The Killing Room

by Richard Montanari

  Ruby did not hurt Adria Rollins.

  The young man who was a police officer, the one called Daniel, had told Dr Goodwin that he would do anything if his HIV did not become full-blown AIDS. It did not. He paid.

  The old pedophile said he would do anything to not have to go back to prison. He got probation. He, too, paid.

  ‘Why DeRon Wilson?’ the detective asks.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man at St Simeon’s. The man who took Gabriel.’

  ‘A thief is a thief,’ Ruby says. ‘He made his deal the moment he held out his hand for golden coins. When you told Dr Goodwin about your relationship to the boy, and why you were trying to save him, we knew you would do anything for him.’

  The detective glances at the young boy, and back to her. ‘So, this has all been about the preacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All of this was designed to get him out of prison?’

  ‘Not all of it.’

  The detective glances around the vast expanse of the basement room. ‘And there are just two churches left?’

  ‘Yes. Just two.’

  ‘Will we be going somewhere?’

  ‘No,’ Ruby says. ‘This church merged with another years ago. It must all end in this place, at this time.’

  Ruby considers the detective for a few moments. She has seen his face over the years, in her mind, in her prayers. The face of St Michael the Archangel. There is no doubting his strength.

  ‘You are the last of your kind,’ she says. ‘You are the last saint.’

  The man shakes his head. ‘No.’

  Ruby stands, listens to the ancient stone walls. Something is happening. She feels a stirring within. ‘You have brought him here?’

  ‘Yes,’ the detective says. ‘He’s in the next room.’

  ‘My son is here, too. It is time they met as men. A boy should know his father, don’t you think?’

  The detective says nothing.

  Ruby smoothes her hair, then instantly berates herself for this small weakness. It has been so many years since she has seen the Preacher. The last time was when he was standing on that carrousel.

  Frailty, thy name is woman.

  ‘Please bring him to me,’ she says.

  The detective stands, crosses the room, opens the door, and steps into the darkness.

  SIXTY

  Byrne lifted Roland Hannah to his feet. He walked him across the large basement room, toward the candlelight. Hannah’s hands were bound behind him, his mouth gagged.

  When they reached the circle of light Byrne uncuffed the man’s hands, sat him on the old wooden chair. He removed the gag from Hannah’s mouth, sat down next to him. Byrne looked at Gabriel. The boy was crying.

  While he was gone the woman removed her dark coat. Dressed in a flowing white gown, she now sat next to Gabriel. Around her waist was a corded white belt. In her lap were a pair of golden knives with razor-sharp edges.

  I counsel thee to buy of me gold tried in the fire … and white raiment.

  Roland Hannah cocked his head, as if he’d suddenly heard something.

  ‘Ruby,’ he said.

  Mary Longstreet blushed. ‘Preacher,’ she replied. ‘How did you know it was me?’

  Roland Hannah smiled. His teeth were small and yellowed. ‘A flower does not lose its bouquet, does it?’

  ‘Only when it dies, I reckon.’

  ‘Even then it lingers.’

  Mary Longstreet reddened even more deeply. She remained silent.

  ‘You have become a woman,’ Roland said.

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘How long has it been?’

  Mary Longstreet looked at the floor for a moment. ‘A spell, Preacher.’

  Byrne noticed a slight change in the woman’s accent. The West Virginia had begun to creep back into her voice.

  ‘And your boy?’ Roland asked.

  ‘The devil is still inside him.’

  Roland Hannah said nothing. Without the dark amber glasses, the man’s eye sockets were deep, scabrous holes in the candlelight.

  They sat, the four of them, in a circle. Every so often Byrne would glance at Gabriel. The boy looked small, and terribly frightened. His hands were shaking.

  Mary Longstreet gestured to a room off the large space that was the basement of the cathedral. ‘That room yonder,’ she said to Byrne. ‘It must happen there.’

  ‘Beneath the sacrarium,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The sacrarium, Byrne now knew, was the sink in which all consecrated items had to be washed. What flowed from these sinks could not be treated as other waste waters. The marks on the lampposts were made from the earth beneath the churches, washed by decades and centuries of Christ’s blood and flesh.

