“Shit!” Harry kicked the covers off. Next to him, Nora snorted in her sleep and turned her head away. After all the years of getting late night calls, she could sleep through anything. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
With a curse, he pulled on the same uniform he’d worn the previous day, gave his armpits and shirt a liberal spray of deodorant, and hurried out to his car.
Three hours later, Showalter sat in the small meeting room in the police station, nursing his third cup of bitter coffee. Across from him sat Mayor Del Watkins, whose angry features went well with Harry’s own mood. A pile of reports and files lay scattered on the table between them.
“Goddammit, Harry. You said you had the bastard. For chrissake, I was quoted in the paper as saying the streets were safe. Now what the fuck do we do?”
Showalter exhaled, his rancid coffee breath evident even to himself. “You saw the evidence. Stranger in town. Last person seen with the victim. No alibi. Everything pointed to him.”
The mayor narrowed his eyes, a sign he was considering how to save his hide. Harry knew the look well. He and Del went back a long ways, back to high school, where they’d both been second-string on the football team and just smart enough to graduate.
Look at us now. People said we’d end up working down to Joe’s Citgo, and now we run this goddamn town. And I’ll be damned if Del, or some drugged out serial killer, is gonna ruin things for me.
“What if it’s a copycat?” Del asked. “Think that will fly?”
Harry shook his head. “No, she fits the profile perfect. Under thirty, pretty, and either having problems in her relationship or getting over a relationship. Whoever this guy is, he goes for the ones who are down. But we caught some breaks this time.” He tapped a file. “Guy got careless. Left a bunch of cigarette butts across the street from the bar she worked at. He must’ve been waiting a long time. We sent a few up to the crime lab in Buffalo, for DNA testing. And I got my boys dusting the whole alley for prints.”
“What about her car?”
“Too burnt to get anything from.”
Del stood up and started pacing back and forth. Harry had time to feel annoyed that the mayor looked refreshed and ready to go, his suit neatly pressed. By comparison, Harry felt like he’d just finished a ten-mile hike through the swamps. Mud and burrs stuck to the cuffs of his pants, and the sweat stains under his arms were spreading at an alarming rate.
The mayor paused to look out the window, which faced State Street. Shops and businesses were preparing for another scorching summer day.
“What about that fellow you got locked up?”
“I still ain’t convinced he’s innocent. Maybe he’s the killer’s accomplice.”
Someone knocked on the door. Before Harry could tell them to go away, Sergeant Mathers, the morning desk officer, stuck his head in.
“Sorry to bother you, Chief, but there’s someone out here to see you.”
“Not now, Mathers.”
“Um, he’s from the FBI. Agent Nova.”
“FBI?” the mayor asked. “What the hell are they doing here?”
A tall man in a dark suit, his short hair neatly brushed, pushed past Mathers and entered the room. “Apparently the chief forget to inform us you’ve had a series of murders all following the same MO? I’m assuming it was a clerical error, since I’m sure he knows the protocol. The FBI is always brought in on any case involving a suspected serial killer.” Nova pulled out a chair and sat down.
Mayor Watkins started to say something but Showalter cut him off. “We appreciate you wanting to help, Agent Nova, but you’re too late. We already caught the man responsible.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Seems like we’re not quite the small town yokels you FBI folk think we are.”
Watkins’s eyes went wide, but he kept his mouth shut.
Nova raised one eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, good for you. Still doesn’t explain why we weren’t called.”
The chief shrugged. “The first few, we thought they were suicides. Young girls dealing with bad relationships. Wasn’t until the last couple that the fella got careless.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Nova’s lips turned up in a small grin, and Showalter noticed the smile stopped far short of his eyes.
Watch out for this one. He’s trouble. “Anything else, Agent Nova?”
The FBI agent stood up. “Not now. But you won’t mind if I come back for the arraignment? Just to satisfy my own curiosity, of course. Since you’ve got your man, there’s no need for us to become officially involved.”
