“Did he try to contact you?”
“You know he didn’t.” He believed her. Czarcik was fairly certain that Chloe was no longer part of Daniel’s game. If she ever was. He had said his goodbye to her forever that fateful night. This was about a predator and his prey, and maybe one annoying fly in the ointment.
Still, Czarcik wanted to preserve the illusion that he was there to protect her, though for whose benefit, he wasn’t entirely sure.
“I may have made a mistake,” she admitted.
He waited, then pressed. “Something you should have told me before? It’s not too late, Chloe.”
“Nothing I should have told you. I meant I should have stayed with you.” She sighed. “I should be there now.”
“No, no, it’s best that you’re not,” he reassured her. There was no reason to make her feel worse than she did, even if he wanted her with him.
“But I want to be,” she said after a bit.
He felt something catch in his throat. “You should sleep. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m too tired to sleep. Does that make sense?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”
Silence, but neither of them was ready to hang up.
“Paul, there’s something I’ve been thinking about . . .” He liked the way his name sounded when she said it. “He only has two more stops. Let’s say he completes his quest. Then what?”
“He won’t. I’m getting closer. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I am.”
“I believe you.” She said it without a shred of doubt. The ensuing silence wasn’t uncomfortable but reassuring, and Czarcik found peace in the sound of her soft breathing. “When I was a child, my grandmother lived with us for the last few years of her life. She was an immigrant. From Romania. When I couldn’t sleep, she would sing me gypsy folk songs. It always worked.”
“Sorry, but my Romanian is a little rusty.”
Her laugh rang through the phone crystal clear. “Sing anything.”
“I sound like a combination of Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen.”
“That I’d like to hear.”
The ash from Czarcik’s cigar hung precariously, and he tapped it out the window. Chloe continued talking about her grandmother as another car, with its headlights off, turned slowly onto the street. It pulled over to the curb, on the left side of the street, so it was barely a hundred yards directly in front of the Crown Vic. The driver of the car cut its engine. From Czarcik’s perspective, the vehicle was only a dark mass that had become still.
Too soon to get his hopes up. Chances were, it was just a teenager out past curfew, contemplating how to sneak back inside without waking the parents.
Czarcik flashed his brights. The other vehicle returned fire, blinding him. When Czarcik killed his headlights, the other vehicle did too. This went on for three or four volleys, an automotive riff on Close Encounters of the Third Kind. “Chloe . . . I have to go,” he said quietly. He ended the call and put the phone down on the seat next to him.
He was still momentarily blinded, eyes shut tightly, waiting for the spots to clear from his vision. The vehicle was too far away. He couldn’t tell anything about its occupant. All he could make out was the general make and model—a nondescript GMC. Maybe a Buick? Or looking again, it could have been a Ford, possibly a Mercury Sable?
Just to make sure this wasn’t the craziest of coincidences—or even a dumb kid just fucking with him—Czarcik pulled the turn signal lever toward him one final time, engaging his brights. And like clockwork, he was hit with a returning flash of light.
He waited again until his vision returned to normal. They were two modern-day knights, jousting with high beams on the quiet streets of suburbia.
Czarcik turned the ignition, and the engine of the Crown Vic growled. He considered throwing his car into drive, then slamming his foot down on the gas. He could cover the distance between the two vehicles in only a few seconds. But now, the other car was idling too.
Czarcik tapped the gas. The car lurched.
But then, instead of mirroring him, as it had been doing the entire time, the other car quickly reversed, burning rubber, and went shrieking off backward into the night.
When the car reached the perpendicular street, the driver turned the wheel quickly, straightening it out, pointing it forward. He revved the engine, daring the detective to approach.
Czarcik knew that if he gave chase, his adversary would be off down the unfamiliar suburban streets and onto the highway within seconds. There was an on-ramp close by.
Even if he managed to catch up to him, what could he possibly do on the open road? He was completely out of his jurisdiction. Parseghian would flip if he knew that Czarcik was out of the state. He couldn’t call for backup. He was all alone.
He had an idea. The other car was still idling. Waiting. Watching. But unless the driver had binoculars, and night vision ones at that, he couldn’t see Czarcik any better than Czarcik could see him.
Czarcik reached into the back seat, found his holster, and took out the gun. He slipped it into his jeans. Then he reached up and killed the dome light so it wouldn’t go on when he opened the door.
In one swift motion, he threw the brights, pushed down on the horn, and opened the driver-side door. He slipped out as inconspicuously as possible, the sound of the door hopefully masked by the horn’s echo through the empty streets. Then he sprinted across the street and dived behind the safety of a small hedge.
He could see his own car, its brights still on. From where he was, it appeared as if someone were still inside. He could also see the other car at the end of the street. It remained at a ninety-degree angle to his own, poised to take off at the slightest sign of danger.
Now hidden from view, Czarcik counted six houses on the street between his own car and the T created by the street on which the other car waited. The house whose property he was on was completely dark, almost too dark for the occupants to simply be asleep. Czarcik had the feeling they were either out of town or that the domicile was deserted. Like a cat burglar, he sneaked around to the backyard.
