“Do you recognize any of these names?”
He squinted at the list, mouthing each name, shaking his head. Then his eyebrows shot up.
“William Bell,” he said. “I interviewed him. Initially, he interested me because he was young, twenty if I remember. This was three, four years ago. He was living in Utah.”
“Moab,” Alicia confirmed. Bell’s bio placed him in Moab his entire life.
“He had been jet-skiing, hotdogging it, cut a turn too sharply and flew off. Hit his head on the handlebar and went under. Friends of his pulled him out, gave him CPR. Resuscitated him after twelve minutes, give or take. Woke up screaming for help, clawing at the air. Said, ‘They got me! Oh God, make them let me go! Please!’ Something like that. One of the EMTs who responded to the call knew of my work and contacted me.”
“You said you were initially interested in him because of his age. Was there something else later?”
“In about 10 percent of the cases I investigate, instead of the NDE making the endear resolve to get to heaven, it just depresses them,” he said. “They go into what we used to call a blue funk. Nothing can get them out of it, and they go through life in dead-end jobs and dead-end relationships, as if they’re determined to start their sentence in hell early. He was like that.”
“No hope?”
“People like William believe either they’re fated to hell and they just happen to find out before their time, or getting from hell to heaven seems too overwhelming, because it’s too much work or they aren’t privy to some secret pass phrase that grants entrée into God’s kingdom. A shame, really.”
He stared at the list.
“Cynthia Loeb . . . maybe . . .” He pushed the paper toward her. “Ah, my memory’s not what it used to be. And a lot of names go onto my Incident Report and right into the files without much thought, especially if nothing about the event stands out. I’m sorry.”
She surveyed the list. Everyone on it had been brutally murdered, decapitated. Why? Father McAfee’s information was enough to convince her that all the victims were endears, probably believing they had visited hell. She thought it was all a load of bull, but the important thing was that someone believed it. McAfee did and recorded their names. She felt sure the killer did as well, and had used McAfee’s records to identify targets.
Conducting a major investigation was like organizing a room: it got messier before it got cleaner. Now that she understood what linked the victims, even more puzzling questions assailed her: Why would someone want to murder people who claimed to have seen hell during a near-death experience? How did the Vatican—or at least this Fr. Adalberto Randall—fit into the plot? Why would they have wanted Father McAfee’s files enough to have stolen them, if they did? To assist a killer? Why, why, why? All she could do was continue to fish.
“Father, do you have any idea why someone would want an endear dead, specifically because he is an endear?”
“Dead? No, I . . . All of these people—” He pointed at the sheet in her hand. “Murdered? But my heavens . . . why ?” His eyes roamed as thoughts swirled behind them. “My files. But there are so many!”
He had said there were thousands, but for the first time (it was something about the way he said “so many”), the implications of that struck her. Thousands. Could the five victims they knew about be the first of thousands? It was incomprehensible. But the sudden frequency of the killings hinted at ambition. Brady had said so.
Father McAfee said dourly, “Ms. Wagner, I must ask: were any of the victims children?”
“No, but . . . have children had near-death experiences?”
“Oh, yes, many.”
“Where they’ve gone to hell ?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Whether children can go to hell is an eternal debate among Christians. My studies have convinced me that they can and do. Which opens up new debates. Calvinists will say it proves the doctrine of election, that God chose before time whom He will save. Catholics believe christening—that is, baptism—saves children from hell until they are old enough to choose for themselves to embrace or reject Christ’s love. However, I have interviewed baptized children who had vivid and corroborative visions of hell while clinically dead. It is hard to understand how a loving God could relegate little ones to eternal torment.”
She nodded solemnly. “What do you believe?”
He smiled. “That God is indeed loving, and His ways are higher than our ways.”
She hesitated, then said quietly, “There were children in your files.”
“Yes. A few dozen, at least.”
She had an instant vision of the CSD’s lasers flittering over the decapitated head of a child. Abruptly, she stood up, shaking her head to dislodge the thought. “Father, I . . .”
