David, aware of her boundaries, gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and nodded and smiled, somberly. “I know you said to stay put. We just couldn’t.”
“For once,” Jordan said, with a weak smile, “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me.”
Kay sat on her left and David on her right.
Despite her promise to Captain Kelley, Jordan immediately told the woman about the new ballistics evidence that disproved Kay’s brother-in-law and sister’s “murder-suicide.”
Kay covered her mouth, as if stifling a scream, then began to cry. Jordan slipped an arm around the woman, and David came around and did the same thing. Then Kay slipped away from Jordan and threw herself into David’s arms and he comforted her, smiling past Kay at Jordan and shrugging a little.
So they were an item, after all. Well, good for them.
Perhaps three minutes later, Kay excused herself and went off to the restroom, almost running.
Vaguely embarrassed, David said, “It just kind of happened. Two lonely people. You know how it goes.”
“I’m happy for you. This is over, anyway. Our part of it.”
“I suppose it is, with the police all over the investigation finally. We accomplished something, didn’t we, after all?”
“I don’t know. Levi’s dead, Mark’s fucked-up, and I’m almost positive the guy the cops have locked up isn’t my intruder.”
David leaned in intently. “What’s your thinking on that?”
“You’re so right—what happened to Mark was no accident. That was a murder attempt. Unless you think maybe Mark tried to kill himself.”
David shook his head. “Utter nonsense.”
“Absolutely. Your job now is make sure you and Kay are safe. Either stay in tight police custody, or take a quick vacation and don’t tell anybody where you’re going. Follow the news and come back when it’s safe.”
Frowning, David said, “Shouldn’t we stay around and help the police?”
“Take your laptop with you. Forward anything you’ve got to Captain Kelley. I’ll get you his contact info—he’s Mark’s boss.”
Kay came back, tidied up, smiling, with only her red eyes betraying anything. She took her old seat, putting David on one side, Jordan on the other.
“I have no idea how I’m going to process this,” the woman said. “Knowing the truth doesn’t change anything, exactly—Walter and Katherine are still dead. The horror of thinking they’d been a murder-suicide is gone… but now, who knows what they were really put through?”
David, patting her hand, said, “You’ll work through it.”
“They were his victims, weren’t they? The family killer’s? Here I thought I was just along because I needed a ride home from David… but turns out I was a full-fledged member all the time.”
Kay smiled bitterly and tears welled, but kept their place. She was twisting a tissue in her time-honored fashion.
“It was my intruder, all right,” Jordan said. “The gun used to murder Walter and Katherine was allegedly stolen from the man Mark thought was his main suspect.”
David frowned. “But that suspect is in jail.”
Jordan nodded. “Yes, but who could most easily steal a gun from a coach’s desk at Havoc’s school?”
He nodded, smiled. “Another coach.”
“Right. And Mark was looking very hard at Bradley Slavens, the third coach, the one who dropped out of sight two years ago.”
Footsteps like gunshots were coming their way, and they turned toward Captain Kelley, walking briskly toward them. Almost running.
Jordan quickly identified Kay and David to the detective—handshake-type introductions did not seem called for, particularly judging by Kelley’s intense manner.
He said to Jordan, “Traynor’s not in his house and there are signs of a struggle—lots of blood, but nobody there, alive or dead.”
Kay sat forward. “Then the killer has Phillip!”
“Apparently,” Kelley said. “This means the three of you are going into protective police custody, preferably away from your homes. We have several hotels we use as safe houses.”
David said, “What if I don’t care to do that?”
“Then I’ll arrest you as a material witness.” He turned to Jordan. “Ms. Rivera, I know you want to wait around to see how Mark does. But when you’re ready to leave, you call me. I’ll arrange a police escort home for you to gather your things. We’re going on full lockdown.”
David said, “What about us?”
“You may stay here at the hospital as long as you like, if you care to keep Jordan company on her… vigil. Whenever you like, the officers who accompanied you here will take you home to prepare for some time away. A little vacation on Cleveland’s taxpayers.”