Showalter shrugged again. “Whatever floats your boat. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a lot of paperwork to take care of.”
Nova nodded to them and left the room.
Watkins waited until they saw Nova crossing the street to his car before exploding.
“Jesus on a crutch, Harry. What the hell were you thinking, lying to the FBI like that?”
“Relax, Del. I didn’t lie. I still think Root’s involved in all this somehow. Nova can go sit on his gun and rotate for all I care. No hotshot FBI agent’s strolling in here and stealing my case. This is my goddamn town and I’m gonna find the bastard whose killing those girls. And when I do...”
He paused for breath, then crushed his empty coffee cup.
“The fucker is gonna pay, and pay big. Like the Good Book says, ‘Let he who sins against thee feel the wrath as if he sinned against the Gods.’”
“Amen,” Watkins said, nodding emphatically. “But that doesn’t solve our other problem. What am I gonna say to the paper when they find out you’ve released Root?”
Showalter sat back down in his chair. “Who says I’m gonna let him go yet? Until we find out who did that waitress, Root’s gonna cool his heels right where he is. Now, I really do have work to do.”
Showalter waited until he was sure Watkins had left the building before calling for Mathers.
“What is it, Chief?” the skinny sergeant asked.
“Round up a couple of the boys. No official vehicles. Agent Nova is on his way back to Buffalo. I think he might have an accident, if you catch my drift. Otherwise he’s gonna make our lives real difficult. And I don’t need difficult, understand?”
Mathers smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Showalter got himself another cup of coffee and returned to his desk. Now there was nothing to do but wait and see if any of the evidence panned out.
Twenty minutes later, his phone rang.
“Showalter here.”
“Chief?” It was Parsons, at the desk. “Just got confirmation on one of the prints in the alley. Belongs to a career low-life named Antonio Lopez. Rap sheet includes petty theft, aggravated assault, and possession. And get this, the Binghamton police suspected him of raping and killing four girls, but they didn’t have enough evidence to hold him.”
“Lopez? Where’ve I...shit on a shingle! That’s Billy Ray’s buddy. Where’s Wade Cullen?” He wanted the biggest officer on the force at his side when they went after this one.
“Last I heard, out by Miller’s Farm Road.”
“Tell him to come back. And start calling motels. I want to know where this scum bucket is keeping himself.”
He’d barely hung up the phone when an ambulance roared past the station, siren wailing, heading north on Route 16.
Toward Buffalo.
Showalter allowed himself a smile. The day was turning out to be a good one, even if it still felt like Death Fucking Valley outside.
Chapter 15
Harry Showalter stood to the side, gun drawn, as Wade Cullen kicked open the door to Tony Lopez’s room.
“Hands in the air! You’re under arrest!”
“Hey!” Lopez, wearing only faded blue boxer shorts and a stained wife-beater T-shirt, jumped from the bed, dropping the latest issue of Barely Legal. His stiff cock protruded from his underwear.
“What’s goin’ on? I didn’t do nuthin’! I—” His words turned into a gasp of pain as Cullen delivered two quick kidney punch
es.
“Shut the fuck up, perv. You see that, Chief? Fucker was wackin’ it. Probably thinking about killin’ another one.” He punched Lopez again, then kicked at the magazine. “You like ‘em young, right?”
“You got the wrong guy,” Lopez gasped.
“Bullshit.” Showalter put his face even with Lopez’s, where Cullen had it pressed against the stained wallpaper. “Got your prints. Got your DNA. Now your ass belongs to me.” He straightened up. “I’m going back to the car,” he told Cullen. “You got five minutes to bring him down.”
Showalter closed the door behind him, but it didn’t do much to dim the satisfying sounds of flesh striking flesh.
The man Wade Cullen dragged into the police station barely resembled the Tony Lopez of an hour before. His nose angled sharply to one side and dripped blood; one eye was swollen shut. Both of his lips were split and bleeding, and when he opened his mouth to spit out some blood, there was a space where a front tooth once sat.