She felt the need to do something, but she didn’t know what. She wanted to get her thoughts into her computer where she could organize them, shuffle them around, attempt to make connections that were too tenuous to make mentally, with a million facts and possibilities and images colliding into one another. She wanted to talk to Brady. A rekindled sense of urgency was pushing at her. She needed answers, needed them now.
Why was someone killing endears? Were a thousand names on his list?
Father McAfee stood, put a hand on her arm. “Agent Wagner, would you like some tea? You look as startled as I feel.”
“No, thank you. I need to gather my thoughts. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
She started for the door and saw that it was cracked open again. In a flash, she had her pistol out of its holster. She dropped the notepad and pen into a blazer pocket.
“I don’t think—,” Father McAfee began.
She silenced him with a raised palm. She used her foot to pull open the door. The hallway beyond was dark. She pressed herself against the jamb and squinted into the hall in one direction. Too dark to see anything. An ancient photograph of smiling priests in an ornate frame hung on the wall opposite the door. If other frames marched down the hall, she could not see them. She rolled around the doorjamb and stepped into the hall, her gun held out in both hands. She could almost feel the depth of the blackness where the hall opened up into the library, the way spelunkers know they’ve reached a cavern, even in utter lightlessness.
“FBI!” she yelled. “Step into the light! Now!”
She had not seen or heard anything, but the ruse was worth a try.
She snapped a glance over her shoulder. The corridor behind her was like black cotton.
She sidestepped back into the office and shut the door. She pressed her ear to the crack, held her breath. After twenty seconds, she turned to Father McAfee.
He whispered, “Did you see . . . ?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Father, would you like me to stay? I could search the rectory and the church, sleep in your housekeeper’s room . . . tonight, at least.”
“Thank you, but your visit has reminded me that there are worse things than scary shadows and sounds. There are things out there that bite and kill.”
“Whatever is tormenting you may have those things in mind.”
“God will protect me.”
Yeah, He will, she wanted to say, like He protected Cynthia Loeb and Daniel Fears and William Bell . . .
Instead, she said, “I’ll find my way out.”
She opened the door and jumped when he said, “Wait!”
He pulled a book off a shelf and handed it to her. Hell to Pay by Duncan McAfee.
She nodded her thanks. “Take care, Father,” she said and slipped into the darkness.
40
Brady inserted Scooby-Doo’s Alien Invasion into the DVD player. He heard the microwave ding in the kitchen. A minute later, Zach came in, dressed in pajamas and holding a big bowl of popcorn.
“Double butter,” he announced, displaying the bowl like a trophy.
“Bring it on,” Brady said. He dropped onto the sofa and patted the cushion beside him.
Zach ran over and hurled his rump
at the spot. Popcorn flew everywhere.
Brady caught a sharp correction before it left his mouth. He was determined to give Zach the fun time he had promised. He wondered if his son was testing him, seeing if he’d resort to his typical grumpiness at the slightest provocation. As much as the boy wanted back the fun-loving dad he’d had before Karen died, Brady understood it had to be genuine to count. He laughed and picked popcorn off his lap. “Remind me not to ask for a drink,” he said.
“Oh, I forgot,” Zach said, plopping the bowl in Brady’s lap and hopping up. “Don’t start it without me.” He darted toward the kitchen.
Brady’s laughter felt good. He was here with his son, making his son happy. That was something. He held a mental hatch cover closed over the dark thing that could too easily unfurl and suffocate any joy he was feeling. He had loosed it many times, turning potentially joyous moments into pity parties. Any time it was easy to envision Karen’s presence, when it was clear her being there would make it better, more lively, the specter of her absence wanted to invade Brady’s consciousness. For Zach’s sake, he’d learned to hold it back. It was a skill he hated having to learn, but it was that or lose Zach one way or another.
Zach yelled something from the kitchen.
“What?” called Brady.
“Pepsi, Sprite, or root beer?”
“Mountain Dew.”
“No Mountain Dew. Pepsi, Sprite, or root beer.”
“Dr Pepper.”
Zach returned with two cans. “Here’s your Dr Pepper,” he said, handing Brady a Pepsi.
