Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  "Great advertising angle," whispered Cap. "Women must be joining in droves."

  Cap's face was blackened, the same as mine and Bear's. We were dressed in black and we were armed. Through the gate we could see the three-story brick building that housed the nuns. Under several huge pine trees on the other side of the property was the small house, where Father Bailey lived. He had been given special dispensation by the church and the convent fifteen years ago to reside here when he had some health issues and Father Simone had moved into the St. Mary's residence.

  Bear boosted me and Cap onto the fence and then we lifted Bear up. We dropped over and slipped quietly through the garden. After passing statues of Jesus, Mary and other saints situated around a pond, we paused under an ivory statue of Jesus on the cross. A half-moon cast enough light for us to see him looking sadly down at us. Blood ran down his face from the crown of thorns jammed on his head and also from the spear wound in his side. In the half-light he appeared amazingly lifelike.

  "I think his eyes moved," Bear muttered.

  "This place gives me the willies," said Cap.

  "All these statues. They're like ghosts," agreed Bear.

  "You take the lookout, Cap," I said.

  Cap spat his gum into the bush with disgust. "Great. You two have all the fun and I'm stuck out here with Casper." He gestured at the statue behind him.

  "Call us if you need help," said Bear with a grin.

  "We're talking about a convent of fucking nuns, right? What sort of help do you see me needing? A fight over hymn books?"

  Bear and I moved quietly through the bush. When I looked back, Cap had vanished.

  "Can you hear me, Cap?" I said into my throat mike.

  "Affirmative," came his reply.

  Bear and I slipped through the shadows to the front door. The house was silent and dark.

  "He must be really worried about someone stealing his Bibles," whispered Bear. "Get a load of the locks."

  There were four deadbolt locks on the door. We pushed through the thick bushes that grew around the side of the house until we came to a window. I pulled on it and the window swung open.

  Bear glanced at me, perplexed. "The front door is secured like a bank vault and he leaves a window open? I don't get it."

  I shrugged. "Who cares? Let's go." I lifted myself up and dropped through the window. Bear followed. "Cap, we're in," I whispered.

  I turned on my head-torch. A black leather couch and desk stood in front of shelves packed with leather-bound books from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room was an easel. On it stood a painting of an angel. I turned my head, aiming the torch beam around the room. The other three walls were covered with paintings, and every painting was of an angel. Finished and unfinished paintings leaned against the walls in piles. I flicked through them. Angels.

  Angels flying. Angels on clouds. Angels on mountains. Angels in deserts.

  "You don't think Bailey might be a touch obsessed?" said Bear.

  "You don't know the half of it." I remembered the angel-likeness carved into Bailey's forearm.

  We quietly moved from room to room. Every room except the living room was the same. Angels on the walls and floors. Every room had the same odd smell. Not a bad smell but a stifling, sweet odor. I saw can after can of air freshener. In addition, each room had scented candles sitting on saucers, scattered around on shelves and cupboards.

  "This is one creepy house," whispered Bear. "Feels like we're being watched."

  I knew what he meant. It felt like our progress was being followed by hundreds of angel eyes.

  "Why is there only one in here?" said Bear, when we reached the living room. It was more what I had expected, with two comfortable-looking couches and an armchair. On the walls were several framed pictures of Jesus, Mary and assorted saints. At least ten unlit scented candles stood on saucers around the room. There was only one angel; a beautiful three foot statue of an angel holding a sword stood in a tiny pond in the corner. Water ran from the hilt of the sword, down the body and into the pond. The only sounds in the room were the low hum from its electric pump and the quiet music of falling water. In front of the statue was a padded prayer-stand.

  "The front door," I said.

  "Huh?"

  "The front door opens on this room. This is the only room Bailey wants people to see. He doesn't want anyone to see all the paintings."

  "I don't blame him. One look at them and the nuns would be locking him up in the confessional and throwing the key away."