Kay said, “That’s really necessary?”
“Your friend Levi is dead, my detective is in surgery fighting for his life, and your other pal Phillip may well be dead, too. So you will follow instructions. Understood?”
Everyone nodded, including Jordan.
Kelley stalked off.
Kay shuddered. “Awful to think that Phillip… poor Phillip… may be dead, too.” David slipped an arm around her.
Jordan said, “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
They all turned to her.
David asked, “What other way is there?”
“Phillip could be my intruder. Our family killer.”
Kay goggled at her. “What?”
“Levi was on his way to see Phillip,” Jordan said, “when he was killed.”
“But… wasn’t Phillip at home when Levi called him?”
“He probably told Levi that. And that’s what he told the police. But he might have been outside Levi’s place. Watching. Waiting. He seized the opportunity when Levi called. Possibly jimmied Levi’s car to send him to the train station, to waylay him.”
“That,” David said, frowning in thought, “is actually feasible. But, Jordan, you saw your attacker!”
“Maybe I saw Phillip… before his face suffered damage. And what do you want to bet he wasn’t an innocent victim of senseless violence? Some victim fought back and did that to him.”
Kay said, “But he’s been nothing but helpful…”
Jordan said, “He insinuated his way onto the team. He watched from the outside, and he watched us from the inside. He’s clever.”
“Or innocent,” David said. “You should share these thoughts with Captain Kelley. But for Godsakes, Jordan, don’t do anything on your own.”
She smiled blandly. “How could I? We’re off the case now, right? We’ll all be in police custody. Maybe in the same hotel, huh? We’ll sit in the whirlpool evenings and talk about old times.”
David was studying her. “You expect me to believe that horseshit?”
“Believe what you like.”
“Believe this, Jordan, and I love you like a daughter. I am out of this. Kay and I are out of this. We are going to do exactly what Captain Kelley asked of us. Right, Kay?”
Kay nodded. “Sorry, dear. We’ve done what we set out to do—get the police involved.”
Jordan laughed and said, “What are you two talking about? We’re all off the case.”
And she gave them a smile that even she didn’t buy.
Wearily, David rose and helped Kay up. He gave Jordan a hard, sharp look, and said, “Stay out of trouble, kid.”
Jordan nodded, and her friends went off down the hall and linked up with the two uniformed officers waiting there.
For over an hour, she stared aimlessly at the talking heads on the muted television, leafed through magazines that might have contained blank pages, checked her cell for messages that weren’t there. Anything not to think about what was going on in surgery. Finally, like the old days at St. Dimpna’s, she simply detached.
She had no idea how much time had passed when sharp footsteps again caused her to look up at an approaching Captain Kelley. She snapped back, alert, returning from the empty place wher
e she had been.
Kelley said, “He’s out of surgery.”
“Is he all right?”
“He made it through.”
“When can I see him?”
“We can look in on him now.”
She fell in step with Kelley and they left the waiting area and went down a corridor through some automatic double doors. The next set of doors was locked. On the wall above it said INTENSIVE CARE.
Kelley said, “I’ve got to use a key card to get us in.”
She nodded.
“You’re not next of kin, but I’ve cleared you.”
“Thank you.”
“Ms. Rivera… Jordan. He’s in pretty rough shape. Are you prepared for that?”
She had seen her family slaughtered, and then been raped. What wasn’t she prepared for?
“I am,” she said.
Kelley passed the key card over a black plate and the doors swung open.
At right, a semicircular counter enclosed the nurses’ work station—eight desks, currently occupied by five nurses. Opposite were eight glassed-in areas—the patients’ rooms. Six were occupied, the first five with apparently slumbering patients. The sixth of the occupied rooms, at the far end, was Mark’s. A nurse was in with him.
