by David Beers
“How about tomorrow?” he said. “I can be down there at eleven in the morning.”
“Works for me. I’ll see you then.”
How the hell has no one caught him yet? Alan wondered.
Three murders in two years, all of them on Hilt’s campus, or right across the street if someone wanted to be technical. His best friend died when they were pre-teens. Now these two people, one that attends the same meetings as Hilt and the other worked in the same goddamn building.
Six murders surrounded the son-of-a-bitch. Six that Alan could see. How many more were there that he couldn’t see? And how in the hell had no one put these pieces together until now.
Because he went overseas. Had he done it all here in the States, someone would have caught on, and he’d be in jail. Or dead.
So what was going on in the man’s head now?
He was getting reckless. That’s what Alan thought. Whatever was wrong with this guy, whatever fucked up connections in his head made him do this, they were growing more fucked up by the day. Three in two years while in England. Two in two weeks now.
So how was Alan going to catch him?
He understood that he wouldn’t find any evidence at either of the crime scenes, and this trail of dead bodies was nothing more than circumstantial evidence—a first year law student could get the case thrown out of court.
Yet, Hilt was slipping. He blew the second guy’s head clean off, and that wasn’t his modus operandi. It created more blood, more clean up. And if he was slipping, losing control of his murderous compulsion, then turning the heat up even more might cause something to break inside him.
You do that, then you tail him. He’ll kill, or try to, and you’ll have him.
Turn up the heat.
The guy hadn’t even lawyered up yet, which was insane. Did he really think himself invincible? That he couldn’t be caught because he’d gotten away with it so far? Alan supposed those questions didn’t really matter; as long as he wasn’t lawyered up, Alan was free to talk to him as much as he wanted.
“John, the detective is back.”
“The same one from last time?”
“The same.”
John sighed into the phone. “Wait five minutes and then send him in.”
“You got it.”
John hung up the phone and heard Harry immediately.
“Why the fuck are you seeing him again? Why would you allow him to come in here?”
“I want to know what he knows.”
“John, he doesn’t know shit,” Harry said. “If he knew anything, he wouldn’t be stopping by your secretary to ask to see you. He’d come in with cuffs and you’d be walked across the floor with your head down. He’s doing this to scare you. Plain and simple.”
“And if I don’t see him, how does that look?”
“WHO CARES HOW IT LOOKS? YOU’RE FIGHTING FOR YOUR LIFE HERE!”
John stood up and straightened some of the papers on his desk.
“What if he knows about Father Charles?”
“He doesn’t. It’s a missing person until they find a body, and a missing person doesn’t go to Detective Dick Face. Don’t let him come in here, John. Use your head.”
The knock on the door ended the conversation.
“Come in,” John said from behind his desk.
Detective Tremock opened the door. “John, how ya doing?” he said, closing it behind him.
“I’d be better if you weren’t here, truth be told.”
“Oh, I know that’s right,” the detective said.
“So what have I done now to deserve you coming back?” John looked down at his desk.
“I wanted to talk about something interesting I found,” the detective said as he walked across the office.
“Oh, well, before we get started on that,” John said, leveling his eyes at Tremock. “Don’t ever fucking visit my wife again. Do you understand me?”
“I understand, but I’m sorry to tell you, you don’t have any control over who I visit or what I talk about. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a cop and can go where I want.”
A cold rage spread across John’s body, his muscles tightening and his jaw clenching.
He didn’t speak, just stared as the detective made his way to John’s desk.
“I’ve been doing a bit of research on you, Mr. Hilt.”
John saw the folder for the first time as Tremock brought it up from his side. He placed it on John’s desk and then flipped open the cover with a finger. A newspaper article sat on top, and when John saw the headline, he didn’t need to read anything else.
London Student Found Dead in Park.
“If you move past the first article there, you’ll see more,” the detective said. “Though, I’m not sure you need to look through them, given that they’re your handiwork.”
John looked up. “So now I commit every murder, not only in the States, but other countries as well?”
The detective smiled. “There’s a trail of dead people that follow you from thirteen until now. Harold—you remember him don’t you? Did you have something to do with that too?”
“Oh yeah, I was a murdering thirteen year old. There’s about fifteen bodies buried beneath my middle school. Have you started digging there as well?”
“I probably should, huh? But, no, not yet.”
John looked at the detective, the slick grin still pasted on his face.
“Anything else? You know why I don’t have a lawyer?” John said. “Because you don’t have shit but a folder with some old newspaper articles in it. Nothing else. You want to pin murders on me, then have some evidence, but until then, stay the fuck out of my office.”
“No problem. The next time I come, it’ll be with a warrant. Does that work for you?”
“That works fine,” John said, the rage nearly bursting from each fiber of his body. “Now get the fuck out.”