In a stroke of luck, none of the adjacent backyards leading up to the intersecting street had fences around them. Czarcik moved as quickly and as quietly as possible. Aside from the occasional sound of his shoes on the dead grass, nothing gave away his position. The night was still, just the sounds of the suburbs.
The kitchen light in the third house was on. From the backyard, Czarcik could see inside. The countertop was granite and the appliances all new. A coffee maker that took those little pods sat on the corner of the counter.
Suddenly there was a flash of motion from underneath the back porch, only a few feet away. It was too small to be another person, but Czarcik instinctively reached for his gun anyway. Fucking dog, he thought to himself before he actually saw it. If there was anything that could ruin his approach, it was the incessant barking of a poorly trained canine.
The animal appeared, walking with a distinct waddling gait, just as the moonlight fell across the familiar white stripe down its back. Czarcik stepped back, trying not to encroach on its territory, but the skunk was already in position. It showed its hindquarters and released its scent.
Czarcik was far enough away that the actual spray didn’t get in his eyes, but the smell was overwhelming. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and gagged. The animal beat a hasty retreat back to safety below the deck.
Quietly choking, Czarcik worried that if the smell reached the other car it might tip off the occupant that danger was afoot.
He made his way across the remaining backyards without incident, although he almost impaled his foot on a stray lawn dart, which he remembered reading were now illegal. From the last house, closest to the intersection, Czarcik had a clear view of the other car. It was still in the exact same place, engine still running.
He was fairly certain that right now, in his current position behind a wooden fence that faced the street, he was completely h
idden from view. But the other car was in the middle of the road, unobstructed. There was no possible way he could approach it without being exposed for at least a few very long seconds.
And he couldn’t make out the driver of the other car. If the man had a gun and was ready, Czarcik was no better than a sitting duck.
He took a few quick deep breaths, psyching himself up. It had been a while since he had physically taken down a suspect, although he enjoyed doing it. For years now his value to the bureau had been analytical, and the few times he had actually participated in a raid, he was preceded by well-armed specialists and supported by SWAT. Now was the perfect time to prove that he still belonged in the game.
A motorcycle revving up in the distance gave him the sonic cover he needed to make his move. He made a mad dash for the car. Every second he remained unimpeded was a tiny miracle. He reached the vehicle and slid under the rear bumper, just like he was back in high school on the baseball diamond, breaking up a double play. His jeans offered little protection from the asphalt. As he got into a crouched position, he noticed the blood already seeping through the fabric.
His leg throbbed, but there was no time to waste. He crept around the driver side until the door was within reach. He got to his feet—knees crackling—pulled open the door, and swung his gun around to the driver seat. “Hands on the wheel, motherfucker,” he said to no one.
The car was running, the engine rumbling, as if possessed by some angry automotive spirit. Nobody was inside. Czarcik jumped back from the car, pointing his gun in every direction, in case the driver had slipped out the passenger-side door and made a break for it. But the street was as deserted as when Czarcik had first pulled up.
Then an idea arose. It was completely irrational, and yet he pictured the scenario as clear as day: turning his back on the car, walking away, hearing the distinct click of a latch being disengaged, turning around just in time to see the trunk fly open, and finally feeling the slug slam into his—
He pulled up on the trunk release and cautiously went around to look inside. It was no more occupied than the driver seat had been. Just a pair of jumper cables still in the box, a tire iron, and a box of road flares.
So much for his intuition.
Czarcik slipped the gun back into his jeans and jogged across the street, back over to the side on which his car was parked. No need for stealth. If Daniel was watching, he’d already had ample opportunities to take a pot shot.
As Czarcik headed back to his car, past Father Dyer’s house, the wind picked up, kicking up dry leaves and cigarette butts, some from Czarcik himself. The car was still running, just as he had left it. Czarcik opened the door and was about to slip back inside when he saw it. Resting on the seat.
There it was, the familiar mustache. So lonely and mocking. Mischievous and yet deathly serious.
He could almost die laughing.
There was no longer any doubt that the man in the car had been Daniel, not that there really ever was. And once again, he had gotten the best of Czarcik. Especially if—
Czarcik slammed his car door shut and sprinted up to Father Dyer’s house, knowing full well that in the time he had been stalking the unoccupied automobile, Daniel could have been feeding Father Dyer his own genitals.
He took the porch steps two at a time and pounded on the front door with all his might, just in case Dyer was a deep sleeper. The doorbell didn’t work. Wasn’t even there. A casualty of neglect. All that was left were a few sharp spikes of plastic where the buzzer had once been. After knocking hard enough to wake the dead, Czarcik put his ear against the door. Inside, it was silent. Again and again, Czarcik slammed the side of his fist into the wood, nearly separating the door’s hinges from its frame.
He was too late. He could feel it. Daniel had always been one step ahead of him. This time was no different.
He just knew that Dyer would be in his living room, sitting in his easy chair, face blue and eyes bulging, his oxygen tube wrapped tightly around his neck.
Only seconds before Czarcik was about to kick in the door and come face to face with the corpse he had conjured up, he heard a feeble “Yes?” from inside.
“Father Dyer! Open the door now!” Czarcik screamed, as much from the surprise of finding the priest alive as from the urgency.
