by Chris Carter
‘Really?’ Amanda chuckled.
‘Trust me.’ He nodded and smiled. ‘It’s very embarrassing.’
She didn’t like talking about what happened, but she felt comfortable with him. She also needed to convince Ryan that there was nothing wrong with the house.
‘I was young when it happened,’ she said, brushing her fringe from her face. ‘My friend and I were playing. Pretending we were cooking. I don’t really know how it happened, but my clothes caught fire.’
Ryan’s interest grew.
‘In a way, I was lucky,’ she continued. ‘Only the back of my dress lit up. Have you ever been burned?’ she asked.
Ryan shook his head. ‘Not in that way.’
‘The pain is hard to describe.’ She paused, searching for words to illustrate it. ‘It’s not like scalding or touching a hot iron. It’s not a stinging kind of pain. It’s something so intense your brain ceases to work and you pray for death. I felt my skin melting. I could smell my hair burning.’ Amanda softly touched her hair with her right hand. Her gaze distant. ‘We were alone in the house that day. By the time my friend managed to find some water and throw it over me, most of my back and neck had burned.’
They looked at each other in silence for a while.
‘I’m truly sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault. I should learn to control it, really, but I just can’t. Any type of fire simply freaks me out.’
Ryan walked back to the center of the living room. Amanda followed him.
‘I did see a psychologist about my fear of spiders,’ he announced. ‘You know, they have these special therapies that are supposed to help you get rid of any phobias.’
‘What happened?’ she asked curiously.
‘The psychologist talked a lot and after a few sessions he decided I was ready to face my fear. He brought in this huge hairy spider and placed it in my hand to try and prove they were harmless.’
‘Did it work?’
‘Did it hell. I peed myself before running out of the room screaming like a lunatic.’
Amanda laughed.
‘Maybe some fears are not meant to be conquered.’ He stepped closer to the leather sofa. Amanda was standing about two feet in front of him, staring at the fireplace.
His hand wrapped around something inside his pocket.
‘You know when you told me about the incident when you were young and how scared you are of fires?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied without turning around.
His voice suddenly changed: ‘I already knew.’
Before she was able to turn and face him, he grabbed her from behind, covering her nose and mouth with a wet cloth.
Twenty-Seven
Father Malcolm had agreed to a meeting at 7:30 p.m. At twenty past seven Hunter parked his Buick Lesabre in front of the Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church in South Paramount Boulevard. The street lights, together with the Christmas decorations, created a warm carnival of colors.
The church was a large white building flanked by two small green yards. Above its hand-carved rosewood double doors sat a life-size, light gray statue of Our Lady of the Rosary.
A cheery-looking priest in his late sixties was standing by the entrance door talking to a short and stout woman. His hairline had totally receded on top, and all that was left were two small islands of gray hair. One over each ear.
He said goodbye to the woman as Hunter made his way up the four short steps in front of the church.
‘Father Malcolm?’ Hunter asked.
‘You must be the detective I talked to earlier on the phone,’ the priest said with a warm smile.
‘I’m Detective Hunter.’ He had his credentials in hand. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
The priest quickly checked Hunter’s ID before ushering him inside. The interior of the church was large, and the altar shone with hundreds of candles. The main hall was able to hold around five hundred worshipers, and a handful of people were scattered among the many red oak pews. Some were praying, some were reading the Bible and some looked to be asleep.
‘Shall we talk in my office?’ the priest asked with a hand gesture. ‘It’s just out back.’
‘Sure.’ Hunter nodded.
Father Malcolm’s office was small but comfortable. The walls were painted in white, very lightly tinged with gray. The furnishings were classic, with a distinct European influence. A heavy wooden desk sat at the back of the room facing the door. In front of it were two replica Victorian armchairs. There were saints’ prints on the walls, and religious books lined the large bookcase to the left of the desk.
Father Malcolm showed Hunter to a seat before taking his place behind the desk. Neither spoke for a few seconds. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened. Fabian was a good man, a good priest.’ Father Malcolm’s voice was frail and sad.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Hunter replied. ‘I understand you were good friends.’
The priest nodded. ‘I used to teach seminary. Fabian was one of my students. I’ve known him for over twenty years.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Kind, devoted, compassionate. As I’ve said, he was a good priest.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘About two weeks ago. We had a seventh- and eighth-grade bake-sale here. He came over to help.’ A shy smile appeared on the priest’s lips. ‘Actually, he came over to eat. He loved banana cake.’
‘Did he seem different at all? Maybe worried or nervous about something?’
‘Not at all. He was as calm as he’d always been. Very talkative, joking with the students all the time. He looked a bit tired, but that had always been the case with Fabian.’
‘How so?’ Hunter gently rubbed the scar on the back of his neck.
‘As far as I know he never really slept very well.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
A slight shake of the head. ‘We deal with many hardships, detective, and they sometimes creep up into our minds in the middle of the night and keep us awake. Fabian told me once he had bad dreams quite regularly.’
Hunter remembered reading several passages in Father Fabian’s journals about bad dreams, but he never described them. ‘Did he ever talk to you about these dreams?’