“Oh, thank you; my favorite.”
Zach opened a Sprite for himself, set it on the coffee table, and took the bowl of popcorn from Brady. “On with the show!” he commanded.
Brady raised the remote, and the menu screen changed to an FBI piracy warning.
Zach leaned against his arm, nodded at the screen. “Do you do that?” he asked. A handful of popcorn disappeared into his mouth.
“No, someone else goes after those evil movie copiers. They’re way too scary for me.” He grabbed his own handful of popcorn.
“I bet they get all kinds of free movies, those guys who go after them.”
“Probably, but then they have to arrest themselves.”
Coco trotted in, his tags jangling merrily. Standing on the area rug in front of the TV, he turned his buggy-eyed, lolling-tongued face to Brady and Zach, hoping for a kernel or two. Zach tossed a few over the table to him. The dog’s bushy tail vibrated as he licked them up. When he realized nothing more was forthcoming, he turned in a circle and lay down.
The goofiness of the cartoon had Brady laughing with Zach within five minutes. Zach kept nuzzling closer to him until he was pressed against his side, a hand resting on Brady’s forearm. The popcorn bowl, still half full, was safe in the crook of Zach’s legs. Brady started to reach for it, realized the movement would break the position they had settled into, and decided he’d rather not ever taste popcorn again than do that.
Brady stopped in midlaugh when he realized he’d heard something that had not come from the TV. A thud, like something falling over outside. Zach continued chuckling at Shaggy’s clumsy antics, and Brady almost let the noise go until he heard a scraping sound, and Coco raised his head, ears perked.
“Don’t go in there!” Zach yelled at the television. “Why do they always go into the darkest, scariest places?”
Coco hopped up. He was staring at the darkened hallway that led to the kitchen. The dog’s low growl reached Brady’s ears over the show’s laugh track. Coco took a step back, looked quickly at Brady, then back down the hallway.
“Dad?” Zach was looking up at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Shhh.” He gently pushed Zach off him and stood. Zach reached for the remote control, probably to mute the television’s sound, but Brady grabbed his arm. “Wait a sec,” he whispered. He couldn’t hear anything over the television, but instinctively he thought it best to keep the sound going.
He thought of his pistols—one in his bedroom, the other in the kitchen. Both were in safes that had fingerprint locks; a touch of his hand quickly opened them. But neither was near.
Coco was whining now, continually looking to him for assurance while trying to keep watch on the hallway as well. Finally, he’d had enough and bolted for the laundry room, where a doggie door would release him from the house.
Brady felt it too. Something was coming.
Without taking his eyes off the darkness, he reached down, moved the popcorn bowl out of Zach’s lap, and hooked the boy under the arm. “Come on,” he whispered. He pulled his son close to him and walked him around the coffee table. The laundry room also had an exterior door for humans. They tiptoed toward it. Brady reached for his cell phone clipped to his belt, so small these days he often forgot it. Using a single hand, he flipped it open and pushed 911 with his thumb.
“911 operator. What is your emergency?”
Brady whispered, “There’s an intruder in my home. Come quick.” He gave the address.
“Sir, can you—?”
He flipped the phone shut and dropped it into his pocket. They were near the door. A long wail, ending abruptly, reached them from just outside the door. They froze. It clearly had been Coco.
Zach lunged for the door. “Co—,” he began.
Brady slapped a palm over the boy’s mouth and yanked him closer.
The pungent odor of animals hit Brady like a strong wind. And he knew. He snapped his head around, expecting to see the wolf-dogs bounding from the hall. Nothing . . . then a stirring of shadows . . .
Brady bolted past the laundry room door to the only other exit at that end of the room, the stairs to the basement. Pushing Zach down the first few steps, holding his arm to keep him from falling, Brady pulled the door closed. Quietly. Quickly.
“Go, go, go,” he whispered sharply and let Zach loose. The boy shot down the stairs, sure-footed and surprisingly silent.