“Who is this?”
Czarcik couldn’t tell whether Dyer was being obstinate, men his age really did take longer to shake off the vestiges of sleep, or he was just a complete moron. “It’s Detective Paul Czarcik. From today. Now open your goddamned door!”
The priest complied, and Czarcik barged into his house, half convinced Daniel was already inside, standing behind the door and holding a gun up to Dyer’s head. But again, his paranoia was unfounded. The priest was apparently alone and even seemed a little put out.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” Dyer asked as Czarcik struggled to catch his breath.
Czarcik grabbed him by the shoulders. “Have you let anyone in since I left you?”
“No, nobody has come by.”
“Nothing strange? Phone calls with no one there? Hang-ups? Delivery men looking for a different address? A meter reader?”
Father Dyer paused. “Just some inconsiderate detective making a ruckus in the dead of night.”
Czarcik let out a deep breath. “Well, Father Pedophilia, you’ve got yourself a house guest.”
Once Dyer realized that there was no way he was going to convince Czarcik to leave, at least not before morning, he resigned himself to the role of proper host. Fortunately for him, everything he offered—a spare bedroom, sheets, a pillow—was declined, as the detective preferred to stand guard on the living room couch. Eventually, Father Dyer returned to bed. Despite Czarcik’s dire warnings, the priest seemed oblivious to the danger he was in.
The one comfort Czarcik accepted—though without the priest’s knowledge—was a bottle of Gordon’s gin he pilfered from a cabinet under the sink.
He took a few large swigs from the bottle and wandered around the living room, waiting for the priest to fall back asleep. As he examined the decor and absentmindedly opened and closed whatever drawers he came across, he was most struck by how normal it all seemed. Low-end American Gothic. Some shitty china. A few oil paintings of New England harbors.
In the past, when Czarcik had busted pedophiles, their homes were usually temples to their pathology. Child porn was literally everywhere. Falling out of kitchen cupboards, stored in the never-used oven, the icebox, the bathtub, everywhere. It wasn’t like in the movies, where the investigators find a few dodgy Polaroids stored away in a shoebox in the back of a closet. In real life, the houses were overflowing with it. But in Father Dyer’s case, for a man with such a long and prolific sickness, there was virtually nothing.
Czarcik brought the gin back to the couch, where he proceeded to polish off half the bottle while watching a game show in which contestants punched each other in the genitals for money and other prizes. He considered calling Chloe but then changed his mind. After all, other than hearing her voice, what was the reason for it? He had a box of Rocky Patels back in the car but told himself he couldn’t afford to leave the priest alone, not even for the thirty seconds it would take him to retrieve the cigars.
When his legs began to fall asleep and the soles of his feet started to tingle, he decided to explore the rest of the house. If he was quiet, he wouldn’t disturb the sleeping priest.
Other than a dirty bathroom, there really wasn’t much more to see on the ground floor, so Czarcik walked over to the staircase. The gin was old but still potent, so he held the banister on his way up for support.
The wall next to the stairs was empty. Conspicuously empty. Normally, in families, it was covered with photos of the members, a time line of their lives together, which mirrored the ascent, or descent, of the staircase. In the home of a priest, it was always covered with religious items or iconography. Cheap repros of Renaissance art. A favorite psalm knitted in a frame. Dyer didn’t ev
en have a cross.
Czarcik stopped at the top of the stairs and identified Father Dyer’s room by the quiet snoring from within. Again he had an urge to kill the priest on the spot, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come.
There were three other doors in the upstairs hallway. One opened into the bathroom, the other to a narrow linen closet, and the final one greeted Czarcik with a cloud of dust. When it cleared, another flight of steps materialized in front of him, leading up to the attic.
Moonlight streamed in from the attic window, illuminating the top half of the folding staircase. Czarcik took the steps slowly, listening to the dry wood crack under his weight.
The attic was smaller than he anticipated, just a hollowed-out triangle plopped down on top of the house. Because Dyer had been forced to move so often, he hadn’t accumulated much of the normal attic detritus that seems to spontaneously appear over time. There were a few boxes of old books, a few more filled with vintage clothes. And then, especially creepy considering, a bunch of post-WWII rusty toys.
At the far end of the attic was the room’s lone window. Czarcik could tell by its placement that it overlooked the front yard, but it was too dirty to see out of. Its latch was rusty and broken; a person of average strength could open it fairly easily. The dust on the windowsill was smeared, but it was impossible to tell what, or whom, was responsible, or how long ago they had been in the attic. Even with the benefit of a forensics team, it would be tough to lift a viable print. And even if they could, did it really matter?
As Czarcik rapped his knuckles lightly on the window, testing the fidelity of the glass, his mind flashed back to an episode of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. In it, an unlocked window teases the audience as a probable point of entry for a serial killer. But in a wonderful twist, the killer has been in the house the entire time, dressed as a nurse. Probably subversive for its time, certainly politically incorrect today.
Satisfied that no one had entered the house through the attic, or at least unable to prove that they had, Czarcik descended the stairs and returned to his post on the living room couch.
Rain Will Come Page 23
