They spoke in Italian until Father Greco laughed.
“I asked her how Father De Luca has been, and she said that he is fine, but he’s as stubborn as ever,” Father Greco told Renee. “I also asked her if Father De Luca is awake. She said he is, and we may see him now.”
“Grazie,” Renee said to Arianna.
Arianna smiled and led them into the house. They walked through a short foyer that opened to the main room. The first thing Renee noticed was a large window that overlooked the vineyard. The hills closest to them sloped downward so that Renee was able to see deep into the countryside. It looked like something out of a romance film.
Father De Luca was seated in a leather chair by the window. He had a dark-red blanket draped over his legs. He went to stand when Father Greco held out a hand.
A few words were spoken between the men and then Father Greco turned to Renee.
“I asked him not to stand.”
He turned back to Father De Luca and Renee picked up a few words, including “conversazione,” “L’americano,” and “inglese.”
“Of course, we may speak in English,” Father De Luca said.
“Grazie,” Renee said.
Arianna asked Father De Luca a question, which Renee assumed was if she could get him anything else.
“No,” Father De Luca said.
Arianna smiled and exited the room.
Father Greco walked to a nearby table and grabbed two wooden chairs. He carried them closer to Father De Luca and he and Renee had a seat.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Father,” Father Greco said.
“How could I refuse? You said you wanted to discuss a newly discovered journal in Aramaic. How is it I haven’t heard of this before?” Father De Luca asked.
“The language is ancient, but the journal is not. We believe it was written around seventy to eighty years ago, if the writer of the journal is to be believed,” Renee said.
“Where did you find this journal?” Father De Luca asked.
Renee told him the same story she’d given Father Greco – the tale of the serial killer who’d fled Vatican City to kill again in America.
Father De Luca didn’t respond, at least not verbally. Renee sensed his excitement at seeing his former pupil had vanished to be replaced with an emotion that she could best describe as fear.
“I transcribed the journal myself. The writer claims his name was Father David Lombardi, but there are no records of him at the college, nor anywhere in Vatican City. Ordinarily I would have dismissed this book as some kind of cruel hoax, but it was written entirely in Aramaic. I don’t see how someone with that ability would write something like this unless it was true,” Father Greco said.
Renee waited for a response, but Father De Luca didn’t give one. Instead, he turned from them and stared out the window toward the vineyard.
“Have you heard of this man? He might have been a scholar or a student at the college,” Father Greco continued.
“I knew him,” Father De Luca said.
Father Greco’s eyes met Renee’s. Renee turned to Father De Luca.
“How did you know him?” Renee asked.
“He was a student there at the same time that I was. He left the college one night, never to return.”
“Do you know why he left?” Father Greco asked.
Father De Luca finally turned back to them.
“They found the body of another priest in Father Lombardi’s room. He was missing his face, at least that’s what was whispered. The man’s name was Father Moretti. I knew him as well.”
“The journal also discussed the murders of several women in the cities of Rome and Florence. Most of them were prostitutes. Did you hear anything about that?” Renee asked.
“There was talk of murdered women in Roma. Their faces were removed but no one knew why. Then the same thing happened to Father Moretti. Some believed that Father Lombardi must have done it. Others believed he was taken by the man who had done the other killings.”
“Do you know if his name was intentionally removed from the records?” Father Greco asked.
“I do not know. I was not a part of that if it happened,” Father De Luca said.
“What do you think, Father De Luca, do you think David Lombardi was capable of these horrible things?” Renee asked.
“I knew Father Lombardi, but I did not know his heart. I cannot understand how a man of God would do such a thing,” Father De Luca said. “There is something else. You said that this journal was written in the language of Christ. Father Lombardi could read and write a little in Aramaic, maybe a few simple sentences. I do not think he could have written a tale describing these horrible things. That was far beyond his talent with the language, at least it was when I knew him.”
“Do you think someone else could have done these things and then tried to place the blame on Father Lombardi?” Renee asked.
“It is possible. Who is to say what the truth is in this matter? I do know that Father Moretti was murdered, and Father Lombardi disappeared that same night. But that is the only thing for certain.” Father De Luca turned to Father Greco. “I did not think anyone would ask me about these things after all of these years. What will you do with this information?”
Father Greco said nothing.
“Thank you, Father, you’ve been of great help,” Renee said, and she stood, effectively ending the meeting.
11
The Box
Penfield spoke with McMahon for several more minutes. It was nothing more than a rehash of what Penfield had already told him. Marcus Carter somehow knew things about the new case that he had no way of knowing. Penfield, along with McMahon, was more convinced than ever that Marcus had an accomplice years ago, but that didn’t solve the mystery as to how this new information was getting to him inside the confines of Central State.
