conley’s hand nearly crushed the remote.

  They studied the actors, searching for clues—and watching unspeakable acts. Was Channary in that pile of plastic? Would they see her next? Or the time after?

  Tears welled in Thompson’s eyes and wet her cheeks. Conley fast-forwarded the disc. Forensics would analyze these later, identify these monsters, and rescue the innocents. But right now they needed to find a clue, a connection, a link to the murder of Victor Rodriguez.

  For the next three hours, Conley loaded one DVD after another in the computer drive. Images played in front of them—dark, vile tableaus.

  An unexpected man appeared. They watched in silence, faces ashen. A motel. A steady camera. The still eye captured monstrous evil, children in the silk folds of white sheets, a smiling gargoyle between them, touching, caressing.

  The still eye captured the familiar face of Congressman Hector Diaz.

  Chapter 28

  The slam of car doors echoed like cannon shot. Conley and a half dozen staties assembled outside Diaz’s oceanfront mansion. Twin Mercedes sat in the driveway, chrome and glass gleaming in the twilight. The crisp clang of a bell buoy in the harbor tolled relentlessly.

  When they were ready, Conley knocked on the front door and announced himself. No answer, a bad sign. Had he been warned? The red tape involved with arresting a sitting congressman had taken forever, and a man like Diaz had ears everywhere. And after Richard Drewicz confessed that Diaz had trafficked young girls from across the world for his pleasure, there was no telling how desperate the man would be.

  Conley signaled two cops and they lugged a battering ram to the entrance. After three punches, the black cylinder shattered the eight-panel door and part of the frame. The study and living room were empty, as was the kitchen. Two empty wine glasses sat in the sink, and two soiled dishes. The rich smell of garlic and marinara hung in the air.

  Music played upstairs—Vivaldi, a cacophony of violins and harps. Conley climbed the wide steps. Awards and citations lined the staircase walls—pictures of Diaz with dignitaries and fancy declarations of his service.

  Tokens of goodness—smokescreens. Beware of praising the pious.

  A crucifix and a painting of the Blessed Heart hung near the top. Sacrilege.

  The images of Diaz and the children he’d seen hours before, of the monster’s lustful face, were memories he could not erase. He thought of the nature of human evil, and the exponential pain it spawned, and unholstered his gun.

  He thought about Lisa and her campaign manager, Bill McNulty—Diaz’s opponents. Would they celebrate his arrest?

  Sadness gripped him. The world was overrun with liars, perverts, and fiends. For every Channary and Sheila Thompson, for every Sage and William O’Neil, for every decent human being there seemed to be a dozen Diazes, Drewiczes, and McNultys.

  And how many Paladins? Conley tightened his finger on the trigger and thought about Victor Rodriguez—an unlikely hero. Drewicz
denied killing him, but admitted the fight at the sex club was about Victor’s guilty conscience over the abused girls—and his vow to stop Diaz’s operation.

  “Congressman Diaz,” Conley called when he reached the top of the stairs, surprised at the calmness of his voice. The music built to a crescendo. He pushed the bedroom door and it swung open easily. Diaz and his wife lay sprawled on the bed, eyes open and bloodshot, mouths foaming—the telltale signs of poisoning.

  The easy way out. Too kind of a mercy. He holstered his gun.

  Justice denied.

  Chapter 29

  Almost a week had passed since the death of Congressman Hector Diaz. Stefanos’ team had uncovered no link to Victor’s killer, and as leads diminished, they seemed destined for failure.

  Conley opened the refrigerator door and soft white light spilled into the dark kitchen. He stared inside, bored and hungry. Red, yellow, and white McDonalds bags stood sentry around Lloyd’s pitcher of sweet tea. Two weeks in the Nahant safe house had turned his life upside down, made him sleepy all day, restless at night, and melancholy 24/7. Faces were the problem. Haunting images. In the bedroom of the old house, a gallery of people paid visit—Lisa and her new lover, the lifeless bodies of those who had wanted Channary, Diaz and his wife, the butchered corpse of Victor Rodriguez. Even the handless body of Tommy Lopez. What the hell was happening to Ocean Park?