  Mary Longstreet stood, put both knives through the corded belt. Byrne saw that one of the knives sliced through the thin white fabric. A blood rosette bloomed. She had cut herself. She didn’t seem to feel it.

  As she crossed behind Roland Hannah, Byrne noticed that she now had something else in her hand. At first, in the dim light, he didn’t know what it was. Soon he was able to focus. It was an antique hairbrush.

  ‘Remember how I used to brush your hair, Preacher?’ she asked.

  To Byrne there was no question that this woman standing in front of him – a woman who had killed at least five people, a woman who now had a pair of razor-sharp daggers within reach – was regressing before his eyes. Her body language had become more adolescent, her voice had risen a half-octave. Her accent was becoming more Appalachian with every word. She pronounced the word hair as har. She was returning to the age she was when she met Roland Hannah for the first time.

  ‘I do, Mary Elizabeth,’ Roland said. ‘You still have your mammaw’s brush?’

  Mary Elizabeth, Byrne thought. Not Ruby. Hannah was trying to manipulate her.

  ‘Yes, Preacher. Save for my boy, it’s all I have left. Ever what I’ve done, I’ve done for him.’

  She began to slowly brush Roland Hannah’s hair.

  ‘Your hair’s gone right gray, Preacher. White, some.’

  Roland Hannah smiled. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  Byrne looked at the brush, and understood. Mary Longstreet had kept it all these years. It was from this brush she’d gotten Roland Hannah’s hair, evidence she used as bookmarks in the missals. Evidence she used to get him out of prison, and into this chair.

  ‘It’s still pretty, Preacher. Y’all had the prettiest hair. For a boy.’

  She continued to brush Roland Hannah’s hair in long, careful strokes. Byrne made eye contact with Gabriel, who seemed to be edging off his chair. Byrne saw the boy look into the darkness of the basement, toward the stairs. He was getting ready to run. When Gabriel looked back at Byrne, Byrne shook his head. It was too risky. Mary Longstreet was just a few feet away, and the knives were very sharp. He’d never make it.

  Still, Gabriel got ever closer to the edge of his seat.

  When Mary Longstreet finished brushing Roland Hannah’s hair, she placed the hairbrush on her chair, then drew one of the knives from her waistband, the dagger tipped with blood. One by one she extinguished the candles. When she had snuffed all but two, she positioned herself behind Gabriel.

  ‘Ruby?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘If I can.’

  Byrne glanced at Roland Hannah, then back at the woman. ‘I want you to take me instead.’

  She looked at Byrne with curiosity. ‘You? The devil’s not in you.’

  In that moment Byrne felt the weight of his own sins, just as he knew that it didn’t matter anymore. None of it – the job, the visions, the anguish over the city he loved, the sadness that in all that time he had not made a difference. The only person in this room who mattered was Gabriel.

  ‘You don’t know the things I’ve done,’ Byrne said.

  The woman stared at Byr
ne for a long moment. She lay the dagger gently on Roland Hannah’s right shoulder. ‘Don’t you understand, detective?’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘The Preacher is Philadelphia,’ she said. ‘He’s the sixth church of the Apocalypse.’

  Byrne saw the candlelight dance on the keened edge of the blade. He had to keep her talking. ‘I do understand. But what of the last church?’

  Mary Longstreet’s eyes softened, and Byrne knew. She was the last church. When Roland Hannah was dead she would take her own life.

  ‘I can’t let you do this,’ Byrne said.

  Whatever softness had come to Mary Longstreet was instantly replaced by a red rage.

  ‘You have no say in the matter, sir.’ In an instant she stepped behind Gabriel, put the blade to his throat. ‘Maybe the boy is Philadelphia. Maybe this is how it will be.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Byrne said.

  She flipped the knife, reversing it in her grip. It seemed to be a long-practiced, expert move. She touched it to the boy’s forehead. ‘I will write upon him the name of my God, and the name of the city of my God, which is new Jerusalem.’

  For a moment Mary Longstreet’s words echoed off the stone basement walls, unanswered. Then:

  ‘He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith.’

