‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a shadow on the wall behind the north side of the church. Someone just walked up that alley and stopped.’
‘Shadow?’ Jessica asked. ‘As in one person?’
‘Yes,’ Mateo said. ‘Can you see any of the north side?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m out of position.’
‘Hang on,’ Mateo said. ‘I have more movement. Whoever it is is heading for the north side entrance to the church. I’m going to lose him in a few seconds.’
‘Is Sergeant Westbrook there?’ Jessica asked.
‘I’m here,’ Westbrook said. Mateo had the phone on speaker.
‘Do you want us to check it out?’ Jessica asked.
‘Yes,’ Westbrook said. ‘I’m sending backup. Stay on radio.’
Jessica kept her cell on silent, stuffed it in her jeans pocket. She and Maria got out of the car, circled back to the trunk. Jessica opened it, and both women slipped on Kevlar vests. Simultaneously they unsnapped their holsters, checked the action on their Glock 17s, reholstered.
Jessica looked both ways, up and down the street. There was an older compact car parked a half block away, but she saw no one in it.
She glanced at her watch. It was 10.20.
Detectives Jessica Balzano and Maria Caruso crossed the street, and headed to the alleyway behind St Simeon’s.
FIFTY-ONE
When Byrne arrived at the address he had gotten on Carter’s cell phone, he realized he had not formulated a plan on what he would do when he found DeRon Wilson.
His prayer was that nothing had happened to Gabriel. Byrne knew that, if not for his own involvement with the boy, none of this would be happening. No, he amended. If it wasn’t for Kevin Byrne’s temper, none of this would be happening. He knew it as he was walking down that hallway that night, knew it when Wilson gave him that defiant look – a look he had seen a million times before on the job – knew it when he stupidly drew his weapon. Granted, he didn’t expect it to be splashed all over the nightly news, but that was no excuse.
He had dealt with the DeRon Wilsons of the world for more than twenty-five years. Why did he lose it so completely this time?
Vincent had wanted to come with him, to see this thing through to the end, but Byrne had cut him loose. He had no idea how bad this would get, and there was a good chance things were about to escalate. Vincent Balzano had done him a solid, and Byrne didn’t want to thank him by putting Vincent’s career in jeopardy. There would come a moment – there always did in police work – when Byrne would be there for him.
Before he could enter the building he felt a phone vibrate, a call coming in. Byrne fished the phone out of his pocket. It was not his own cell phone, but rather the cell phone he had gotten from Carter Wilson.
Who else has this number?
Nobody. Just DeRon.
Byrne checked the screen. It was a voicemail. He hit the appropriate buttons.
After a few seconds, the message played. The whispering voice made Kevin Byrne’s blood run cold.
‘One God, detective,’ the disembodied voice on the other end of the line said. ‘Seven churches.’
A second later he got a text on the same phone. It read:
IF YOU ENTER THE BUILDING THE BOY WILL DIE.
For a few seconds Byrne could not move. He drew his weapon, glanced around, overhead. He could be observed from a hundred different vantage points.
He put the phone in his pocket, turned on his heels, and ran.
FIFTY-TWO
When Jessica and Maria rounded the corner, into the alleyway behind St Simeon’s, they saw no one. Weapons drawn, they found a door into the church, the glass in it broken, slightly ajar. Jessica kicked open the door.
The nave of the church was empty. It looked to have been recently cleaned. All the pews were gone, the altar had been dismantled, even the confessionals removed.
Jessica and Maria made their way slowly across the empty space. They passed through the church and found a doorway leading to stairs.
They still-hunted down the steps into the basement, their weapons over their Maglites, one tread at a time. If the killer was waiting for them, he would see the light. It was extremely risky, but there was no choice. The basement was pitch black.
‘Listen,’ Jessica whispered. The two detectives stopped, held their breath.
It was the sound of water dripping.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a large empty room in front of them. Jessica scanned the walls to the right. There was only one other doorway. If there was a body in this basement, it would be in that room.
‘Jess,’ Maria said. She pointed to the floor. There in the dust were smudged footprints, as well as two long lines which appeared to have been made by someone or something being dragged.
Sirens rose in the distance. Jessica and Maria could not wait. They walked quickly over to the far wall. There was no choice but to announce themselves.
‘Philadelphia Police!’ Jessica yelled. The sound of her voice echoed off the stone. No reply. They inched closer and closer to the opening, weapons and flashlights held high, leveled.
When they got to the opening Jessica paused. She took a deep breath, exhaled. Her breath was silvery and vaporous in front of her.
The basement, she thought.
She spun into the doorway. In the other room she saw a body hanging from an I-beam in the center of the ceiling. The victim was a light-skinned black male. He was nude, awash with blood. On the floor beneath him, as with the other victims, was a pile of clothes. But what made this sight horrifying beyond Jessica’s grasp was what else lay on the floor beneath the victim.
Hands. The killer had cut off the victim’s hands. It wasn’t dripping water they had heard. It was dripping blood.
The two detectives stepped fully into the room, turned 360º. The room was clear.