Other than a towel across his loins, he was uncovered and naked, except for the bandages, which seemed to be everywhere, particularly on his upper torso; he had a cast on his right leg to the knee and a huge gauze pad wrapped around his left thigh, stained pink. A skullcap-like head dressing was bloodstained and, most distressing of all, he was on a ventilator. His eyes were closed. But for the beep of his heart monitor, he might have been dead.
“Two minutes,” the nurse said, and stepped out.
Kelley put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t fight it. She didn’t even mind it.
He said, “There’s no way to sugarcoat this. Mark’s in trouble. In a coma. That machine is the only thing keeping him alive.… I’ll give you some privacy.”
Kelley stepped out where the nurse waited.
Jordan was able to keep her face impassive, not a twitch, barely a blink, but could not stop the tears. They flowed down her cheeks like rain down a statue. She swallowed, rubbed the moisture away with a sleeve, then moved closer. She touched Mark’s hand, and it couldn’t have felt colder if it had been a corpse’s. His fingers—scraped and bandaged—were icy. She choked, emotion backing up, its acrid puke burning her throat.
She leaned near him. “Mark? There are two things I need to tell you. Can you hear me?”
His eyelids seemed to rustle, but it was probably just a spasm. He couldn’t hear her, could he? But maybe he could.…
“First,” she said, whispering in his ear, “I love you.”
Another spasm.
“Second,” she said, “I am going to kill his ass.”
Such imbeciles, these police. All day long, they troop in and out of my house, carting out box after box of what they think is evidence, when it’s not worth its weight in scrap. Yet all along, I am right next door, watching them. Never once do they glance in my direction, at the second-floor window where I stand on lookout.
Fat chance of them finding anything. After disposing of Detective Pryor, I wiped the house down for prints, not that mine were on file anywhere. And I removed anything that might carry DNA, like a toothbrush or hairbrush. But the blood by the fireplace I left for them—they would initially think it was mine. And when it turned out to be Pryor’s, they could only wonder if I were victim, too, or perpetrator.
Did they imagine I wouldn’t know that this day was coming? Phillip Traynor is nothing more than a character I portrayed, a costume I threw on. Like Kenneth Simon before him, and Bradley Slavens before that. Shed one identity, then slip into a new one. As Shakespeare said, “What’s in a name?” This is what is in a name, friend William—a little thought and rendering that-which-is-Caesar’s, which is to say hard cold cash.
My next identity, Isaiah Mentor, owns the house I’m standing in. I like that name—it’s closer to my Jewish roots (I hadn’t lied about that to Pryor), and—like “Traynor”—“Mentor” suggests my role as one who teaches, who gives lessons.
So handy owning the house next door to the Traynor home. Or should I say how handy that Isaiah Mentor owns it… yet another identity the fools won’t be able to track. So-called computer whizzes like Levi Mills—bring them on! How nice it’s been, having a vacant house between me and my neighbors. Considering my calling, a little privacy is appreciated.
All I will take with me from this life is my laptop and my family photos, including the nice little one of my once handsome face, before that sinner bashed me with that shovel.
Oh, and that sinner who smashed my face? In all honesty, that was my fault. I was arrogant and God made me pay for my hubris. Never again. Now, I am more careful. I plan ahead. Still, who would imagine that a sodomite raising a child with another sodomite could have the presence of mind to fight back? I thought I’d hit him perfectly hard enough, but when I turned to lift the unconscious form of his “partner” (intending to bury him alive in the hole I’d dug in their cellar), the unregenerate faker grabbed my shovel and smashed me with it! Fortunately, through my pain and the blood in my eyes, I was able to dispatch both sodomites (with the gun that would eventually be left behind with that Gregory couple) and crawl out of there and make my way to an emergency room.
That was where I first spun the story about the man on the bridge who struck me and stole my dog. The dog was the touch that made anyone who heard the story believe it. I would call them sentimental fools, but I admit sentimentality is a weakness of my own—like keeping the family photos I snap after every lesson (stored on my laptop for perusing at my pleasure).