Penfield spent the next hour in a daze of sorts, unable to process the events that had transpired. It took a lot to shake the former detective, but he had to admit that Marcus had gotten to him.
It was around eight in the evening when Penfield received a phone call from Officer Catherine Drennan. She asked if she could swing by his cabin to talk. He didn’t feel like it, but he also didn’t think it was a good idea to say no. He realized Drennan was still hurting after the events at the domestic violence call that had left two of her co-workers critically injured.
Before Drennan arrived, he took a quick shower to try to wake himself up. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but the cold water did little to make him feel more alert.
Just seconds after slipping on a black t-shirt and jeans, Penfield heard a knock on the door. He walked from the master bedroom into the living room and opened the door for Drennan. She was dressed in casual clothing as well, a wool sweater and jeans, and she held up a bottle of Maker’s Mark.
“A little thank you gift for what you did the other day,” she said.
“I appreciate it,” he said, and he gave her a weak smile.
“It looks like you could use a drink right about now.”
“Sorry. Please come in,” he said, and he stepped back to allow her to enter.
Drennan walked inside. Penfield shut the door behind her and then headed for the kitchen.
“Would you like a glass too?” he asked.
“You don’t think I’m going to let you drink alone, do you?”
Penfield grabbed two short glasses from a cabinet.
“Would you like ice?”
“Yes, please.”
He walked over to the refrigerator and put a few ice cubes in each glass. Then he headed into the living room and placed the glasses on the table in front of the sofa. Drennan opened the bottle and poured a generous amount of bourbon into each glass.
“What happened today?” she asked, and she handed Penfield his glass.
He took a sip and placed the glass back on the table.
“You probably don’t want to hear this story.”
&nbs
p; “We all need someone to talk to, Alex.”
Penfield took notice of her using his first name. She always called him by his last.
“I’m not sure it’s something I want to share.”
“Well, now you have to tell me.”
They both sat on the sofa. Penfield stared off into the distance.
“Very few people know this about me. My former partner didn’t even know until our final days of working together.”
He paused a long moment.
Then he turned to her.
“When I was a child, I was kidnapped on my way home from school. The guy kept me in his house, at least that’s where I assume I was. They never found the place.”
“Oh my God. It must have been terrifying.”
“He kept me locked in a cage. He’d come into the room and sit in front of the cage and just stare at me. He never touched me. He never even spoke to me. One night he must have put something in my food. I was knocked out completely. When I finally woke, I was inside a wooden box.”
“How did you get out?” she asked.
“My father found me. Actually, it was a psychic. My father was a detective. I’m sure it’s one of the reasons I eventually became one myself. He couldn’t find me. He had no leads. Then one day a man named Henry Atwater showed up at the police station. He said he’d had visions of me and that he could lead my father to where I was hidden. Atwater took him deep into the woods of the Dismal Swamp and pointed out the exact spot where I was buried.”
“The Dismal Swamp is huge. How could he be so precise?”
“That’s exactly what my father thought. He arrested Atwater since he assumed that he had to have been the one who buried me in the first place. Atwater went to trial, but he had an alibi. There was also the fact that my description of the room where I was kept didn’t match Atwater’s home.”
“He was found not guilty?”
Penfield nodded.
“Atwater’s reputation was left in ruins, though. My father never gave up trying to prove that Atwater was guilty. He went to his grave believing he’d kidnapped me.”
“Where is Atwater now? Is he still alive?”
“He lives in Richmond. We actually connected several years ago. He’s helped me with a few cases.”
“You must be convinced he didn’t do it then,” Drennan said.
“I’ve never been able to completely decide one way or the other. I was just a kid. The memories are still strong, like it happened a few days ago. But I was also scared out of my mind. How can I trust anything that I saw? You know what fear does to a person.”
“I appreciate you telling me this, but why are you bringing it up now?”
“Ten years ago, I was part of a task force that hunted a serial killer. This morning I saw the man who committed those crimes. His name is Marcus Carter. He was a co-worker of mine.”
Drennan didn’t respond and Penfield knew she was probably trying to process the information.
“He’s been locked up at Central State in Petersburg. It’s a psychiatric facility,” he continued.
“Why did you see him?”
“The killings, and the specific things that he did to his victims, have started again. The FBI thinks Marcus might have had an accomplice who’s picked up where he left off.”
“They sent you there to try to get that information from him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
Penfield shook his head.
“What’s torn you up then? Was it just seeing him again?” she asked.
“Marcus said something to me, something I can’t get out of my head.”
“What was it?”
“He repeated the words my father said to me when they pulled the lid off that wooden box. They were the exact same words.”
“Did you tell Marcus about your kidnapping?”
“No. I’ve not told many people about it. My friend, Doug, knows. My former partner knew. Henry Atwater, of course. And now you.”
“Is it possible one of those people told Marcus?”
