by S W Vaughn
Oh, shit. Really bad news. She wanted an alibi for Eleanor Schilz’s murder.
And I didn’t have one.
My only choice was to tell her the truth, flimsy and unbelievable as it was. I couldn’t even lie and say I was at Whispering Pines all night. Her sister had seen me leave … and come back hours later. She’d probably talked to Bethy at some point last night, and that was why she’d decided to interrogate me now.
“I was at the hotel until about midnight,” I began. “Then I went for a drive. A long one. Came back around four in the morning, took a nap, went to work.”
She frowned. “And did you stop at the diner?”
“No, I didn’t.” Damn, she’d definitely been talking to Bethy. I really should have stopped. “I decided I wasn’t hungry.”
“So you just … drove around,” Clarke said. “For four hours.”
I let out a breath. “Listen, I know how it sounds. But yeah, I did,” I told her. “I used to do it in the city all the time. Helps me think.”
The detective seemed unconvinced.
“I swear to God, Clarke,” I said. “Yeah, I wanted to kill that … woman, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.” I don’t target women or children. Telling her my hitman rules would not help my case. “I know how bad this looks—”
“Do you really?” she interrupted as she glanced aside.
At the whiteboard. Where my ‘profile’ of the killer was still written, in my own hand.
-Male, 30 to 50 years old
-Intelligent, possibly arrogant
-Childhood abuse or trauma
-Has spent time in NYC (preferred, but not required)
-Outwardly friendly & easygoing and/or ladies’ man
-Familiarity with town
Check, check, check, all the way down. Except for the last point. But if I was actually Donovan North, that one would apply too.
Fuck me. I looked guilty as hell.
I’d just never thought much about implicating myself, because … well, I knew I wasn’t the killer. And I sure as hell hadn’t been texting any grisly, taunting messages to myself.
But no one else knew that.
“Detective Clarke,” I said as I tore my gaze away from the damning list. “I understand why you might think I’m a suspect, but I swear I didn’t kill anyone.” Not in this town, at least. “I was just driving around. And … you know what, maybe I can prove it.” Through more cop-show magic, which I hoped was at least based in reality. “The GPS in my car. Wouldn’t that show where I’d been?”
Some of the hardness eased from her face. “It might. I think the lab can check that kind of thing,” she said with slow consideration. “And you’d be willing to let them test it?”
“Absolutely. Take the damned thing,” I said. “It’s smashed to shit anyway.”
“Right, because of Oren Beauford.” A light bulb flickered in her eyes for a few seconds, but she seemed to file away whatever idea she’d just had for later. “All right. I believe you,” she said.
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I’d take the concession. “Thanks. What about the news?”
She was suddenly animated, popping to her feet. She walked over to the board and pointed to the fourth item on the list: Has spent time in NYC. “Reverend Fehily,” she said. “Bethy told me that he goes to New York every three to four months for church leadership conferences. The last time was a month ago.”
I actually heard a click in my head as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“We have to find him,” I said. “He’s probably hiding out—”
An image flashed across my mind.
Miles of blackness. Red eyes in the dark.
Chimney smoke in the summer.
“Clarke,” I said. “What kind of vehicle does the reverend drive?”
“A white Ford Fiesta. Why?”
Damn. I’d definitely seen a large, blue vehicle. There went my idea. Unless …
“You pulled his personal DMV records, right?”
She cocked her head. “Yes.”
“Do you think he has any vehicles registered to the church?”
“Oh my God, of course,” she gasped. “I’m an idiot. Come on.”
I followed her back out to the squad room, and then to her desk, watching as she sat down and pulled her computer keyboard out. She opened a window, clicked a few times until the screen displayed ‘Vermont State Department of Motor Vehicles — Records Lookup.’
It wasn’t long before she found a vehicle registered to the First Baptist Church of Landstaff Junction as a business-class passenger vehicle.
Dodge van. Blue.
“I can’t believe I missed this,” she breathed. “We need to get this out right away. Shit, what if he’s already left town? They wouldn’t be looking for a van—”
“Clarke,” I said firmly. “I know where he is.”
She gaped at me. “You do?”
“Saw the van while I was driving around the other night,” I said. “Come on, let’s bring him in, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, giving me a look I couldn’t interpret. “Someday, you’ll have to tell me how you do that. How you notice … everything.”
“I’ll try,” I told her.
But even if I could explain it, I could guarantee she wouldn’t want to undergo the training.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Preston
It can’t be North, she told herself firmly as she drove past the Whispering Pines, following his directions to the cabin in the woods. It has to be the reverend.
Driving around aimlessly for four hours, to ‘think,’ wasn’t any kind of alibi. And she really didn’t know whether the lab techs could get that kind of information from a GPS, though it sounded plausible. But honestly, if he had killed Eleanor Schilz, wouldn’t he have given himself a better excuse?
He couldn’t, she realized. Because of Bethy.
So it was still possible that he was lying.
This whole case would be so much easier if she could trust her partner.
