Rain Will Come

by Holgate, Thomas

  Reverend Bradley hung his head. Daniel turned his attention back to Dorothy. “Listen to me,” he said, as if talking to a child. “I want you to renounce Christ. And if you don’t, I’m going to insert the barrel of my gun—”

  “I renounce him,” she said as quickly as the words would come.

  Daniel chuckled at the speed of her abnegation. “Now repeat after me. I embrace Satan and all his disciples.”

  She began to cry.

  “Say it!”

  “I embrace Satan . . .”

  “And all his disciples . . .”

  “And all his disciples . . .” she repeated.

  “And I’m the Devil’s whore.”

  “And I’m the Devil’s . . .” She managed to force out the word “whore” through choked sobs.

  Daniel nodded. Satisfied. Amused, but not surprised, at how fleeting her faith truly was. Although he wasn’t raised religiously by any measure, he had attended Sunday school as a boy and remembered the stories of the Christian martyrs who endured unspeakable tortures rather than renounce their faith. Boiled to death. Skinned alive. Fed to wild beasts.

  Despite Dorothy’s self-proclaimed piety, all it took was a little arm wringing to usher her into the camp of the nonbelievers.

  With a dull throb just beginning to thrum in the outer reaches of his brain, Daniel was losing patience at her contrived innocence. Her faux propriety. All her fucking bullshit.

  He walked over to Dorothy and grabbed a handful of her hair. She yelled out in both pain and surprise and grabbed his wrists. He yanked her forward, and pushed her toward her husband, as if shifting an uncooperative manual transmission. As she struggled, Daniel squeezed the back of her neck, surprised at how fragile it felt, and forced her head into her husband’s crotch.

  He placed the gun against the side of her head.

  Through all the commotion, Reverend Bradley still had the bedsheets covering the lower half of his body. It was hard not to laugh. They seemed embarrassed of each other and of each other’s bodies.

  “What’s the matter, Reverend? Picturing your own wife, instead of little girls, doesn’t get the juices flowing?”

  As Dorothy stared at her husband’s crotch, Daniel withdrew his knife. His fingers slipped through the brass knuckles. Curved around the handle. The weapon fit like a glove.

  And in one swift motion, he castrated the reverend.

  Reverend Bradley spasmed. A reflex. No pain yet.

  Dorothy immediately began gagging at the sight of her bloodied husband. Daniel grabbed a pillow and thrust it into her face, preventing her from screaming or helping. She couldn’t breathe and struggled against him, panicked.

  Her husband stumbled off the bed and collapsed onto the floor.

  Daniel held the pillow tight as Dorothy gasped for breath. She clawed at his arms with her sausage fingers, weakened from a lack of oxygen. Time moved slowly as she died. The seconds turned to minutes. And then Dorothy Bradley was no more.

  Reverend Bradley sat on the floor, propped up against the wall like a puppet thrown from the bed. He was covered in blood, and he was in shock, his eyes glassy and unfocused, operating independently of each other, creeping Daniel out.

  His body was still trying to process the loss of one of its most vital organs. He still didn’t appear in pain, which pissed Daniel off.

  Inside Daniel’s bag was a small plastic jug containing the jet fuel.

  Stupid.

  Fire would pose far too great a risk to the girls. Set aflame, Reverend Bradley would tear through the house in agony before he was consumed.

  There was no way to tell what else might catch fire. The ancient floorboards, the drapes, the peeling wallpaper—most of it was flammable. The girls were so used to heeding authority, even caught in an actual inferno—as opposed to the metaphoric one they were threatened with daily—they might not immediately head to safety.

  He knew his conscience couldn’t handle injuring a single child, much less engulfing an entire house of them in a raging conflagration.

  Daniel cursed himself silently. Upset that he hadn’t considered this before.

  It was the tumor—definitely the tumor. That goddamned tumor. It had to be, wreaking havoc on his cognition.