  My foot knocked over another scented candle as I entered his bedroom. It was the same as all the other rooms. Angels on the walls and floors.

  "Look at that," said Bear. His torch illuminated the ceiling.

  Bailey's bedroom was very simple, containing only a single bed, a dresser and a wardrobe. Hundreds of angels danced, flew, spun and glided across the entire ceiling. I walked to the dresser and picked up the Bible sitting next to a bowl of potpourri. Some of the pages had been dog-eared and it fell open in my hands. My torch illuminated the page and I read the verse that had been circled.

  "'The good man brings good things out of the good stored up out of his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart.'" Luke 6, 45.

  It was the quote on the metal disc inside Leah Spence's heart.

  I numbly flicked through the pages to the next dog-ear. Again, there was a passage, circled.

  "'For from within, out of men's hearts, come evil thoughts, sexual immorality, theft, murder and adultery.'" Mark 7, 21.

  The quote on the disc in Mary Longley's heart.

  I turned to the next dog-eared page and read another circled passage.

  "'Then the Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intent of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.'" Genesis 6, 55.

  I turned the Bible on its side, looking at all the dog-eared pages. I heard Bear draw in a deep breath. I ran my finger along the edge.

  "One...two...three..." I stopped counting at eight.

  "How many girls did we think Cupid has killed?" Bear said.

  "Eight," I answered.

  I replaced the Bible back on the dresser.

  "Aren't you going to take it?" said Bear. "It proves he's Cupid."

  I shook my head. "It's only circumstantial and doesn't really prove he killed anyone."

  "Each of these quotes will probably be a match with each of the numbers we find in the male victims? What more do you want?"

  "I want hard evidence. I want evidence that will pin this bastard to the wall without a shred of doubt to hide behind. When I kill him I want to know he is Cupid. Come on."

  We left the room and walked back down the hall toward the living room. It was lined with angel paintings on the walls and floor.

  "You notice the smell?" said Bear.

  I had. The sickly sweet smell was still there but now I caught a strong, acrid odor underneath.

  "Jesus, that's bad," said Bear. "You know what it smells like?"

  I knew.

  "Bailey doesn't like it either." Bear nudged another one of the ubiquitous bowls of potpourri with his foot. There were four or five bowls on the floor in front of an enormous angel painting, at least six feet tall. I tilted the painting away from the wall and saw the padlocked door behind it.

  Bear pulled out his bolt-cutters and cut the lock.

  I opened the door. The acrid smell hit us like a wall and we both took a step back.

  "We'll need to shower for a week after this," whispered Bear.

  I counted eighteen stairs to the bottom. The smell grew progressively worse as we descended, until it felt like we were swimming in it. I hoped I was going to find a swarm of maggot-filled dead rats but I knew, with dread in my heart, that wasn't going to happen. The basement was pitch black except for our torch lights.

  "Look." Bear's light revealed a pile of empty lime bags behind the stairs. He reached into the stack and picked up a sho
vel. He brushed fresh dirt off with a finger. "It's not that old."

  "Check the floor out," I said.

  "Now why would someone cement only half the floor? Do you think he's in the middle of doing it?"

  "No, it's been done in sections over time. You can see the lines between sections. And look, each section is slightly different in color and texture."

  "How many sections are there?"

  I ran my light over the floor. The segments grew progressively worse in workmanship the farther they extended out from the wall.

  "Nine, I think." We stared at each other.

  "That's one more than we thought," said Bear.

  I bent down and touched the most recently laid section. I leaned closer, not believing what I was seeing. Hand prints. Bailey had left his frigging handprints in the last section. What was he thinking? Why didn't he cover them up? I wondered if handprints in cement could be used as forensic evidence.

  "Hey, here's a switch." Bear switched the light on.

  I stood stunned when I saw what was on the far wall.

  The entire wall, which was at least eight feet high and twenty feet wide, was covered with another painting of an angel. But this one, unlike the competent but average attempts upstairs, was absolutely magnificent. Down here, in his lair, Bailey had outdone himself.