  The refrigerator light suddenly blinked off. Moonlight painted the kitchen with a yellow glow. The oil burner in the basement clicked and went silent.

  He cat-footed to the living room. Lights were off, the VCR display black. Outside, streetlight illuminated a patrol car. A porch lantern shone from the house next door.

  “Power failure,” Kendricks called from above. The stairs creaked as he descended.

  “Just ours,” Conley said. “Neighbors have power.” He felt for the cell phone on his belt and fingered an empty holder.

  “Hey, Conley?” Kendricks asked in a soft voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t have my weapon, do you?”

  Conley reached for his own automatic and touched the handle.

  “No,” he whispered. “Stay with Channary.”

  The lights snapped on.

  Channary padded from the bedroom and stood in front of Kendricks. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

  Small sounds came from the kitchen—a slight scrape across a wooden surface, pouring liquid, the chatter of a chair leg. Conley drew his gun and walked toward them.

  William O’Neil and Sage sat at the table, behind Lloyd’s tea pitcher and two glasses. Sage sat straight, arms folded tight, her hair in cornrows now. Her bright eyes held Conley’s. O’Neil had one elbow on the table, hand squeezing a blue rubber ball.

  Hardware lay on the table in front of them—Conley’s cell phone, Lloyd’s gun, a Nahant policeman’s badge. Sage sipped from her glass.

  “How’d you get by security?” Conley asked.

  “Matt, my friend,” O’Neil said, neck muscles flexing in time with the squeezing hand. “You have no security.” The hand stopped, as if the ball had been subdued.

  “But you will now.”

  ****

  O’Neil surveyed the house. An hour later, he paced the living room and pushed the window blinds aside. Light played on the police cruiser.

  “You need more police,” he said to Conley. “Stagger patrol cars along the street like a W, two cops in each. They’ll be hard targets.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  O’Neil kept talking. “Station a cop in the woods nearby.”

  “Why’d you bring Sage?”

  O’Neil pointed at the basement entrance.

  “You need alarm contacts on the cellar windows. Place motion detectors in all the major pathways in the house, on every floor, battery powered. Redundant alarms with dedicated power.”

  Conley followed him into the backyard. A moon in a cloudless sky lit the tiny patch of grass. The ocean was almost half a mile away, but the thick smell of sea salt saturated the air. They hung on the fence and peered at the cliff below.

  “Matt, the Latin Kings will come for the girl. They need to know who killed Victor Rodriguez. Or the Asian Boyz, to silence her. This wall is your protection, but a cop should still patrol the backyard every half hour or so. Vary the interval. Make it unpredictable.”

  “All right.”

  “Prepare for the unknown. Surprise is their best weapon. They’ll come at you in an unlikely way.”

  The surf pounded. A sudden breeze rustled the vines on the fence.

  “Matt, they’re coming. If you didn’t know that already, know it now. I’m leaving Sage with you. Tell your captain she’s a doctor. She’ll take care of Channary and tend to your friend’s gunshot wound. Tell Kendricks to trust her instincts.”

  “Why? What’s going on? Where will you be?”

  O’Neil’s eyes were bright with moonlight when he spoke.

  “Not here. It’s my turn to help Ocean Park.”

  Chapter 30

  Stefanos assigned more patrol cars to the safe house, and alarms were added. When Conley left for St. Amby’s, Kendricks and Mazzarelli were testing the motion detectors. There’d be no more unexpected visitors.

  Conley slowed as he drove past the church and watched hundreds of people march in a long, lazy oblong on the sidewalk. He parked at the end of the street and walked back. The smoky smell of peppers and onions grilling on a sausage vendor’s pushcart sweetened the air. A woman with a paisley scarf over her hair scurried by him toward the marchers.

  Captain Stefanos’ prophecy had come true. News of the crying statue had turned the church into a circus. Summer Street was a carnival of cars, trucks, protestors, street vendors.