  Reverend Bradley remained in position, his back against the wall, looking like a football player trying to recover after a particularly fearsome collision.

  With fire no longer an option, Daniel needed another way to dispose of him.

  Daniel kneeled down and held the knife right in front of Reverend Bradley’s face. The man was far too weak to even protest, much less defend himself, and could only watch helplessly, his eyes rolling skyward, following the trajectory of the knife, as Daniel drew it across his forehead from temple to temple.

  And in that moment, Daniel was sated.

  But there was still work to be done.

  Daniel reached over and grabbed the corner of the bedsheet. He soaked it in the pool of blood that was forming on the floor, then smeared his note just above the headboard. In big baroque letters—Romans 12:19.

  The numbers corresponded to an often-misquoted Bible verse: “‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay,’ saith the Lord.”

  The verse was thematically appropriate and would keep the police busy. They’d waste precious time visiting local churches and mental institutions, searching for former congregants or patients who displayed signs of aberrant religiosity.

  Dawn was approaching.

  Per his instructions, a single staff lady would soon take off to the neighbor’s like a banshee. Cutting a dark figure across the barren farmland. And help would come, once the neighbors quieted down this young woman babbling incoherently about a demon in the night.

  Daniel would be long gone. He was prudent above all else. Even if part of him wanted to wait for Czarcik, to see how smart the detective really was.

  And miles to go before I sleep . . .

  That felt right.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Seventy miles outside Bridgeport, Indiana, Paul Czarcik turned on a local radio station.

  An overly excited meteorologist was informing listeners that they could look forward to an unseasonably warm weekend. The Colts were heading into spring training with an uncharacteristic number of questions about the offensive. The Dow was up, the S&P flat, and the NASDAQ down slightly. There was a protest at Valparaiso, something about transgender-friendly libraries.

  And then came the news that mattered.

  The rest of the bodies were discovered by authorities when one of the women who worked at the facility, a Ms. Diane—

  “Fuck!” he yelled, and pounded on the dashboard. The vibrations sent the ash from his cigarette all over his shirt. Two of his knuckles bled.

  Furious with himself for wasting a single moment, Czarcik only managed to pick up bits and pieces of the report.

  Initial reports are that all of the dead are members of the Bradley family . . .

  The property houses approximately thirty children, ranging in ages from . . .

  Families have been notified . . .

  Police are saying it’s much too early to speculate about a motive . . .

  Reverend Seamus Bradley has been the subject of considerable controversy over the years . . .

  Found among the belongings in thirty-year-old Roger Bradley’s room were about a dozen pairs of girls’ underwear . . .

  Czarcik clenched his jaw, and his teeth bit clear through the filter of his cigarette. He jammed his foot on the accelerator.

  He was an hour away from Miriam Manor; he would make it there in half that time.

  The relative isolation of the compound kept the casual onlookers to a minimum. The residents whose homes bordered the property were milling around, having been awakened by the sirens and then drawn outside to the flashing red and blue lights.

  Two local stations were on the scene. Reporters were interviewing the neighbors, since they had been given a “no comment” by the cops.

 
The police had cordoned off the area around the entire compound, not just the buildings. A single strip of yellow police tape blocked the driveway leading up to the main house, replacing the metal chain that usually discouraged trespassers. An enterprising journalist could have found a way inside; it wasn’t heavily guarded. But out here, in the country, when the authorities said to stay away, even the most intrepid reporter listened.

  Czarcik parked on the main county road that ran in front of the property, right between a cop car and one of the vans from the television station. The black-and-whites—which were really a shade of dark blue—all bore the insignia of the county sheriff.

  Miriam Manor was located within an unincorporated area of Bridgeport. It was one of the reasons Reverend Bradley had been able to avoid prosecution. Operating in a nebulous municipality made it harder to convince anyone to claim jurisdiction, which was why the county sheriff was now taking charge instead of the town’s police force.