“So now he knows about London?” John said.
The door was closed and John sat on one of the chairs in his office, away from his desk and computer.
“Apparently. I told you not to let him come in here.”
“You also told me to kill those people in London.”
“Tomayto, tomahto—you, me, what’s the difference?” Harry said, sitting down on a chair across from John. “What we need to focus on is where we go from here. All this bullshit is holding us back.”
John laughed. “Holding us back? What do you mean us? It’s holding me back, from living the rest of my life with my family, but I don’t think you’ve been held back one iota, Harry.”
“We could be doing so much more.”
“More? Father Charles wasn’t enough for you?” John spit the words with a vitriol he had never felt toward Harry before. “The only person who knew everything. The person that brought me to God. We killed him. And that’s not enough?”
“He was going to kill you, John. Or don’t you remember the knife he held in his hand when you turned around?”
“I deserve to die,” John said, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “He did it so that I would stop.”
“You’ll make an excuse for anyone but yourself, won’t you? But truth be told, there were other ways to stop you. He didn’t want to break the confessional seal, but he was willing to commit murder? The man hated you. And some more truth? No. He’s not enough. Because you had your five years while I left you alone, and now it’s our time to do this together. You know it as well as I do, you feel it in your blood, the itch to keep going. Don’t act like you don’t think about it, either. I see your thoughts just as well as you see me, and I’ve seen what you think about your secretary out there—what it would look like to see a bullet in the center of her forehead.”
John didn’t say anything.
“We need to get out of this place, John. We need to leave this state and find somewhere else to live.”
“What are you talking about? Move my family?”
“No,” Harry said. “Leave your family.
You want Diane watching you sit in a courtroom while Detective Dick Face testifies to all the evidence he’s collected? You need to get out of this state, at least for a while, and have some fun. I’ll leave when I’ve had enough and you can come back. Or you can move your family somewhere new. Staying here, though—it’s not a good idea.”
“I’m not leaving them. Forget the whole idea.”
“John, I’m finding it hard to control myself. You know this. How long did it take you to decide you were going to kill the priest? Did you even make a decision, or was it already predetermined? You killed him the same as anyone else, and that’s because I’m losing control which means you’re losing control. What else could happen, John? Think about it. Has anything like that happened before?”
John knew it had, though he refused to face it. Something happened a long time ago, to someone else, someone he did his best to forget. It could happen again. He closed his eyes and what passed through his mind was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen, something that hadn’t occurred, but something that could.
His wife and kids tied up to three chairs. Backs facing, so that they stared out in a circle. Their mouths gagged, and all of them crying. For their lives. Dark mascara dripped down Diane’s face, and snot ran from each of his boy’s noses and over their lips, because they couldn’t wipe it away.
John walked around in front of them, holding a gun, sweat dripping down his own head.
He stopped in front of Mark, turning so that he faced his son. He raised the gun, the muffled screams falling on deaf ears.
John opened his eyes and looked back across to Harry.
“Never. That would never happen.”
“John, never is a long, long time. Three weeks ago, did you think you’d kill the priest?”
John didn’t reply.
“Exactly. You need to get this out of your system, come back here and deal with whatever Detective Dick Face has cooked up. Or, leave, come back, and kill him—while you’re gone, the case will go cold and he’ll move on; when you come back, just make sure he doesn’t have anymore chances to arrest you.”
“What about Diane and the boys? What the hell do I tell them?”
“Look, man. Your company is big. I know you can find a reason to work somewhere else for a while.”
Robert Vondi hadn’t been lying when he said all these things were files. Scott supposed it made sense, given that Lori and John saw the doctor before computers were the next big thing. Still, three boxes full of papers wasn’t an easy load to carry.
He put the last box down, dropping it in his living room.
It had been a long day. A really long one.
Nine hours in the car. An hour talking with Robert and loading the car. He was finally home, though.
Scott collapsed on the couch. He flipped the light on, as the sun was going down outside.
“I don’t have any idea the order of the boxes,” Robert had said. “I took them when he died and never went through them. Just didn’t see any interest in his business. I thought more about the legality, and I imagine I could get in trouble if someone came asking. Just don't get me into any."
“Completely understand. I’m only looking into this for my family, no one else concerns me at all,” Scott said.
“I haven’t thought about Gerald in a while,” the man said, as if not hearing Scott at all. “He died almost twenty years ago and we were never that close. We liked each other well enough, we were just very different, I guess. He went to med-school and I worked in big oil.” Robert didn’t look at Scott as he spoke, just stared off the porch into the yard. “I wish he hadn’t gone like that, though. No one should go like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Scott said. “What happened, if you don’t mind talking about it?”
“To be honest, I’d rather not. It isn’t something I want to ever really think about again.”