  The male angel stood with his wings reaching from one side wall to the other. The strength and power of his body leapt out at me. Yet at the same time, the face conveyed a vulnerability and compassion that sucked my breath away. Draped over the angel's arm was a young girl. She was very pretty and could have been asleep, but I knew that wasn't Bailey's intention.

  Bear's torch illuminated the face. "The eyes."

  I nodded. They were what grabbed me too. Fierce. Burning.

  "The eyes of a prophet," Bear murmured.

  "Or a madman."

  "They say every man's got one masterpiece in them," said Bear.

  "Yeah? What's yours?"

  "Eating ten servings of chicken kiev at one sitting."

  "You really don't set the bar too high, do you?"

  Bear pointed at the girl the angel held. "How old do you think she is?"

  "Twelve or thirteen."

  "That's what I thought." He studied me. "You got enough evidence now?"

  "Yes. Let's go up and wait for him."

  I paused at the basement stairs. Fierce emotions tore through me; hate, anger, revulsion, sadness, even guilt. I felt Bear's hand on my shoulder.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking I should have found him sooner. I knew him goddamit! If I had looked harder, these kids might be still alive."

  "No one could have done more, Tan. You've found him. That's all that matters. He won't ever kill again."

  "Not after I'm finished with him," I whispered.

  I turned to leave, and then stopped, my attention riveted to the angel. "Do you see that?"

  "What?"

  "The angel. Its hand."

  "Yeah. It looks like he's waiting for something to be passed to him. What about it?"

  I shook my head. "No. He's not receiving something. He's grasping something."

  I walked to the angel until its fiery, judgmental eyes were only inches from mine. The left hand of the angel was reaching out to the side, the fingers curled. I ran my hand over the wall. Wood. I had assumed it was made of brick. The wall, I now saw, was rotting along its base. I ran my hand down the angel's left arm until I held its hand. And touched something. A tiny recess. I peered closer and couldn't see it. The edges of the recess were the creases of the angel's palm, making it invisible.

  "What is it?" said Bear.

  I ignored him and grasped the recess. It was only large enough for two fingers. I pulled and nothing happened. I pulled again, hard. There was a click and the whole wall swung out.

  "What the fuck?" I heard Bear say, but I wasn't listening.

  I stepped back and let go of the door and allowed it to swing wide open. Inside, hanging on a long, wooden rod, were a number of black clerical pants and shirts with white collars. Each set was on its own coat hanger.

  "How many?" whispered Bear.

  "Eight."

  But it wasn't the number that shocked us this time, though this too was mind numbing. No, it wasn't the number. It was the color. Each piece of clerical clothing was covered in spatter stains. Though hard to determine what the stain was on the black pants and shirt, there was no such problem on the white collars.

  "Look in here," said Bear.

  Bear was on his knees in front of a large wooden chest that stood in the bottom of the wardrobe. I reached inside.

  Bear went to stop me then shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter. There's so much evidence here. Go ahead."

  I wouldn't have stopped anyway, even if it was the only damn evidence we had found. I grasped what I held tightly to my chest.

  The picture of Jesus that was taken fourteen years ago from the mantel in my home.

  Bear picked up a small wooden chest the size of a shoebox. He lifted the lid. Inside, each in its own numbered cardboard box, were eight scalpels. Each scalpel was covered in blood.

  * * * *

  I was waiting in the bushes with Bear and Cap. Waiting to finally confront the man who had taken everything away from me: Father Bailey.

  Cupid.

  Bear and Cap were talking but I couldn't hear them. Light rain had begun to fall and a cold wind cut through the night but I was impervious to both. I felt like I was made of petrified wood, unfeeling and unthinking, and I would stay rooted to this spot even if I had to wait years for Cupid's return.

  But it wouldn't be years. His meeting would end soon and, then, so would he.

  End.