  Czarcik ducked under the police tape. The sight of him, a man in civilian clothes, walking into the area with such confidence, sent a blond female reporter scurrying in his direction. She charged at him, her microphone leading like a lance. “Sir? Sir, are you with the FBI?” she inquired.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  She gasped.

  Czarcik smiled, pleased with himself. He knew that where she came from, the authorities, even the most surly, treated the press with at least a modicum of respect. At worst, they were dismissive and curt. Never vulgar.

  Welcome to the big city, bitch, Czarcik thought as he continued on his way.

  Large firs, chosen to provide privacy rather than promote any aesthetic, lined the dirt driveway that led up to the main building.

  Halfway up the driveway, Czarcik was approached by an officer holding up his hand. The cop was young and visibly angry, pissed that something like this had happened in his county, or at least pretending to be, so his superiors would think he took his job seriously. “May I help you, sir?” he asked, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.

  Czarcik reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. God, the kid was green. A stranger at a crime scene. At a mass murder. Reaching into his pocket. Czarcik should have been tackled and cuffed.

  The kid deserved to have a gun pulled on him, but it was only a badge that Czarcik shoved in his face.

  The kid inspected the shield, as if he could tell how to identify a convincing fake. He pronounced the name on the badge incorrectly and then asked, “What’s the Illinois Bureau of Judicial Enforcement doing here?”

  Czarcik ignored his question. “Can you tell me who’s in charge?”

  There were two types of county cops. Those impressed by a big-city police officer and those resentful. They were both equally useless, but only the latter might pose a problem. Fortunately, the kid was among the former.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, looking away from the badge, seemingly satisfied. “That would be Sheriff Lundin. Want me to call in for you?”

  Czarcik nodded. “Please.”

  The cop smiled, proud he was able to assist. He pressed the button on his walkie-talkie and spoke into his shoulder where the microphone was attached. “Sheriff . . . it’s Barksdale. I’m out on the driveway. We got a Detective . . .” He looked at Czarcik for help with his name.

  “Czarcik.”

  Barksdale repeated it, butchering the pronunciation again. “He’s come from outta state.”

  Silence. Czarcik thought that maybe the kid, in all his eagerness, had forgotten to turn on the walkie. Then the radio crackled to life. A female voice, which threw Czarcik for a loop, said, “Bring him to me.”

  Officer Barksdale accompanied Czarcik up the remainder of the driveway, past cops of different ranks, most of them with little idea of what to do in such a situation. Massacres were not in the training manual.

  The day was muggy. A soft mist hung in the air, ready to be burned off by the sun at any moment. But for now, the sun remained behind the clouds. In the distance, back on the road, the lights of the squad cars flashed silently through the fog. Eerie.

  Barksdale led him into the house.

  As soon as Czarcik entered, he was overcome by the smell.

  It wasn’t death, which he expected. That he was familiar with, a smell you never forgot. This was something more earthy, though no less revolting.

  Then he realized. It was the smell of teenagers, teenagers who had been brainwashed to believe their bodies and all their natural functions were foul and dirty. Puberty was never discussed. Sanitary habits never taught or learned. He remembered the opening shower scene of Carrie and shuddered.

  “This way,” Barksdale said. Czarcik followed him through the main building.

  Young girls of various ages, some with adults whom Czarcik assumed were their parents or guardians, were talking with officers scribbling furiously on notepads. Some of the girls were crying, some looked shell shocked, and some, exhilarated.

  Barksdale pointed down the central hallway. “There,” he said, identifying a dour woman with a silver crew cut. “That’s Sheriff Lundin.”

  Lundin looked up as Czarcik approached her. “Sheriff, my name is Detective Paul Czarcik. I’m with the Illinois Bureau of Judicial Enforcement.” He went for his badge. Lundin waved him off with none of the forced importance her position might dictate, a woman more than comfortable in her own skin.