“Not those select people, but maybe someone else from the time of the case. As I said before, my father used to be a cop. It’s possible one of the older guys said something to Marcus years ago, although I don’t know why they would have. Most of those guys respected my privacy and they respected my father even more. They would have known he wouldn’t want them to say anything.” Penfield laughed. “People generally didn’t go against my father’s wishes. Besides, they didn’t know what my father said.”
“What did he say, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“He said, ‘Alex, it’s me. It’s Daddy. Wake up, Alex. Wake up.’”
“I’m not trying to sound dismissive, but that’s something I would have expected your father to say.”
“You’re saying Marcus just guessed?” Penfield asked.
“I’m saying it’s a possibility. And how well do you remember what was actually said to you? You were probably in and out of consciousness and convinced you were going to die. You’re right when you said before that fear can do funny things to your memory.”
Penfield picked up his glass and took another sip of bourbon.
“There’s something else. Marcus said the killings would continue until we brought him Angela.”
“Who is that?” Drennan asked.
“His former partner. She and Marcus were the lead detectives on the case. She was shot by Marcus while she was searching a victim’s home. She was in the hospital for a few months. They didn’t expect her to make it, but she did, at least at first. She eventually got home, only to commit suicide.”
“Were you close to her?”
“We were friends but nowhere near as close as she was with Marcus. I couldn’t believe it when they said he’d been the one to shoot her.”
“Does he know she died?” Drennan asked.
“I told him today. I don’t know if anyone told him before.”
“How did he react?”
“He smiled.”
“Did he give you anything you can use in this new case?”
“Nothing. It’s like the medical director told me. His mind is shattered. He’s not the man I knew before. I still don’t know what made him do those things.”
“I’ve been asked before if evil exists in this world, if it’s the reason why people do horrible things.”
“What do you say?” Penfield asked.
“I used to say no. I always thought some people were twisted, but it wasn’t because of some malevolent force. Now I’m not so sure.”
Penfield picked up his glass and drained the rest of the bourbon in one gulp.
“I’m sorry you’re having to go through this,” Drennan said.
“Thank you.”
There were other things he could have told her. He could have mentioned Marcus’ knowledge of the crimes, specifically the number of victims. Penfield didn’t know if Marcus had just guessed that, though. After all, the FBI didn’t have a firm number either.
There could have been other kidnapped women whose disappearances hadn’t yet been reported. If Marcus did know, then someone had to have told him, yet Marcus didn’t have any visitors and he hadn’t been given any of his correspondence.
Had someone on the inside slipped him that information? Penfield quickly dismissed that theory. It didn’t make sense for a member of the hospital staff to have done so. Furthermore, it made more sense that Marcus had thrown out a number to keep Penfield off balance.
If the number he’d given had been fewer than seven, then Penfield would have questioned if some of the missing prostitutes were still alive. Perhaps they’d just fled their homes to escape a bad situation.
If Marcus had given a number greater than seven, then Penfield would have assumed there were women whose disappearances hadn’t yet been reported.
It had been a tactical bluff on Marcus’ part, one that couldn’t be proven wrong. Marcus, above all people, knew that detectives tended to
overthink things too. They overanalyzed every piece of evidence and always looked for other possibilities. Penfield was certainly guilty of that himself.
Drennan finished her bourbon and said goodnight. Penfield knew he’d been lousy company and perhaps she’d read his desire to be alone. He made a mental note to apologize to her in the morning. He walked her out to her car and thanked her again for the bottle of Maker’s Mark. She hesitated a moment, seemingly wanting to say one more thing. She didn’t.
Instead, she climbed inside and backed out of the driveway. Penfield waited until her SUV had disappeared around the bend in the road. He walked back to his porch and sat on the top step. The temperature had dipped into the forties, but he wasn’t cold. The bourbon must have warmed him.
He sat there for several minutes and stared at the stars. The storm had finally passed and the sky was clear. A wave of fatigue washed over him again. He wanted to go to sleep, but he knew his dreams would be filled with replays of his meeting with Marcus Carter.
He thought of Marcus’ words.
“I am loneliness. I am emptiness. I am despair.”
His former friend had killed so many people and he’d taken a big piece of Penfield’s soul in the process.
12
The Profile
The elevator doors opened, and McMahon walked down the hallway to his group’s office complex in Quantico, Virginia. He entered the main room and saw Agent Porter and Agent Paul Webb, a short man with a stocky build and another member of McMahon’s team, standing by Agent Santos, who was seated at his desk. They were all looking at Santos’ computer screen.
Porter turned to McMahon as he walked closer.
“We did a search of the street cameras around the club from two-ten to two-twenty,” Porter said.
“What did you find?” McMahon asked.
“Four beige sedans in all,” Santos said.
“That many?” McMahon asked.
Nature of Darkness Page 9