Outside, they heard the sector cars arrive.
‘Set up a perimeter,’ Jessica said. ‘And get me two patrol officers down here.’
Without a word, Maria Caruso holstered her weapon and ran out of the room. As Jessica heard her footsteps heading up the steps, she walked forward. She put on a latex glove, gently lifted the victim’s chin and shone her light in his face.
‘Oh my God.’
The hanging man was DeRon Wilson, the drug dealer with whom Byrne had his run-in. Jessica’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She answered. It was Mateo Fuentes.
‘What’s up Mateo?’
‘Talk to me, detective.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you have the suspect?’
‘No,’ Jessica said. ‘We’re just setting up a perimeter. We couldn’t have missed him by much.’
‘Did Detective Byrne get a good look at him?’
At first, Jessica thought she’d heard wrong. She had not. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Who are you partnered with?’
‘Detective Caruso,’ Jessica said. ‘Why?’
‘I thought you were out with Kevin.’
‘Why would you think that?’
Another long pause. Way too long.
‘Mateo.’
‘Because I’m looking at footage from a minute ago. Footage taken from the north side of St Simeon’s.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s Detective Byrne,’ Mateo said. ‘And he’s running away from the church.’
FIFTY-THREE
Byrne stood in his apartment. He knew it might be the last time he saw any of these things. He knew it was possible that this would be the last night of his life.
He had walked into so many apartments and houses in his time in homicide, places to which the victims had every intention of returning – five minutes, five hours, five days later.
The way victims left things always got to him. The bathrobe on the back of the chair, the steak defrosting in the sink, the unfolded laundry in the basket, the bookmarked book.
How would they look at
his place? he wondered. Would it be Jessica? In so many ways, he hoped it would. She would understand.
The seven churches of Asia, all in Turkey. It was no coincidence.
He remembered hearing the story as if it were yesterday.
*
We were stationed in Incirlik, part of the 628th Airlift Support. This was between the wars, so things weren’t too crazy, right?
Now, what you have to remember is that the antiquities black market is off the charts in Turkey, or at least it was back then. There’s Persian, Roman, Greek antiquities. Stuff from the Crusades. If you want it, and you have the green, someone will find it for you.
So we get a little R & R, and my best buddy in the unit wants to take a ride to this place called Pasli. Four of us head out, taking the Persian Road south, then off road for hours. Up and down these dirt roads. Nothing. It’s almost sundown now, and we’re not going to find it. We see this old guy walking up one of the back roads. Had to be ninety and change.
My buddy talks a little Turkish to him, and the guy points at his feet. My buddy says something about shoes, getting him new shoes, but the guy shakes his head. He points at his feet again. This goes on for awhile, back and forth. Dead end.
On the way back to the Jeep my buddy stops, jumps up and down a few times. He suddenly realizes what the old man was saying. The place we were looking for was right under us. The ground was hollow.
We make our way down this cliff, and come upon this old door. Thick old door bolted right into the rock. For the rest of the night my buddies try to shoulder the thing open. No luck. I didn’t want anything to do with it, but you know how it is. You get enough booze in you and you’ll do anything.
Just before dawn, with my buddies passed out, I thought I’d give it a shot. I go down there, and I just touch the door, and it opens. All I did was touch it.
Inside was this big room, carved right out of the mountain. I run my flashlight around, and I see what I figure is dust. Big balls of dust. Or maybe it was rocks. But it wasn’t. You know what it was? It was skeletons, man. Little skeletons. A whole room full of them. They were all placed neatly, side by side.
At that moment something happened inside me, Kevin. I think I actually heard my heart change. I fell to my knees, and I tried to cry, but nothing came out. Believe me, it came out later. Almost every day since. But then, in the middle of this night, I had to ask myself why. I don’t mean why they did it, whoever did it. I mean, why did the door open for me?
One hundred dead children. God doesn’t put that in front of you for no reason, does He? No way.
I came back stateside, bummed around for two years, drank too much. I knew I wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor or a lawyer or anything. So I decided to become a cop. How else could I do good, man?
How else could I do good?
Marcus Haines had looked at Byrne that night, asking the question.
How else could I do good?
A few days later Marcus Haines stepped in front of another door. Byrne remembered the burst of automatic-weapon fire, recalled the red mist that was the back of Marcus Haines’s head.
This time the door wasn’t in Turkey but rather a North Philly hellhole, a place where children were made slaves to a drug called crack cocaine. Marcus Haines had finally found the door where the souls of another hundred children lay, and had taken a bullet meant for Kevin Byrne.
How do you repay a debt like that?
Byrne picked up the picture of Marcus, then took Gabriel’s school photograph out of his pocket. He held them side by side. Marcus looked so much like Gabriel, the son he never lived to know. Byrne recalled that night with Tanya Wilkins, how he had hit her. She had been pregnant with Gabriel at that moment. He hadn’t known then.
Byrne took out his cell, made the call. The woman answered in two rings.
‘Do you know who this is?’ Byrne asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ve been expecting your call.’
‘We?’
‘My son and I.’
Byrne said nothing.