  “Bureau of Judicial Enforcement? That’s out of Chicago, isn’t it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, you boys don’t waste any time.” Her tone was friendly, oddly relaxed even if every other word out of her mouth was a swear. “How the hell you hear about this so fast, and what the hell you doing out here anyway?”

  Once Czarcik had gotten over the frustration of being late to the party, he’d had some time to think about his cover story. “I was working a case near the state line. Cult murders. Shit you don’t want to imagine. The bureau heard about this situation of yours. Thought it might be our man, so I headed out this way.” Czarcik paused, feigning deference. “Hope I’m not stepping on anybody’s toes.”

  “Shit,” the sheriff said smiling. “First call I made was to the FBI. Those federal bastards told me there was nothing they could do, on account of it not being interstate and all. Wouldn’t even help with forensics. So we’re flying partly blind here, Mr. . . . the hell did you say your name was again?”

  “Czarcik.”

  “Whatever. If you’re offering some help, we’ll take it.”

  Czarcik nodded. “Well, I don’t know how much help I can be, but I’d love to have a look. See if it fits our man’s MO.”

  “Let me show you what we got.” Sheriff Lundin draped her arm collegially around Czarcik and led him into the belly of the beast.

  Since Czarcik already knew this was Daniel’s handiwork, part of him thought he would be better served heading straight to Tennessee. But he was already here, and Daniel had a habit of taking his time between murders.

  The previous crime scenes had been clean, but not perfect. If there was even the smallest chance that Daniel might have left something behind, something that might confirm where he was going next and what he planned to do, then Czarcik wanted to hang around and see what he could find.

  Then there was protocol. Czarcik now had an ID on the murderer, as well as a theory about his motivation. Surely he had a responsibility to relay this information to Parseghian, who could decide how best to act on it.

  But the source of this information was a single person: Chloe, whom he didn’t entirely trust. Wasn’t it just as dangerous to provide potentially false information as none at all?

  At least that’s what he told himself.

  “Give me the big picture, Sheriff. Then we can take a look at the individual crime scenes.”

  Sheriff Lundin ran her fingers through her short-cropped hair. Scratched her head. “Seems the suspect knew where he was going. Otherwise he would have woken the kids. But he he
aded straight to the room where the teachers, or supervisors, or whatever the hell they call them around here, slept. Makes me think it might have been a parent, or relative, of one of the girls. Maybe even a former student. Somebody who had been here before.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “He tells one of the women to make sure she keeps all the kids quiet. Makes them stay in the room as he goes around the house butchering the family. What kind of madman does that?”

  Czarcik knew exactly what kind but kept his mouth shut. “You’ve already interviewed or are in the process of interviewing all the kids?” he asked.

  “We started interviewing them,” Lundin confirmed. “But after the first ten or so all had the same story, we didn’t think it made much difference to continue.”

  “Some of their parents are here, I see.” Czarcik motioned to a few of the adults. “I assume the others are on their way?”

  “Can I be honest with you, Detective?” Sheriff Lundin began, in a tone that said she was going to be regardless of Czarcik’s response. “I know how we’re looked at out here, as a kind of backward rural community. But we’re as embarrassed by these people and their primitive ideas as you are. We call some of these parents, explain there’s been a terrible tragedy. You know what their first question is? Not, ‘Is my daughter OK?’ But, ‘What has she done to make God so angry?’” Sheriff Lundin shook her head. “Guess that’s the kind of mentality you’re dealing with in people who would send their daughters away to this goddamned shithole.”

  “Why didn’t you shut it down, then?” Czarcik asked. “There must have been a million reasons you could have used as just cause.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Lundin replied with genuine anger. “But these are minors who were sent here voluntarily by their parents. Legally, it’s a church, not a school, so the Department of Education has no authority. Only thing we can get them on are health and fire safety statutes, but every time there’s been an investigation, they’ve been found to be up to code. The good old Constitution, freedom of religion, protects them from everything else,” she said bitterly.