The Thief of All Light

by Bernard Schaffer

  “This time, yes.”

  She opened the door, allowing them to enter. “What can I do for you?” she said over her shoulder, leading them down the pale yellow corridor papered with motivational posters. Someone moaned from behind one of the doors and slammed against it, twisting the knob, but the door did not open. Each of the doorknobs was bolted from the outside.

  “Keep your head down and don’t look in any of the windows,” Shelly said, looking back at Carrie. “Just ignore anything you hear.”

  “I need you to look at a list of names for us, see if you can give us some direction,” Rein said.

  “Direction toward?”

  “A highly adaptive personality. Very traumatic past. Too many disorders to name, but mainly the really bad kinds.”

  “You’re describing half the kids in my unit, Jacob.”

  “Not this one. This one was special.”

  Fists banged against the doors as they passed, followed by voices shrieking to the point of breaking and low, disjointed snarls. Shelly pulled a set of keys from her pocket and said, “This whole section’s been on lockdown since this morning. One of the children bit a nurse through her cheek. Her teeth were showing. She’s going to need a skin graft.” As she inserted her key into her office door, the screams and banging sounds grew frantic and louder. “The others are unhappy at being confined.”

  She shut the door behind them, drowning the noise from the hallway to a low roar and said, “How many has he killed?”

  Carrie raised an eyebrow in surprise, but Rein seemed unfazed. “Two that we know of. Possibly more. He has a little girl now.” He looked at Carrie, watching her for signs of emotion as he said, “The daughter of his last victim.”

  “Methodology?” Shelly said.

  “He’s adopting the techniques and preferences of other killers. Probably their personalities as well. My guess is that he started this as a child, probably in a place like this. Pretending to be other people as a coping mechanism. Maybe characters from a movie, comic books, anything to forget who he really is.”

  “You said you have a list of names?”

  Carrie removed the packet of information from her case file and handed it across the desk.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “We started at the library,” Carrie said. “Then whittled them down by previous offenses, location, and recent activity.”

  “You gave it one of your sludge tests?” the doctor said, smiling at Rein, who half smiled back.

  Carrie looked between the two of them. “I don’t understand. What’s a sludge test?”

  “Jacob always told me that criminal investigations were like sludge tests. Remember when you were in middle school and the science teacher gave you a test tube of goo and said, ‘Figure out what’s inside it’? You had to see what reacted to certain chemicals, see what evaporated when you heated it. By the end, you were able to identify all the pieces. Right?” Shelly said, looking at Jacob.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  Carrie’s mouth tightened in annoyance. “I guess you must have left that part out when you explained it to me.”

  Shelly took the papers and laid them out on her desk, sifting through them one by one. As she peered down at the names on the pages she said, “You realize what you’re asking me to do is a serious violation of federal law.”

  “I do,” Rein said.

  “It’s a breach of County protocols and would result in my being fired.”

  The pages were spread out from left to right, and she selected one, put it on top of the one next to it, took it away, and put another one on top instead. “Which is why I expect you to tell us no,” Rein said.

  “In fact, I will be making a note of this interaction, and if the need arises file a report with the appropriate body,” she said, now stacking the packets into two halves. She turned the half on the right facedown and stacked the other one on top of it.

  “Perfectly understandable,” Rein said.

  Shelly folded her hands across the stacks of paper, dark eyes centered on him. “I tried to reach you, but the number was disconnected.”

  “I wrote you,” Rein said. “I still have the letter. I meant to send it, but . . . you know.”

  Shelly’s face fell. “I thought something happened to you.”

  “What else could possibly happen to me, Linda?” he said.

  She stared down at the papers on her desk, needing to look away from him. “Well, it’s good to know you’re still alive.” She lifted the stack and passed it across the table toward him. “I’m sorry, but I cannot assist you in this.”

  “In that case, we’ll be going.” He got up from his chair and stepped aside as the doctor went to her door to let them out.

  “Wait,” Carrie said, but Waylon grabbed her arm and squeezed it tight enough to stop her from speaking further.

  “Follow that hall straight back to where you came and knock three times. Someone will let you out,” Shelly said.

  Rein looked back at her, holding the stack of papers under his arm. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Shelly.”

  “Good luck,” she whispered, reaching to touch his hand, then she shut the door.

  * * *

  Carrie’s jaw flexed as they drove, her teeth clenched as she stared forward. She had not spoken since they left the juvenile facility, and Waylon knew better than to try. He looked in the rearview mirror. “So, you want to fill me in on what just happened in there? I’m not sure if the doctor helped us or not.”

  “She put them in order,” Rein said, looking down at the first name. “The ones on the bottom are the names she didn’t recognize. The ones on the top of the stack are the ones she did.”

  “And you caught all that?”

  “It wasn’t that hard, Bill,” Rein said. “If you were paying attention.”

  “Or maybe they just had a special connection,” Carrie muttered. “You certainly seemed well acquainted.”

  “We used to work together,” Rein said.

  “Oh, I’ll bet,” she replied.

  Waylon watched Carrie from the corner of his eye, seeing the barely contained anger waiting there, ready to strike at anyone or anything. “What job did we have with her?” Waylon said, trying to change the subject. “Was it one of the Krissing kids?”