  As he neared the crowd and saw familiar faces, he thought about how the myth of the crying Madonna had given renewed life to the old church. The flock were convinced magic had suddenly happened at St. Ambrose’s, that something supernatural had stepped right out of the Bible and decided to pay a visit to Ocean Park.

  Not that the pious parishioners had ever needed miracles to affirm their faith.

  A Virgin gave birth—I believe.

  Water became wine—I believe.

  Christ rose from the dead—Dear God, I believe.

  Or did they?

  The older people stepped lively. The marchers wore heavy clothes—the dark, rumpled garments still needed in March in New England. But the crowd didn’t look drab, maybe because they were wearing more than just clothes today. They were wearing vindication and redemption.

  Over bovine blood.

  They carried pictures of the crying statue blown up into grainy posters. One walker wore Mary on front and back like an old-fashioned sandwich board, connected with nylon straps over shoulders. Another had nailed her to a two-by-four that he carried upright, sides curling back like wings. A busty brunette wore a white T-shirt that read “Save Saint Ambrose”, but mostly seniors dominated the throng, white-haired heads swaying like a wind-blown field of cotton.

  He looked for Father McCarrick, but found Father Spinelli instead.

  “Matt,” he said. “This is insanity.”

  “I know.”

  “Talk some sense into Father McCarrick.”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Tell him the parishioners have a new home, but they’re still his flock. The pastor at St. Margaret’s has offered them their old chapel.”

  “I’ll do my best, Father.”

  Conley climbed the stairs to St. Amby’s. The steps looked cleaner than he remembered, fresher, the grime suddenly gone. Maybe Mrs. Blodgett had scrubbed them in preparation for the news cameras, or maybe the shuffling footsteps of this new army of St. Ambrose’s faithful had simply scraped them clean.

  The door was open, propped by a bucket of rock salt, and candlelight flickered inside. The pews near Mary were full, people praying and talking, rosary beads clutched hard, as if they were scurrilous things that might fly a
way. Children wailed and fidgeted, and their parents stared intently at the pink and blue statue.

  The Communion kneeler was crowded, a row of heads and backs in all shapes and sizes. Signs of the cross flew like spastic salutes, always followed by a glance at the side altar that held the miraculous piece of plaster. Hundreds of votive candles burned, an army of wax soldiers. Their light cast an eerie glow over the altar and yellowed the linen curtain on the tabernacle. They shined on the ceiling like stars, moving and pulsing.

  Mrs. Blodgett had placed an aluminum folding tray near the Madonna, loaded with her homemade cookies and croissants. She was nearby, kneeling at the altar rail, in the precious space available. But prayer wasn’t her mission. Her elbow pistoned as she polished the wooden rail with a wet rag. The strong pine-tree scent of furniture oil masked the mustiness of St. Ambrose’s. And the altar rail shone like a mirror, as did the front pews. She’d polished the old seats to such a high gloss they looked wet.

  Father McCarrick bent over a table and placed fresh candles in empty spaces. He retrieved the collection box, a square wooden job with a narrow slit wide enough for a dollar, and carried it to the sacristy. He walked with a spring in his step, and displayed uncharacteristic grace when he pirouetted, shouldered the door open, and hustled through the doorway.

  Conley followed, and by the time he stepped inside, Father had unlocked the box. A pile of cash lay on the counter over the vestments cabinet. Ones, fives, and tens—wrinkled, folded, and curled, sat in a heap. Father reached into the box and drew out more.

  “Matt, my boy. What brings you here on this fine, busy afternoon?”

  “Quite a crowd, Father. I saw the O’Neils outside.”

  “I can’t control who marches for salvation. Simon O’Neil hasn’t stepped foot in the church, though. Probably still guilty for all that crap he pulled years ago.”

  “Too bad the word’s out on the miracle.”

  “Maybe not, maybe not. Funny thing happened. Suddenly everyone wants St. Amby’s to stay open.” He licked the end of his thumb and counted bills into a neat stack. “Can’t very well close a church when the Blessed Mother is crying about it, can they?”