‘Never. He was a very reserved man.’
Hunter scribbled something down in his black notebook. ‘Did he ever talk about any worries he had?’
‘As priests we have many worries, Detective Hunter. We deal with people in need, and in today’s world troubles are plenty. But I guess you mean the type of worry that could’ve cost him his life?’
Hunter didn’t reply, but his silence was understood.
‘No.’ Father Malcolm sounded confident. ‘He was a simple man. He lived for the church and to help others. Whatever worries he had, I assure you they weren’t life threatening.’
Hunter thought about his next words. He knew he was about to venture into dangerous territory.
Twenty-Eight
‘Did Father Fabian ever talk to you about doubting his decision to become a Catholic priest or his intention to leave it all behind?’ Hunter asked and saw Father Malcolm’s demeanor change. He looked offended. He narrowed his eyes and surveyed Hunter.
‘What we do is based solemnly on faith and on the desire to serve Our Lord, Detective Hunter.’ The priest’s voice was steady but firm, as if reprimanding a disobedient child. ‘We don’t do it for money or thrills. It’s a call. I must admit that sometimes it gets tough. We’re humans and as such we have our moments of weakness, our uncertainties. It’s not uncommon for those of us who choose a life of servitude to God to question that decision every now and then. But our faith always proves stronger than any doubt. Do you understand what faith means, detective?’
‘I think so,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Blind belief without questioning or proof.’
Father Malcolm smiled, showing yellow-stained teeth. ‘That belief keeps us on the right path. I
t drowns our doubts. So in answer to your question, detective – yes, Father Fabian and I talked about his uncertainties and his dilemmas. Just because we decide to serve God it doesn’t make us immune to temptation and unclear thoughts. And just because cloudy thoughts enter our minds, it doesn’t mean we’re gonna go through with them. He was a man of unquestionable faith.’
‘Please don’t get me wrong, father,’ Hunter said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I’m not questioning his or your faith. I was just wondering if there was a reason for these “unclear” thoughts. If there was, it could give us a lead. Did Father Fabian ever tell you he was thinking about giving up the priesthood?’
Father Malcolm scratched a small scar above his right eyebrow. Hunter could see he was debating if he should answer the question or not. ‘It really is important,’ Hunter pressed.
‘Yes,’ Father Malcolm said after several unsettling seconds. ‘After Fabian’s mother passed away, his faith was unbalanced.’
‘Were they close?’
‘He tried.’
‘Tried?’
‘Fabian never knew his father. His mother brought him up on her own, but she was a bitter woman. She expected her only son to become a lawyer or a doctor or something that would make him rich so he could pay her back.’
Hunter shifted on his seat.
The priest looked down at his clasped hands. ‘She had problems. She battled with alcoholism for many years. Even though she resented him for becoming a priest, he loved her. He prayed for her every day, for as long as I can remember. When she got ill, it all happened very fast. She was taken into hospital and within a week she passed away. He took it very badly.’
‘How badly?’
‘He was angry.’ Father Malcolm bit his lip and rethought his words. ‘No, I think the correct word would be discontent. He was discontent with God. He hoped that after so many years praying for the same thing, God would’ve listened. He kept on saying he never asked for a miracle. He only wanted God to give his mother a fighting chance. But instead, God took her away.’
Hunter sat motionless battling with his own memories. His eyes were fixed on the priest but unfocused. ‘I know exactly how he felt.’
Father Malcolm noticed pain in Hunter’s expression and leaned forward. ‘Can I ask you something, detective?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is it true what the papers said? About Fabian being decapitated? About the dog’s head?’
‘Yes.’
The priest let out a deep sigh. ‘You probably already know that Saint Fabian, who Father Fabian got his pseudonym from, was beheaded.’
Hunter nodded.
‘Do you think there’s a relation?’
‘It’s a possibility.’ Hunter leaned back again. ‘What do you think, father? Do you think the killer wanted Father Fabian to die the same way Saint Fabian did?’
The priest stood up and approached the bookcase next to his desk. ‘In years gone by, a great number of people who were misunderstood were arrested and tortured before being sentenced to death,’ he said, reaching for a book on the top shelf. ‘For centuries, most death sentences in the Western world meant decapitation.’
Hunter considered this. ‘So if Father Fabian had chosen any other saint’s name, death by decapitation would’ve probably matched the saint’s death anyway,’ he concluded.
A slow nod.
‘How about a dog’s head? Does it mean anything to you, or to the Catholic faith?’
The priest took a deep breath. ‘The devil,’ he replied. As he spoke a cold draft entered the room. Hunter instinctively pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck.
Father Malcolm returned to his seat. ‘Without being insolent, detective, I think that maybe you’re going down the wrong path.’
‘How’s that, father?’ Hunter asked, meeting the priest’s eyes.