  “I met her in prison. She chaired the volunteer program I was part of. We spoke quite often.”

  Carrie’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead, her right hand gripping the armrest handle next to her. “Well,” Waylon said loudly, trying to change the subject. “So we got us some names, then. You all ready to talk to some lunatics?”

  Rein flipped through the first few pages and said, “First up is Barclay Folds. Lives out by the old coal mines.” As he scanned through the pamphlet he said, “Arrested for stalking, attempted rape, and another rape that was withdrawn when the victim went missing. Did time at the state penitentiary for burglary. Six foot two.”

  “Jesus,” Waylon said. “That our boy, you think?”

  Rein tapped the page and said, “He’s certainly a good candidate.”

  Carrie’s jaw came unlocked just enough to say, “If Barclay Folds did all this, I’m going to make what you two did to Old Man Krissing look like an act of kindness.”

  26

  THE SMALL HOUSE SAT ALONE IN A BARREN WASTELAND OF DIRT AND rock, with a bent stovepipe sticking up through the roof. The shingles had been patched, repatched, and finally given up on. Now they were just covered over in places by pieces of tacked-down tarp. The car parked next to the house was covered by the rest of the tarp. Someone had removed the wheels and replaced them with cinder blocks so long ago, there was rust spilling down their sides.

  Rein went around the side and checked the backyard, looking for piles of fresh dirt or power tools or bags of lime or sand. Anything a man would need to dispose of a full-grown human body composed of flesh, bone, muscle, organ, and blood. No fire pits or burn barrels either, he thought. Nothing but unplowed di
rt. There’s always basements, he told himself. Or off-site locations. He pressed his ear to the wall beneath the side window, listening, hoping to hear a little girl’s voice. There was nothing.

  Carrie knocked on the door, did not get a response, then knocked again.

  “This is how you teach them, Bill?” Rein asked.

  “Excuse me, young lady,” Waylon said, hooking his belt with the undersides of his fingers and hoisting it up over his belly. “There’s the visiting knock and the felony knock,” he said. “Your knock said, Hey, we’re just visiting. This is the felony knock.” He grabbed the door handle with both hands and kicked the bottom as hard as he could with the toe of his boot, sending loud booms rattling through the front of the house. “It says we ain’t going away.”

  They could hear someone shuffling toward the door, and all three of them stepped back, getting clear. Waylon’s hand went to the gun on his side. When the door cracked open, he bladed away from the entrance, keeping most of himself behind the wall. A man’s face appeared in the narrow opening and said, “Who’re you?”

  “Chief Waylon with the police department. Are you Barclay Folds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like to speak to you a minute.”

  Folds was still hidden behind the door, not opening it, not wanting them to see something. “What about?”

  Rein slid his foot in the space of the doorjamb, keeping it from closing. “About an investigation. Is anyone else in the house besides you?”

  “No.”

  “Open it,” Rein said.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Open the goddamn door!” Carrie shouted. She smacked it hard with the flat of her hand and pushed. “We’re not asking again!”

  Folds limped aside as they shoved through the door. His left arm was clutched tightly to his chest, the fingers crooked and stiff, his thumb bent at the wrong angle. His whole body was tilted and withered, like someone had let the air out of his left side. His left leg was bent inward and his foot dragged on the dirty carpet as he slid out of Carrie’s way, watching in confusion as she burst into the living room. “Nubs! Nubs! Can you hear me?”

  “Wha—who’s Nubs?” Fold stammered.

  “Where the hell is she, you sick motherfucker?” Carrie shouted.

  “I don’t know w-w-what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit!” She grabbed him by the collar, pulling him so close her spittle flew in his face. He shrunk away from her, too busy shivering to wipe it off. “You a rapist, Barclay? You like to hurt women? Where is the little girl? I’m going to ask you one time, and then I’m going to start hurting you real, real bad.”

  “Carrie,” Waylon said, coming up behind her. He laid his hand on her shoulder and eased her back, saying, “Houses like this make a lot of noise, and I swear I heard something from one of the back rooms. I’m sure Mr. Folds here don’t mind if you do a safety sweep real quick to make sure everything’s all right. We’ll deal with him.”

  She let go of Folds’s shirt and raced toward the back of the house, checking every closet and opening all the cabinets in the kitchen.

  “What do you people want?” Folds whimpered. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  Waylon and Rein closed in around him, looking down at his disfigurements. The man grimaced as he pulled his bad hand in close, the muscles in his ruined arm tight and corded. “What happened to you?” Rein said.

  “I had a stroke when I was at Graterford,” Fold said. “State didn’t want to pay for any more operations, so they paroled me early and sent me home.”

  “Is that right?” Rein said.

  “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “A few dead women. A little girl missing. Just your type of thing, Barclay,” Waylon said, peering down at the man.

  “No way,” Fold said. “No way, no how. I changed in prison, sir. This stroke here was a blessing in disguise. I couldn’t hurt nobody if I wanted to.”

  “When did you have the stroke?” Rein said.

  “Two years ago. No, wait, three.”

  “Who was your doctor in the hospital?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long were you in the hospital?”