The basement door had a dead bolt, keyed on the outside to prevent Zach from opening it when he had been a toddler. On the other side, it was operated by a lever to prevent someone from being locked in. Brady engaged the dead bolt and descended the stairs. He moved more slowly than Zach had but just as quietly. In the seconds it took for him to hit the basement’s concrete floor, Zach had his hideaway door opened. The boy stepped in and turned, eyes wide and wet.
Brady stopped halfway to the small alcove.
No good, he thought. The dogs would sniff them out. What . . . what to do? His eyes darted around the room. A washer and dryer, a water heater, metal shelves with cans of paint, cleaning products and . . . He spotted a tub of grease he’d used to lube his SUV’s universal joints. Could they strip and cover themselves in grease—would that mask their scent? He remembered a class he’d taken at the academy to acquaint agents with the use of canines in tracking and defense. The instructor said a dog’s sense of smell was a million times more acute than a human’s. “Even if the target was completely submerged in water,” she’d said, “a dog could pick up his scent from a bubble of breath that breaks the surface.”
Claws began scraping against the door at the top of the stairs.
“Dad, get in,” Zach hissed, pleading.
Brady’s eyes took in his son and then darted to the stairs. He could make a break for the gun in the kitchen . . . just burst through the door and run for the safe . . . and be torn apart.
Would that end the hunt? Would the dogs and the killer leave Zach alone? As much as his heart ached at the thought of Zach losing him now, it would be better than the boy dying. So far, the killer had never taken two victims at once.
Sweat stung his eye. He wiped it away.
“Daddy,” Zach pleaded behind him.
But this was different. The killer had left his geographical killing region to come for one of the investigators of his crimes. Was this attack intended to be a warning to back off ? Vengeance for assessing blame on the killer by seeking him? Whatever else
this was, it was something new.
But will the killer be satisfied with my death alone? Brady thought, getting back to the only thing that mattered.
The noises of Scooby-Doo on the television upstairs abruptly stopped. Someone had switched it off. Next, he would break open the door at which his dogs were scratching.
Brady moved to the base of the stairs.
“Daddy?” Zach still whispered, but desperation made his voice harsh.
Brady grabbed the broom, stepped on the handle near the bristles, and snapped it upward. He held up the three-foot stake. The break was sharp and pointed. If he reached the top of the stairs before the door opened, he might be able to surprise the killer, jab the broom handle through his neck. Brady knew he stood no chance with the dogs. They’d surely kill him. But without a master, they would at most scratch and stiff at the hideaway’s entrance until they got bored or help arrived. Zach would live.
He turned to tell Zach to close himself in the hideaway and not come out no matter what he heard. And his eyes fell on a bottle that he must have inadvertently placed on top of one of the fake boxes attached to the hideaway door. It was a chance, though so slim he shouldn’t take it. If it failed, Zach would die.
A tear broke from Zach’s eye and streaked down his cheek. Brady decided his next actions before the drop hit the floor.
He grabbed the bottle of bleach, relieved to feel the weight of a near-full container. He unscrewed the cap and poured the liquid on the floor, making sure to cover the area around the hideaway first, then out to the base of the stairs. He began splashing the rest of the floor so the area nearest the hideaway would not look as though it had received special attention.
He pointed at the shelf of cleaning products and whispered, “Zach, the ammonia.”
Zach ran to the bottle.
“Pour it on the bleach,” Brady said. “Hold your breath.”
The basement door rattled.
“Hurry,” he said.
Seconds later, Zach said, “Done.”
Brady’s eyes immediately started stinging. The back of his throat felt raw. Bleach and ammonia formed nitrogen trichloride, a toxic gas. Brady had read that the mixture killed a couple dozen uninformed housewives a year. The fumes should be a million times more offensive to dogs. He hoped that it would keep them from entering the basement, even when their master found the hideaway, as he inevitably would, and Brady sprang out with the stake. It would be an uneven battle, ax against stick, but with the dogs out of the way, Brady thought he stood a chance. Perhaps, if luck favored the Moore men tonight, the killer would retreat at the prospect of a face-off without his combat hounds. Not likely . . .