North watched the right side of the road, unblinking. “It won’t be easy to find in the daylight,” he said. “I only noticed because it was dark, and there’s a pair of reflectors at the end of the driveway.”
She made a noise of agreement. “That’s not all you noticed, though. The van.”
“Yeah. Saw it through the trees.”
Preston stared straight ahead as they traveled north through the woods. The same direction that Eleanor Schilz’s house lay in. Matter of fact, in about a mile from here, you could cut across Chesbro Road and drive straight to the TR-28, and then another half-mile to Murder Central, Landstaff Junction, otherwise known as the Schilz place.
She had to stop thinking like that. North was not the killer.
“There it is.”
Preston slowed the car, peering ahead until she spotted the gap in the trees, the thin reflector poles marking either side of a dirt driveway. She turned and kept her foot mostly on the brake as she navigated the long, winding, bumpy path through the cool green shade of the thick forest.
Soon, the path opened up. Log cabin. Blue van.
He was here.
The Kid Glove Killer.
The nightmare of Landstaff Junction.
She parked the car behind the van and shut off the engine. “I think we can rule out a back door this time,” she said as she looked at the tiny structure in the clearing. It was probably a one-room place, the kind of cabin hunters used for nothing more than to keep themselves from freezing. “He can’t run now.”
“No, he can’t.”
She didn’t want to do this. Arresting a minister for serial murder was not what she’d envisioned all those years while she worked toward making detective. And the idea that Anton Fehily was the hooded figure she’d seen in the woods …
She’d done the math. He would have been thirteen then.
It was awful to consider.
“You ready?” she said to North.
/> He nodded. “Ready.”
And they went.
She reached the cabin door half a step ahead of North. There was no doorbell, of course, so she rapped the knuckles of one hand firmly on the flat wood of the door, keeping the other on her sidearm. “Reverend Fehily?” she called out.
There was movement inside. A faint, sharp inhalation, and then a muffled voice. “Hello?”
“Anton Fehily,” she said in her official voice. “Please come to the door.”
She glanced at North, and he gave a nod. He was right behind her — also with a hand on his gun.
“Just … just a second,” the reverend called from inside. He sounded like they’d woken him up. She heard more movement, a hiss of breath and a pause. Footsteps approached. The knob turned, and the door opened to reveal Fehily’s face, puffy with sleep, eyes blinking in confusion. “Preston?” he said thickly. “What …”
“It’s Detective Clarke,” she said. “We need you to come with us.”
The reverend frowned and opened the door a little wider. He looked past her and spotted North. “Donovan,” he said as the color drained from his face.”
“Detective North,” her partner growled, making her flinch.
She hadn’t realized just how furious North was at the reverend until this moment.
“I’m sorry, I can’t …” Reverend Fehily returned his gaze to Preston. “It’s about her, isn’t it. Mama Ellie.”
It wasn’t a question. He knew.
“Please come with us, Reverend,” she repeated. “We need to ask you some questions. If you come voluntarily, this will all be easier for everyone.”
“I know. I’ll come,” he said wearily, extending a hand palm-out through the gap. “Can you just give me a moment?”
“I’d rather you step outside right now, Reverend,” she said. “Please.”
She could feel the tension rolling from North. He wanted to get in there, grab Fehily and force him to come with them. But if he did that, there might be repercussions.
She really didn’t want it to come to that.
The reverend sighed. “All right. Just … my shoes, then.”
She decided to give him one minute.
In less than half that time, the door swung open fully and Reverend Fehily stepped into the frame. He was dressed in a long-sleeved, loose-fitting black shirt, black drawstring pajama pants, and blue sneakers with no socks. He carried himself stiffly, delicately, almost like a man with a hangover.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to.”
North pushed past her suddenly and grabbed Fehily’s wrist. She hadn’t even seen him move. Her partner had a pair of cuffs in one hand, and he jerked the reverend’s arm behind his back and forced him to his knees on the ground in a single, swift movement.
Anton Fehily screamed in pain.
“What the hell?” North gasped as he let go of the reverend’s arm like it was on fire and jumped back. He lifted his hand slowly, stared at the crimson smudges on the side of his palm.
The back of Reverend Fehily’s shirt was damp with blood.
“My God,” Preston said. “Reverend, what happened?”
He hadn’t moved from where he landed — on his knees, head bowed, one palm on the ground to keep from falling. “I had to atone,” he panted. “Don’t you see? I had to do it. My thoughts were … impure. Wicked.”
She couldn’t even begin to understand what he meant.
“Clarke. Come here,” North said in a strangled tone.
He was at the cabin door, looking inside. She came up next to him, and he pointed to the fireplace across the single room. To something that lay limply on the flagstone hearth.
A bundle of knotted rope, soaked red with blood.
Spatters of blood on the hearth, the mantle, the walls.
He’d done this to himself.
“I had to atone,” the reverend gasped again. “I had to.”
“Well, you haven’t atoned enough yet, Reverend,” North said, his voice coldly dangerous as he marched over to the kneeling figure. “Get up, or I’ll get you up.”