  “A few . . . a few weeks.”

  “How many?” Rein said.

  “What was the hospital’s name?” Waylon snapped.

  “I don’t recall, officers!”

  Rein and Waylon pressed against him, moving in unison, cutting off any lines of escape. Waylon snarled, “You’re a lying rapist, Folds. You think we’re buying this cripple routine? You’re faking it.”

  “I swear to God! No!”

  Waylon looked at Rein, breaking character for the briefest of seconds, silently asking him if the stroke was an act. Rein’s hands shot forward into the center of Folds’s chest, knocking him backward on his bad leg. Both men watched the crippled man topple and slam his bad knee into the nearest side table. Folds flailed out, his good arm waving in the air as he tried to stop himself from falling, but it was too late. His ruined arm stayed tight to his chest as the back of his head cracked the floor and his eyes fluttered, dazed. Folds moaned, his good leg extending and withdrawing against the carpet like that of a crushed insect, his bad leg still bent, bad foot turned inward. He convulsed violently as the left side suddenly constricted. “Please, I need my medicine!” he cried out through clenched teeth. “Help me. I didn’t do nothing. Please help me!”

  “Carrie,” Waylon called out.

  The sound of crashing drawers and fluttering papers from the rear bedroom stopped. “What?” she shouted.

  “Time to go.”

  “But I’m not done looking.” She came out from the bedroom, confused by the sound of whimpering, and looked at Folds writhing on the floor. Waylon and Rein leaned down and scooped him up, dropping him into the nearest seat.

  Folds tried to catch his breath as he grabbed his medicine from the couch and unscrewed the cap. “Where are you all from, anyway? I want to see your IDs,” he said, but they had already gone.

  * * *

  Waylon took the main road back to the courthouse, not bothering to throw on his lights as he flew through each stop sign. “What’s the next name on the list?”

  Rein flipped through the pages. “Travis Berry. Twenty-five years old. Multiple arrests as a juvenile for prowling and loitering. Probably Peeping Tom activity. One for animal abuse. That’s interesting.”

  “Like, beating his dog?” Carrie said.

  “A lot of these guys mutilate animals,” Waylon said.

  “Or have sex with them,” Rein added. “Or both.”

  “Jesus.” Carrie grimaced.

  “Kind of ruins the whole Jack the Ripper romantic killer thing, don’t it?” Waylon grunted.

  “Just tell us where he is, Rein,” Carrie said.

  Rein raised the pages to read them in the fading light. The sun was balancing over the horizon like a large orange circus performer doing a final high-wire act. He studied Travis’s mouth and eyes, asking himself if this was the face of a man capable of becoming something he’d feared his entire professional life. He decided he was not sure. “Last known address is on Bores Road, out in West Croatan.”

  “Do you know where that is?” Waylon asked Carrie.

  “I think so. My uncle had a cabin out that way when I was a kid.”

  “Good,” Waylon said as he pulled up beside her car in the parking lot. “Take your car. We’ll see you there.”

  She looked at him, confused. “We’re not all going together?”

  “I want you to have your own car in case we find the girl. Me and Rein will have to stay at the house with the suspect, and you’ll want to go with Nubs, right?”

  “You’re right,” Carrie said. “Thanks for thinking ahead like that, boss.”

  “That’s why I get paid the big bucks, kiddo.”

  Carrie jumped down from the seat, saying, “Just make sure you keep up, old-timer. I won’t wait for you when I get the
re.”

  “You most certainly will,” he called out. “I will be right behind you the whole time.”

  They watched her get into her car and turn on the headlights. Rein got into the front passenger seat, holding the stack of papers in his lap. He looked at Waylon, seeing the man’s expression harden once Carrie was out of sight. Rein grunted and shook his head. “I wish you’d been that good at playing people when we worked together, Bill. I wouldn’t have had to do all those interviews by myself.”

  Waylon’s eyes were fixed on him, hard points of light. “You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Rein asked.

  “You know exactly what I think you’re doing.” Carrie’s car headed out of the parking lot, and Waylon watched it leave without moving. “Listen, we both know I was no angel back in the day. I did a lot of stuff I regret. And you never judged me or turned me away when I showed up with a bag and slept on your couch. I am acknowledging that right here, before God. But Jacob, that girl is like a daughter to me. She’s young. She’s vulnerable. She’s fucked up over her friend. She’s got a piece-of-shit father who left her with some kind of, I dunno, issues toward older men.”

  “Listen to yourself. Around her it’s all golly heck and Is that why she’s cussin’ so much, but the second she leaves, you become a different person. I’ve got news for you, Bill. You’re not her father. You’re not her savior. You’re her chief, and she sees right through your little act. You should have never, ever let her anywhere near this investigation, and we both know it.”

  “She will make a good cop.”

  “Not with the level of training she’s gotten so far.”

  “Man, fuck you. You don’t get to come back in and act like some moral authority over me.”

  “I’m not a moral authority over anyone,” Rein said. “I know exactly who and what I am. You should try doing the same. If Carrie is fucked up, it’s because you let her on this case. But instead of worrying about that, you’re worried that I’m playing along just so I can sleep with her.”