‘I believe that this has been an aggression against the Catholic Church. Someone who wants to hurt the Church as a whole, not an individual priest. Fabian was a tragic casualty. It could’ve been any of us. The killer could’ve chosen any of our churches for his act of anger.’ He paused as his next words worried him. ‘And something tells me he will kill again. Maybe he already has.’ The priest’s tone caused the tiny hairs on Hunter’s arms to rise.
Twenty-Nine
Amanda Reilly felt incredibly cold and thirsty. Her head thumped with such ferocity that she thought her temples would explode. As she tried to move she realized she was tied down. Her wrists had been bound to the arms and her ankles to the legs of an uncomfortable metal armchair – so tight the wires were cutting into her skin.
Her eyelids felt heavy and sticky. As far as she could tell she wasn’t blindfolded, but something was keeping her from opening her eyes. She tried to scream but her lips wouldn’t come apart. There was a bitter and sickening taste in her mouth. Instinctively, she pushed her tongue against her lips and felt a rigid, thin layer of something unidentified between them. She tried forcing her mouth open and felt the tender skin on her lips start to tear.
Oh my God!
Shivering, she finally understood what’d happened.
Her mouth had been super-glued shut.
Panic took over and she jerked her body violently from side to side, kicking out, trying to free herself. Blood started dripping from where the wires had cut into her wrists and ankles.
The chair didn’t budge. It was either too heavy or it had been nailed to the floor. Her screams, muffled by her tightly shut lips, sounded like animal grunts.
An uncontrollable shudder came over her body, and she fought to keep her teeth from chattering.
Tears sprang in the corners of her closed eyes, forced their way through and started rolling down her face, washing away some of the sticky substance that had been smothered over her eyelids. She felt them coming unstuck. Very slowly, she managed to get them open. They stung as if burned by fire, forcing her into a blinking frenzy.
It took several minutes for the pain to subside and for her eyes to regain some focus. They were puffy and their whites had turned crimson. At first everything was blurred, but the candlelit room looked familiar. She recognized some of the furniture, but where from?
The thumping in her head had intensified, and her muddied thoughts weren’t making any sense. She took deep, steady breaths and forced herself to concentrate on her heartbeat. Her memory slowly started putting together images of what had happened.
She convulsed with fear as she finally remembered. The blurred image in front of her was that of the immense river rock fireplace in one of the properties on her roster.
She’d brought a prospective buyer here for a viewing.
What was his name?
‘How’s the head, Mandy?’ The voice that came from behind startled her rigid. Mature and firm like an army sergeant. ‘The thumping will go away soon enough.’
She started shivering again.
The focus in her eyes was almost back to normal. Amanda looked down and finally realized why she felt so cold. She was naked.
A tall figure stepped out from behind her and into her line of vision. It was the same man she’d brought to the house for a viewing, but she still couldn’t remember his name. He was dressed differently, though. Instead of the long overcoat and the professional tailored suit, he was wearing tight-fitting black sports clothes. His hands were still gloved, and his hair was now hidden under a knitted hat.
Once again she fought her restraints, franticly twisting her body and trying to kick her legs.
He calmly watched her in silence for a few minutes until she realized that her efforts were pointless.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll be able to free yourself,’ he explained as he started pacing in front of her.
‘Oh please. Why are you doing this to me?’ She said the words in her mouth, but all that came out was an oscillating humming sound.
With his lips compressed tightly together and shaking his head
from side to side, he mimicked the sound back to her before laughing.
‘If you wanna speak to me, you’re gonna have to try harder. C’mon, you can do it. Open your mouth.’
She stared at him, paralyzed. Her fear so intense she thought she would faint.
He bent down, his face just a few inches from hers.
‘OPEN YOUR MOUTH.’
The shout was so loud the air from his breath blew her hair away from her forehead.
Amanda lost control. She’d gone way beyond terrified. Every hair on her body was standing on end when she wet herself.
‘Oh, that’s disgusting,’ he said, standing up again and taking a step back from the puddle quickly forming on the floor under her chair.
‘Maybe I can help you open your mouth.’ He picked something up from the fireplace mantelpiece. ‘What do you say? Do you wanna give it a try?’
He showed her a glistening silver letter opener.
Amanda’s eyes widened in terror, and she jerked her head back as far as it would go. A new, high-pitched shriek came from her sealed lips.
‘It might rip your lips from your mouth, but, hey, who cares, right? Just nod and I’ll start tearing.’
Amanda shook her head fiercely.
‘Or maybe I should use this down there.’ He pointed to her groin. ‘It might stop you from being a dirty bitch and wetting the floor again. What do you say?’ He slowly ran his tongue along the length of the shining blade. ‘Shall I stick this inside you? I promise I’ll make you enjoy it first.’
Amanda’s body wrenched forward violently, and she felt the few contents of her stomach come rushing through her throat and into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she started to choke.
‘Did you just vomit into your mouth?’ he shouted, rushing towards her. ‘You filthy little whore.’ He pressed his hands against both of her cheeks, pushing her head back. ‘Swallow it back down. Swallow it back down, now,’ he ordered, applying more pressure to her cheeks.
Amanda tried shaking her head, but her attacker had it firmly between his hands in a tight vice-grip.