Preston couldn’t bring herself to intervene, but she made no move to stop her partner. The fact that the reverend had gone to such extremes, and was out here babbling about atonement, was pretty damning.
Reverend Fehily struggled slowly to his feet. He wavered in place for a minute, and then trudged toward the car. “You don’t understand,” he said in a hollow voice. “I didn’t … it was my thoughts. I had to atone. Pray for forgiveness. Don’t you see?” He stopped next to the back door of the sedan and whirled around, eyes blazing. “Donovan. You must understand,” he said. “You wanted her dead, too.”
North didn’t even twitch. “Get in the car, Reverend.”
He got in the car.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Marco
I’d heard about religious zealots who flagellated themselves. Hell, I’d seen The Da Vinci Code like everybody else. Crazy, naked, snow-white Paul Bettany tightening the spiked chain belt around his leg before he started whacking away at himself, slamming that whip over his shoulders like it was a fiesta and he was the pinata.
But self-flagellation was not the punishment for murder in the United States. Life in prison was.
Detective Clarke gripped the wheel, pale and tense as she drove back toward downtown. “I think he needs medical attention,” she said.
“I don’t.” At the moment, I harbored not even one shred of pity for Reverend Anton Fehily, regardless of his shitty childhood or the torture he’d inflicted on himself. He’d murdered those girls. Killed his foster sister, when he was thirteen.
There weren’t enough knotted ropes in the world to atone for that.
“He’s right, Preston,” the reverend wavered from the back seat. “I don’t deserve any relief.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror, through the wire barrier that separated the front seats from the back. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t kill her, Donovan.”
“Bullshit,” I spat. “And stop calling me that. It’s Detective North.”
“I didn’t. I swear it.” He gasped as the car bumped over a pothole. “I saw her, yes. We argued. And I wanted to … God help me, I wanted to beat her to death with that strap she used to—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “That’s why I had to atone. Don’t you see? I wanted her dead, and now she is.”
No. I wasn’t buying his man-of-God routine. He had to be the killer.
“Let’s save the talking for the station,” Clarke said. “You can give us your story then, Reverend.”
She gave me a look, and I knew what her problem was. I wasn’t being professional.
But my original profession really wanted to come through right now.
I decided to sit in my seat and keep my mouth shut, try not to create a mental catalogue of all the ways this could go sideways and let Reverend Fehily escape justice. The lack of evidence was a big one, but I knew my own conduct was important, too. Everything had a procedure.
And I probably knew less than half of the steps it took to successfully arrest, prosecute, and sentence someone.
“He’s got to have medical attention before we question him,” Clarke said with no prompting in that I’ve-made-up-my-mind tone of hers. “Can you call ahead to the station and let the chief know that we need Doc Bowerman on standby when we come in? Give her a quick sitrep.”
Oh, boy. I’d never actually called into the station before. But the chief’s number was programmed into this phone, so at least I could call her directly instead of trying to navigate the switchboard, or whatever happened when you called a police station.
Vonda, I realized. Vonda was what happened when you called the Landstaff Junction PD.
I’d rather not have Vonda happen to me.
“No problem,” I said as I pulled out my phone and tapped through to the contacts. I hit the chief’s number and waited. Two rings, and she picked up with a curt, “This is Palmer.”
“Chief, it’s North,” I said. “Clarke and I are inbound with the suspect in custody, and we’re going to need Doc Bowerman on standby.”
There was a pause. “Shots fired?”
“No, ma’am. It’s … something else.”
Chief Palmer grunted. “Care to elaborate on ‘something else,’ Detective?”
Not really. “The suspect has self-inflicted injuries,” I said.
“And what is the nature of the suspect’s injuries? Did he try to off himself, or what?”
I held back a groan. “Chief … have you ever seen The Da Vinci Code? With that albino guy?”
“Oh, Christ,” she said. “You’re kidding me.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“All right. I’ll get the doc up here,” she said, and then sighed. “I’d sure like to know what’s gotten into this town lately.”
“Roger that,” I said. “See you soon.”
Clarke cocked an eyebrow at me as I ended the call. “Roger that?”
“Hey, it would’ve made sense if I’d used the CB,” I said with a shrug, pointing to the corded unit on her dashboard. “Anyway, she’s taking care of it.”
“That’s good.”
I moved to return the phone to my pocket when it buzzed. Incoming text.
My breath stopped.
I’d gotten texts from exactly one person since I commandeered North’s phone.
Keeping a straight face, I angled the screen carefully so there was no chance of Clarke catching a glimpse before I tapped the message icon, and then opened the text.
If you were really Donovan North, you’d be grateful I killed that bitch. Do you know where your Glock is, Detective?
Son of a bitch.
I deleted the message and snuck a glance in the rearview mirror, as if I’d catch Anton Fehily trying to hide a cell phone. But he was just sitting there, staring straight ahead, wan and glassy-eyed. There was no way he could’ve sent that text. He didn’t even have a place to carry a phone on him.