  Mary Longstreet’s eyes flashed at the sound of the voice. It was Roland Hannah’s.

  ‘You! You don’t talk, Preacher,’ she said. ‘You don’t talk at all.’

  ‘We can be together again, Mary Elizabeth,’ Roland said. ‘Don’t you see? We can leave this wretched place.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘We can found a new church. A church of our own. Together.’

  Byrne saw Mary Longstreet’s eyes lose focus. For a moment it seemed she couldn’t hear or see anything, that her vacant stare was cast inward, at a place back in time.

  ‘You can be my eyes,’ Roland said.

  Roland Hannah stood up, took a hesitating step forward, his hands stretched in front of him. Mary Longstreet didn’t move, didn’t try to stop him.

  ‘You’ve always been special to me, Mary Elizabeth. You know that. Ever since I set eyes on you that first time in Brandonville. Remember?’

  Mary Longstreet’s hands began to tremble. Byrne saw the tip of the blade pierce the skin on Gabriel’s forehead. A trickle of blood ran down the boy’s face in a twisted rivulet.

  Byrne knew he had to act. He stood up, slowly walked across the circle. He held out his hand. ‘Ruby?’

  The woman said nothing.

  ‘I will kill the Preacher for you.’

  ‘That is a task for my son,’ she said. ‘He has waited a long time.’ She put the blade to Gabriel’s throat. ‘I’d thank you kindly to sit down now, sir.’

  As Byrne took a step back he noticed movement in the vastness of the basement, shadows growing on the candlelit walls.

  Jessica and Maria Caruso were in the room, guns drawn. Byrne saw other figures in the darkness. There had to be a dozen officers.

  Mary Longstreet saw them, too.

  In one fluid motion Byrne spun and knocked the knife from Mary Longstreet’s hand. Just as quickly she drew the other dagger. She danced to her left with blinding speed and drew the blade across Roland Hannah’s throat. Hannah’s body jerked and thrashed, spastic in its death throes. He put his hands to his throat, but he couldn’t stanch the bleeding. As blood spurted across the circle, extinguishing one of the remaining candles, Mary Longstreet flung herself at Gabriel. Byrne dove in front of the boy. The dagger entered the right side of Byrne’s stomach, slashing clean through. The pain was white fire.

  But it didn’t stop Byrne. He reached for the hand that held the weapon and tried to turn the woman around.

  In the madness of the moment Byrne saw Jessica run toward them. Hands slicked with blood, Byrne lost his grip on the woman. Mary Longstreet pivoted, regained her footing, and slashed wildly at Jessica. As Byrne fell to the floor he saw the wound open in Jessica’s shoulder, above her Kevlar vest.

  No, Byrne thought.

  No.

  Then, as blackness descended, and the last of his will fell away, a hellish fury came to the cathedral basement. Gunfire roared. The smell of cordite and blood filled the air.

  For Kevin Byrne it all faded to a distant past, a time when he was just a young boy, and these walls held more mysteries than answers.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Jessica couldn’t hear. The gunfire had stolen all sound. She was on her back, saw feet moving around her, heard muffled shouts and commands. She looked to her right and saw the body of Roland Hannah, his throat savaged. There could be no question. He was dead.

  Jessica tried to sit up but the pain was too great. She saw Gabriel on his side, just a few feet away, his face streaked with blood. She did not know where the woman was. But right now neither of them were her priority. In the fog and confusion she found Byrne. He too was covered in blood, but not moving.

  Jessica gathered all her energy and crawled across the cold stone floor.

  With the last of her strength she reached Byrne, put two fingers to his neck. There was a pulse, but it was faint. She saw steam rising from his open wound, felt the life force leaving his body. She held him close.

  In the distance she heard the sirens.

  ‘Hold on, Kevin,’ she whispered. ‘Hold on.’

  Jessica closed her eyes, waiting, and in that moment heard the heartbeat of angels.