Those words ran through Scott's mind the whole way home.
He knew that Vondi died, but not the details—he actively avoided reading anything on the man’s death when he was researching, though the pieces he saw showed it was tragic. He knew that Lori and John stopped seeing him because he died, and everyone was sort of stunned, but no one said anything about murder. He didn’t remember exactly how they said he died, but would have most certainly recalled if it had been something brutal.
Did John or Lori know?
And if so, why hadn’t they told him?
Now he sat with three boxes full of the late doctor’s notes, unsure if he wanted to start now. If he did, he imagined he’d be up all night, and while the older he got, the less he slept, he didn’t think an all-nighter was good for someone his age.
Yet, he now wanted to know what the folders said.
Scott pulled the first box over and lifted it from the floor to the seat on the couch next to him.
He started reading.
18
Present Day
“You see them?” Harry said.
“It’s nothing,” John said.
“If nothing is the cops, then that is most certainly what it is: nothing.”
John glanced back in his rearview mirror. Police were behind him, and had been for some time. A single cruiser that took every turn with him, remaining two cars back no matter what John did.
“They’re following us , that’s what you think?”
“That’s what I know,” Harry said. “For now, in a cruiser, because they want you to know they’re following, but when that disappears, there’s going to be other cars. You won’t see them but they’ll be watching us. All the time now, because Dick Face is sure you’re the one. He’s going to look at everything you do, and eventually—if you don’t listen to me—we’re going to slip up and he’s going to catch us. We have to get out of here, John.”
John's eyes went back to the road and he tried to ignore the cop car.
Harry was right. He could call the car nothing and think that these guys were just going the same way as him, but he knew if he started taking some crazy turns, that car would be right behind him. Same distance.
A flash of his family tied up flew through his mind, and he knew Harry was right about that, too. Things were slipping from his control. John should have stopped himself from harming Father Charles. A year ago? If something like that had come up—though he saw no possible reason for it—John would’ve simply subdued the old priest and then figured out what the hell was going on.
This week, though, he killed the man.
And Harry had already said that he wouldn’t stop. That he would keep going until he felt satisfied. And he wasn’t nearly there, yet.
So, that led to the inevitable question; should John leave? What happened if he did?
His mind went through the list as it would have a business plan.
The heat on him would eventually die down.
He could maybe satisfy Harry.
When he was ready to come back, he could finish Tremock without as much pressure surrounding the whole situation.
The negatives were simple: he left his wife at a time when she needed him, at a time when she was ready to walk out if he didn’t change.
If he stayed, though, everything fell apart.
“I might take a vacation,” John said.
“What?”
John didn’t turn to look at Diane; he remained on his back looking up at the ceiling. Looking at her now would be disastrous, because he couldn’t take what he would find in her eyes. He knew pain waited once she fully understood what he was saying.
“I need to get away for a little while, from everything.”
“From me? From the kids?” she said, disbelief rising in her voice. “That’s what you mean?”
“Jesus, Diane. Don’t do this. I just need some space. From this goddamn cop, from my sister. I just need to get my head straight, and I think I can do that better if I’m alone for a little while.”
His wife was quiet for a few minutes, both of them listening to the night'
s silence.
“How long?”
“A month, maybe two.”
“Two months, John? You’re going to leave the kids and me for two months? Let’s just call this what it is, then—a trial separation.”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Diane. I don’t want to separate—”
“Except that’s exactly what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re separating yourself from us.”
“I just need some time to be alone. That’s all I’m saying. I’m not leaving you.” He paused for a second, wondering if the next sentence would come out positive or negative. “I’m thinking about working from our San Francisco office for a little while. I’m sure my boss would okay it … this isn’t me going off the deep end, I just think if I get away from everything for a bit, I’ll find some peace. I’ll be able to come back and live a normal life again.”
“And what about the cop?”
“I got a lawyer,” John said, having no other lie loaded in his chamber. “If the cop comes back here, just refer him to the lawyer. I’ll have him call you tomorrow.”
“What’s his name?” Diane said.
“Johnson, I think,” he said.
“You think?”
“Yeah, a buddy of mine at work recommended him.” John felt that he might start sweating blood, just dripping red liquid from the pores on his face.
“When are you planning on leaving?” she said.
“Maybe by the end of the week.”
“You’re going to tell the kids?”
He finally looked over to her, a spike of anger flooding his mind. “Are you kidding? You think I’m just going to leave without talking to them?”
“I’m just asking, John.”
He looked back up at the ceiling. “Yes, I’m going to talk to them. I’ll tell them it’s for work, and that I’ll be back soon … this is for the best, Diane. It’ll let me recharge, get rid of some of this pressure weighing on me. When I come back, I’ll be different. I’ll be who I used to be.”