‘God chooses us for a reason,’ the woman said. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I’m ready.’
There was a moment of silence. Then, ‘Do you know what you must do?’
‘I do.’
‘It has all led to this moment. Do you feel the weight of providence?’
More than you know, Byrne thought. ‘Yes. But there’s something I need first.’
‘I am listening.’
Byrne told her what he needed. The woman agreed to get it for him.
‘Do you want to know where we will be?’ she asked.
‘I know where you’ll be. I just don’t know how long it will take me to get there.’
‘We are patient.’
‘Expect me.’
Byrne clicked off, sent Jessica a text message. He put his cell phone on his dining-room table, next to his service weapon and his badge.
How else could I do good, man?
Kevin Byrne knew.
FIFTY-FOUR
Jessica could not find Byrne. She tried every cell, landline, pager number, text. Nothing. She had not told Maria of Mateo’s call – indeed, Jessica had asked Mateo to keep it to himself as long as he could. She couldn’t ask him to lie or erase the footage of Kevin, but Mateo was a stand up cop, and agreed to follow her lead on this. He promised not to say anything. For the moment.
St Simeon’s was now crowded with personnel. Jessica had seen the look on Dana Westbrook’s face when she pulled up, and it wasn’t good. Their killer had committed a crime, right under the noses of two detectives, and this would not play out well with the media.
Jessica decided to worry about the wrath of her boss later. Her immediate concern was Kevin Byrne.
What had he been doing at the church?
Jessica walked out of St Simeon’s. Her phone rang. It was Maria.
‘Yeah, Maria.’
‘I’m checking the cars on the street. There’s a compact car about a half-block from your location.’
Jessica recalled the car from when she entered the church. ‘What about it?’
‘It looks like we’ve got a second victim.’
‘There’s a body in that car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s DOA?’
‘Oh, he is definitely DOA. There’s something on the seat next to him you should see, though.’
Jessica jogged down the alley, turned the corner. She saw Maria a half-block away, standing near the car. She walked the remaining distance, thinking there was no need to run. A DOA tended to stay dead.
When she arrived she looked in the driver’s window. The victim was a white male, late twenties, early thirties. His head was back on the headrest. A thin trickle of vomit leaked from the corners of his mouth. Jessica shone her Maglite into the car.
‘Ah, Christ,’ she said.
‘What? You know him?’
‘His name is Shane Adams. He’s a reporter. He tried to shadow me earlier today.’
Jessica ran her Maglite around the inside of the car. The backseat was full of junk, the kind of stuff you’d have if you lived half your life inside your car – extra clothing, fast-food trash, Handi-Wipes.
‘You are not going to believe this,’ Maria said. With her gloved hands she took a digital video camera off the front seat and put it on top of the car. ‘This was playing when I walked up to the car.’ She hit a button, turned the LCD screen to face them.
At first the image was out of focus. Soon it became clear. It was the image of a cross. It was hard to tell on the small screen what the cross was made of, but the closer Jessica looked at it, the more she realized it was made of glass.
‘Is that a window?’ Jessica asked.
‘I’m pretty sure it is,’ Maria said. She froze the image, pointed at the screen. ‘It looks like this is tinted glass, doesn’t it?’
The two detectives looked at each other at the same moment, understanding flowing between them.
‘Stained glass,’ they said in unison.
‘Keep playing it,’ Jessica said.
Maria hit the button. The video continued. The stained-glass image of the cruciform began to lose focus again, and Jessica soon realized what was happening. There was an image behind the glass that was starting to come in to focus. A few seconds later she saw what it was, and her heart skipped a beat. There, on the other side of the cross, was a person, perfectly framed, as if on the cross.
There could be no doubt. The person was Kevin Byrne.
Jessica ran back down the street, up the alley. She looked at the side window next to the door that gave entry into the church. There was a cross in the stained glass. It was identical to the crucifix in the video.
The killer had just shot this footage.
FIFTY-FIVE
Jessica paced the sidewalk in front of the church. There were police cars everywhere. Dana Westbrook had said that she wanted her back at the Roundhouse on the double.
‘Are you okay?’ Maria asked.
‘I’ve had better days.’ Although Jessica knew she was expected at Eighth and Race any minute, she knew she wouldn’t rest until Kevin Byrne was in her sight. ‘What I think we should do is –’
The envelope, Jessica thought. The envelope the woman had dropped off for Byrne.
The envelope from Father Leone.
Jessica reached into the car, retrieved the envelope from the back seat, tore it open. In it were pages from the Bible, along with other pages, handwritten on old, yellow-edged typing paper.
These were messages from Father Leone. Messages from beyond the grave.
As Jessica’s eyes scanned the pages, things began to make a clear, horrifying sense. It was about the seven churches of the Apocalypse:
Unto the angel of the church of Ephesus … thou has left thy first love …
Cecilia Rollins, Jessica thought.
Unto the angel of the church of Smyrna … ye shall have tribulation ten days …
Danny Palumbo was in that basement ten days.
To the angel of the church of Pergamos … give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written …
The Killing Room Page 29