  I caressed the scalpel I held with my thumb. It was the scalpel from the cardboard box numbered One. My thumb ran over the dried blood caked to it.

  My father's blood. Soon it would be joined by Cupid's blood. Though no justice would ever be possible, that would have to do.

  Headlights appeared at the gate. I leaned forward. Wet branches brushed against my face. The car drove up to the house.

  I began to move forward and felt Bear's hand on my shoulder.

  "Wait a moment."

  But there would be no waiting. This was what I had been waiting fourteen years for. Mom. Dad. Jade. For you.

  The car door opened. The figure who emerged turned towards us as if he knew we were there. Moonlight fell on his face. Fulton.

  "What are you doing here?" I did not recognize my voice.

  "We've got him, Tan. We've got him."

  "What do you mean you've got him?"

  "We picked Bailey up fifteen minutes ago. He's being questioned as we speak."

  I turned towards Cap. "You rang Fulton," I said bitterly.

  "Tan, it wasn't him. It was me," said Bear.

  "Why? Why would you do that?"

  Bear stepped close. "Tan, you can't kill Bailey. The police are all over this case and it's too high profile. Look at the media exposure it's been getting. It's been on the front page of every newspaper in the country. There's no way you could have got away with it. You would have been caught. He's not worth it, Tan. You've already lost fourteen years. Do you want to lose another fourteen? Who would look after Jade?"

  Bear gripped my arm hard. "This is the best way, Tan. Look at all the evidence we found. He's never going to get out. He'll die in prison."

  "I didn't want him to die in prison." I heard my voice thick with anger. "I wanted him to die tonight."

  I looked down at the scalpel I still held in my hand. Surprised, I saw fresh blood dripping down it, mingling with my dad's. I must have cut my hand on it sometime while I was waiting for Bailey.

  I handed the scalpel to Fulton, turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER 55

  Cemeteries are always portrayed as scary, spooky places at night. I'd never found them like that. No one there can hurt you, and the people you loved most are resting t
here. When I couldn't sleep at night I'd often go running, climb the Ridge Hill cemetery fence and spend some time with Mom and Dad. I'd always found it comforting to sit between them surrounded by the quiet stillness as the sun rose.

  I had come straight to the cemetery after leaving Bailey's house and now I sat in my usual spot. The rain had passed an hour ago and the wind had finally fallen away, leaving me in a bubble of silence. Daylight was still only a faint lightening of the clouds on the horizon.

  I hadn't spoken. What was there to say? Hi, Mom and Dad, I caught the man who killed you. It took fourteen years but I finally did it. If they were watching they knew. If they weren't, I knew.

  My fury had disappeared as I sat there, leaving me feeling strangely hollow and empty. I had caught Cupid, but my parents were still dead and Jade was still lost.

  I felt futile. Useless. What had it all been for? Cupid was caught but that didn't make any difference to them. They were still in the ground.

  I heard soft footsteps behind me. "Hi, Liz."

  "How did you know it was me?"

  "I smelled you."

  "Great, now I smell?" Her arms came around me from behind and she kissed the back of my neck.

  "Your perfume."

  "Well, you should know that. You bought it." She kept her arms around me and rested her chin on my shoulder.

  "How did you know I was here?"

  "Bear told me. You caught him?"

  I nodded.

  "It's over, Tan. You did it."

  "I suppose."

  She squeezed me. "Tan, it's all right to be happy. You've caught Cupid. Your parents would want you to be happy."

  "They're still dead. It hasn't changed a thing, has it?"

  "Tan, that's bullshit and you know it. How many more people would Cupid have killed if you hadn't caught him?"

  "I know. And I'm glad about that. It's just that... I don't know." I placed a hand on Dad's grave. "It makes no difference to them, does it?"

  "But Tan, don't you know? You weren't doing it for the dead. You were doing it for the living. For Jade. For the families and future victims of Cupid. And most of all, you were doing it for you."