Cullen tossed the half-conscious man into a chair and headed toward the men’s room to wash up. Blood coated his knuckles, and splatters of red sat darkly on his tan uniform shirt.
Officer Mathers looked at Lopez and then over at the chief, one eyebrow raised.
“He resisted arrest,” Showalter said, a vicious smile pulling at his lips.
“Ain’t that a shame.”
“Yep. Keep an eye on this piece of shit until Wade books him. If he moves, shoot him.” Showalter went into his office and shut the door.
“You got it, Chief.” Mathers sat down on the corner of a desk across from Lopez, his gun drawn and resting on his lap.
“Go ahead,” he whispered, when he saw Lopez staring at him. “I knew one of the girls you killed. You picked the wrong town, asshole. Around here, we’re ready for the coming war. The Gods have told us what to do.”
For the first time in many years, Tony Lopez knew what real fear felt like.
* * *
John Root opened his eyes at the sounds of the chief and Officer Cullen dragging a semi-conscious man into the cell next to his. Cullen paused long enough to spit on the new prisoner and then left. Showalter, however, remained behind. He waited until the sounds of Cullen’s footsteps faded away, then took out his service pistol and aimed it into the man’s cell. Without hesitating, he pulled the trigger, the shots sounding like two explosions in the cement-walled basement.
His face expressionless, Showalter stepped over to John’s cell and stared in, hands on his wide hips and melon-sized sweat marks staining both armpits. John shrank back, fully expecting the Sheriff to end his life the way he had the other prisoner’s.
“You know what that was?” Showalter asked, nodding his head toward the dead body.
John said nothing.
“That was small town justice. He tried to escape. Saves the taxpayers a lot of money. And it helps you, too. Know how?”
When John didn’t answer, the chief continued.
“That was your get out of jail card, Mister Root.” The chief holstered his gun and tapped his fingers against the bars as he spoke. “Turns out he was the one killin’ those girls.”
Showalter waved his hand toward one of the cameras mounted by the ceiling. A moment later, there was an electronic hum and a click as the lock on John’s cell disengaged.
Showalter made no move away from the door, and John remained sitting on his cot, wary of a trick.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Root. Two strangers in town, one a known felon and th’ other seen with at least one victim. I got to believe there’s some kinda connection.”
“I didn’t know him.”
The chief pulled open the cell door and stepped back, one hand resting on his pistol. “What you say and what I believe are two different things, but I got no choice ‘cept to let you go. Take my advice, though,” he said, as John stood up.
“What’s that?”
“Get your ass outta my town fast as you can and don’t ever come back.”
John slowly stepped forward, keeping his eye on the chief’s gun hand. He stopped at the cell door and looked Showalter in the eyes. “I can’t do that, Chief. I know you think I’m involved in what’s going on in your town, but I’m not. If anything, I’m here to stop it from spreading further. I can’t leave until my job is done.”
For a moment neither of them spoke. John met the chief’s narrow-eyed gaze, knowing he couldn’t back down, couldn’t show any weakness.
Sweat trickled down John’s back, and it seemed as if Showalter’s face grew larger, rounder, until every pore stood out like craters on an alien moon. A stray crumb nestled in one of the deep crevices lining Showalter’s mouth. Beads of sweat dotted his brow like morning dew on a car window.
The chief’s radio squawked and both men twitched.
“Chief? The mayor’s lookin’ for ya.”
Showalter blinked, and John felt something between them snap, as if they’d been tied to an invisible rope. “I’ll be watching you, Root. Now get the fuck outta here.”
John nodded and moved past the chief. He felt the man’s gaze on him as he hurried up the stairs. The feeling intensified when he stopped at the front desk to collect his belongings. He glanced up, saw that several people had paused and were all staring at him.
None of the looks were friendly.