Unfortunately, the Mentor identity must be discarded before it really begins. I will jump to another identity, already waiting, everything in place, everything prepared, in Seattle. My fondness for Cleveland is overridden by the necessity of survival. To stay, I would need to remove not just those on the “team” but everyone in the entire support group (sinners all, but such an ambitious program). Seems I have interacted too much with too many to stay much longer.
The only burden of this bold geographic move is my emotional tie to this city, because the monetary aspect is no burden. While every lesson I teach has a purpose, a good number profit me as well. God helps those who… surely you know the rest. Those drug dealers in the Bronx, for example, made a hefty cash donation to help pay for their sins. They also left behind large quantities of the poison they sell. The cash and the drugs alike all came back to Cleveland, packed in gym bags, riding beneath the simpering, sinning little girls in Havoc’s charge.
The drugs I sold to the big sinners who sell that evil stuff to smaller sinners, their joint unwitting contributions benefitting my cause. The Lord provides. If the sinners want to poison themselves, who am I to stand in their way? Didn’t the Almighty give us all free will?
The Bronx lesson was not the only time God provided largesse for me, His devoted, sharp instrument. I work hard, and God shares His bounty with me. His grace is available to any of His children, but they are so blind. So very blind.
Sometimes I can only smile at the thought of myself, God’s Instrument, sitting unsuspected in the midst of sinners, sinners so wrapped up in their greed and lust they don’t see His vengeance biding its time in their midst.
My only sin has been underestimating the imbecility of the police, and young Mark Pryor is such a prime example. How could he settle upon that buffoon Havoc as his suspect? Hadn’t I handed him Stuart Carlyle on a platter, just as Herod gave Salome the head of John the Baptist? Stealing Carlyle’s pistol, using it several times, finally killing the abortion nurse’s sister and brother-in-law and leaving it there, and still Pryor and the rest of them fail to make the connection. If I hadn’t manipulated the sodomite Mills to feed them Carlyle’s name, the morons might never have taken the bait.
I joined the support group to
be close to Jordan, God’s Reward to Me, and then became a part of their “team” to stay even closer, not just closer to her but all of them, feeding them information favorable to my position. They were sluggish with sin and needed my help.
So many steps ahead of the police am I that it is almost embarrassing—take, for example, the two they have left in a patrol car in front of my old home. When the time comes, and it will very soon, the simple fools will be eliminated without even knowing they were ever in danger.
For now, they can wait. And I will wait.
Until she comes to me.
Even before her release from the madhouse, I knew she would come to me one day. It is His will. Ongoing media coverage of my Strongsville lesson made mention of Jordan’s release, and I knew that the Violent Crime Support Group at St. Dimpna’s would be her next stop. So I enrolled, too, and she looked even more magnificent than she had on that great night when I repaired her family and we consummated our union in the Holy Church of my mission, and I spared her life so she could spread the news of my teachings.
But she had disappointed me in that. She never spoke of me. To anyone. For ten years, she never spoke at all. So she still needs my teaching, my mentoring.
Yes, the greatest reward for any teacher is a worthy pupil! Yet she has tried my patience, my Jordan. Upon her release, she all but ran into the arms of that callow Pryor—perhaps she could not overcome the frailties of her mixed-race birth. That she would speak with him in a public place, like a wanton hussy—after having lain with me!
Unthinkable.
Further schooling will repair that. She will be reminded that she is bound to one who is truly God’s Instrument. She will be shown the way. She will finally learn the lesson that I gave the night I repaired her family.
The boy Levi had not interpreted my message either. Despite the clear lesson that his abortion-loving parents (Planned Parenthood indeed!) had been taught, he failed to learn and fell into the abomination of lying with men. Raised by sinners, he might seem to have had little chance of receiving true learning. But that is why God gave us free will.
It’s so simple!
What Doesn’t Kill Her Page 24