  SIXTY-TWO

  When Christ appeared on Patmos, an island off the coast of Greece, he sent his disciple John to visit the seven churches in Asia, and said:

  ‘Write on a scroll what you see and send it to the seven churches: to Ephesus, and to Smyrna, and to Pergamos, and to Thyatira, and to Sardis, and to Philadelphia, and to Laodicea.’

  Seven churches. She is the last.

  Ruby sits in the final pew at St Gedeon’s, the same place her boy sat so many years ago. In her hand is a birth certificate, dotted with blood and tears. Now they would know his name.

  Gedeon Mark Longstreet.

  He would no longer be The Boy in the Red Coat. He would no longer be a cipher. When he died that day, in that clinic in Doylestown, she had spirited his small body away, and come to Philadelphia. She brought him to this church, the namesake of his patron saint.

  She sat in the dark that night, sewing together the coat made from the Preacher’s vestment, the item Carson Tatum had gotten for her, vowing to one day return. She had specifically asked for the red vestment, the fire of the Holy Spirit.

  Her lifeblood spreads on her white raiment. In the gloom of this final dusk she sees the men, guns raised, slowly approaching. They will never reach her. She glances down, at the bullet wound in her chest.

  It is time.

  Mary Elizabeth Longstreet closes her eyes and, like her son surely had so many years earlier, feels a peace blossom within her, and thus blessed, steps into the beyond.

  REVELATION

  Put your trust in the light while you have it,

  so that you may become sons of light.

  — JOHN 12:36

  I

  In the two weeks following the bloodbath at St Gedeon’s there were eleven homicides in the city of Philadelphia, more than sixty aggravated assaults, a score of burglaries.

  Philadelphia moved on.

  Both the Inquirer and Daily News ran stories for six straight days, with the first Sunday edition of the Inquirer devoting a full page to Mary Elizabeth Longstreet’s life and murderous rampage. The story chronicled what investigators found in the woman’s small South Philly apartment, specifically the dozens of bound volumes of medical histories and transcripts, including the highlighted records of six patients who had been targeted.

  One of Dr Sarah Goodwin’s patients, a thief who had been to prison twice for armed robbery, was replaced in Mary Longstreet’s mad scheme by DeRon Wilson, a crime of both necessity and opportunity, police believed.

  In the woman’s
closets investigators also found a long black coat with a pointed hood — a coat they surmised Mary Longstreet herself wore in the surveillance video taken at St Adelaide’s — along with a number of full sets of clothing, outfits for a boy of ten, twelve, and fifteen. There was also one for a full grown adult. Each was a black suit, white shirt, and black tie.

  None had ever been worn.

  On the morning after being rushed to the hospital, Jessica underwent surgery to repair her shoulder. She was discharged five days later, despite her protestations that she was very comfortable in her room, especially with the part about having people wait on her hand and foot. Not to mention that fabulous invention called Percocet. She was released nonetheless.

  The surgery, and recovery time, for Kevin Byrne was more serious. Having lost a lot of blood, Byrne was in ICU for five days, in recovery for a week. Jessica visited him every day, but on the morning of Byrne’s release she ran late and missed him, a trio of shiny Mylar balloons in hand.

  Jessica later learned that Byrne went immediately from the hospital to the PPD evidence room, where he stayed until well past midnight, obsessed with the material collected from St Ignatios, the chapel in which Michelle Calvin had been found brutally murdered, her body posed on a bloodied mattress.

  They say Byrne pored over the evidence for a long time, searching for a clue he was certain would be there, a pointer designed to lead investigators to the final church. He eventually found it. It was on the mattress tag:

  UNDER PENALTY OF LAW THIS TAG

  NOT TO BE REMOVED

  EXCEPT BY CONSUMER

  All but six of the letters had been carefully painted out with Michelle Calvin’s blood, leaving a single word.

  GEDEON

  A week later, when the crime scene was finally cleared by investigators, the demolition of St Gedeon’s began.

  She found him at Holy Cross Cemetery in Lansdowne. Standing in a shaded area near Baily Road, he wore a dark suit and white shirt. As Jessica got closer she could see the bulk of the bandages that wrapped his stomach. He’d lost more than ten pounds, and his skin was pallid.