If my welcome wasn’t worn out before, it sure is now.
He exited the building without even looking to see if they’d returned everything. All he wanted was to be outside, free to breathe the oppressive, muggy air of another stifling summer afternoon.
Something struck him painfully on his left shoulder. Turning, he saw Reverend Christian standing there with several small children.
All the children had rocks in their hands.
The reverend pointed at John and said, “And the Gods said to their people, ‘Do not turn away from your enemy, but rather meet it with all your strength. For only by casting the first stone can you drive away that which seeks to destroy you.’”
“Go away,” one of the children shouted. She threw her rock at him. More stones followed as all the children took aim and threw.
“I won’t let you corrupt this town,” John said, holding his hands up to shield himself.
Christian smiled. “I am merely the vessel of the Gods, John Root. You can no more stop me than you can stop the winds or the rain.”
Thunder crashed overhead and the sky grew darker.
“You’ve been stopped before, Old One. I will not let these people die for your dark Gods.”
Another explosion of thunder echoed across the town, rattling windows and setting dogs to barking. The children picked up more stones, but before they could throw them, John whispered three words. The children screamed as the stones turned to spiders in their hands. Dropping the black, hairy creatures, they ran away.
Christian laughed. “You’re good at scaring children, but your homespun magics are no match for the real thing. If you don’t believe me, ask your mother.”
John gasped as his mother, her face dead-pale, stepped out from behind the reverend, still dressed in her black burial gown.
“Listen to him, son. You can’t win. Leave this place to him. Save yourself.” Her lips moved, but the voice came from everywhere, as if it was part of the air.
Tears welled up in John’s eyes, and he let them flow. She’d been gone more than thirty years, but his memories of her were still as fresh as the day she’d said her final words to him.
The burden is yours now, John. It’s a heavy load, but stay righteous and true, and you’ll always be able to shoulder it. God loves you, my son, and so do I.
Thinking of her now, John couldn’t remember one time she’d ever given up or admitted defeat, not even when the very Devil himself had stood outside her door.
Breathing deep of the humid air, John raised his voice to shout over the thunder and the rising winds. “Trickery cannot fool me, Old One.”
With a howl of laughter,
the reverend disappeared, taking the children and John’s mother with him. The thunder and wind faded away, returning the day to its previous desultory, stagnant calm.
They were never there. It was all an illusion.
What happens when I can’t tell the illusions from reality?
* * *
Sheriff Showalter watched John Root turn and walk down Main Street, his head hung low as if he’d just seen his dog put to sleep. For the past five minutes the man had just stood in the street, looking for all the world like he was arguing with someone.
Man’s crazier than a loon in June, talkin’ to himself like that. Even if he ain’t a killer, he oughtta be locked up in the nut house.
But the words felt wrong even as he thought them. Something about John Root seemed larger than life all of a sudden, and Showalter had a notion that maybe he’d done the right thing setting him free.
And if not, we can always kill him later.
* * *
Reverend Christian lifted his head from his desk. Sweat from his forehead left oddly-patterned stains on the green blotter. He sat back in his chair, eyes closed, until the momentary dizzy spell passed. Creating illusions with physical sensation took a toll, but the effort had been worth it.
“He’s no match for me,” he whispered to himself. Strong, yes. Maybe even stronger than his mother had been.
That bitch. She’d bested me that time, sacrificed her own life to banish me. It had cost him dearly. Each failure weakened him. Each triumph brought more power, power he needed to open the gates.
He’s strong, yes, but I’m stronger.
Christian opened his eyes and stared out the window. Gray cloud banks covered the sky again, and he could almost see the trees and plants dying under the combined weight of the summer heat and the moisture-laden air.
Still, it might be prudent to place another obstacle in his way, now that the damned fool had let him go.
“Tonight,” Christian said to the empty room, “I’ll use his own strengths against him.”
Chapter 16
The Burning Time Page 9
