Silent Night

by C. J. Kyle

  This was the day she’d been dreading. The first possible face-to-face contact with him. But she had to know. Had to see for herself that he was really here. Chasing a ghost on the Internet was one thing. Standing in his vicinity was quite another.

  But she had to do it.

  Miranda gripped the doorknob firmly with one hand, her other hand feeling around the contents of her purse to make sure the camera was still there. The hard, circular metal of the lens brushed her fingers and she exhaled with relief. The tremble in her fingers rattled the knob and created an echo loud enough to drown out her racing heart. Tightening her grip, she twisted to the left. Just as she was sure it was locked, the knob turned to the right and the door was yanked open.

  She would have bolted if her feet and brain had been capable of communicating with each other.

  “Can I help you?” Cloaked in shadows, the figure towered over her, making her feel small and vulnerable. She took a defensive step backward and placed her hand on her throat.

  “Can I help you?” The voice asked again.

  “Father?”

  The shadow shifted, stepped into the hallway. The recessed lights shone down upon him, haloing his blond head. “I’m sorry, Father Anatole has left for the evening. Is there something I can help you with?”

  She exhaled and realized her knees were trembling. She braced herself against the wall and smiled up at the groundskeeper.

  “I—I just wanted to introduce myself.” Thinking on her feet wasn’t her forte, but this excuse came easily. “I’m new and considering coming to Mass, but I’d like to meet the priest first.”

  Two men dressed in black clerical suits exited another office down the hall and headed the opposite way. Their footsteps slapped against the stone floor as the groundskeeper motioned for her to follow him back toward the vestibule.

  It was really hard to concentrate with all the fear screaming in her head. She’d thought she’d just run smack into Anatole. Now that she knew she was safe, she still couldn’t quell the wave of nausea quivering in her gut.

  “He should be in by sunrise.” He jutted his chin toward the disappearing men. “You could meet with one of our deacons if you’d like.”

  “No thanks.” She followed him outside, the cold air giving her some sense of clarity as it blasted her in the face. Anatole wasn’t here. Which meant his office was empty.

  Did she dare go through with it now that she’d run into this man? God, she was still trembling.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. . . .”

  “Simon Capistrano. Groundskeeper.” He smiled. “I’m around three or four days a week if you need anything. I’m new here myself, but I’m getting the hang of things.”

  Miranda forced herself to return his smile and started down the steps. “Maybe I’ll see you at Mass sometime.”

  She hastily made her way across the street, not looking back until the weight of his stare dropped from her back. When she finally did, he was gone.

  Well, that didn’t go as planned.

  She was itching to get into that office, but Groundskeeper Simon might put two and two together and rat her out if Anatole reported a break-in. She’d been trying to open his office door when Simon had caught her, after all.

  Shit.

  Was it worth the risk?

  She chewed her lip, pondering.

  Definitely worth the risk. But not tonight. She’d give it a few days and hope that Simon forgot about meeting her.

  Chapter 3

  AN HOUR OR so after his pleasant dinner meeting with his new tenant, Tucker was worn out. Lisa’s call hadn’t been for a stolen bicycle or anything so easily dismissed. Fifteen-year-old Ricky Schneider had been missing for two days. Tucker had been called out to the Schneider house several times for domestic abuse—had locked up the father no fewer than three times in the seven years since he’d taken this job, and wasn’t the least bit surprised that Stan and Tanya Schneider had been too involved with their booze to notice their son Ricky’s disappearance any sooner.

  After he’d responded to the call, Tucker had left them to give their statement to Lieutenant Bowen downstairs among their empty bottles and full ashtrays, while he ventured upstairs, where yellow nicotine covered each wall he’d passed like a coat of paint. The thick shag carpet looked like something left over from the seventies, coated in cat hair and the stench of dried urine.

  When he reached Ricky’s room he sneezed and shut the door behind him, noticing that in the boy’s room, the air was easier to breathe than in any other area of the small townhouse.

  He pulled the camera from his bag and began snapping pictures. Given the kid’s home life, this was probably a runaway situation. With parents like those two buffoons downstairs, Tucker couldn’t blame Ricky for wanting to get away.

  He slid the photo Tanya had given him from beneath his arm and studied it. Good-looking kid if he ignored the horrendous piercings jutting out of Ricky’s nose and eyebrows—but they were better than the bruises and blood that had decorated the kid’s face the last time Tuck had seen him. In the photo, he was wearing a black, grungy T-shirt and torn jeans. Denim jacket that looked about two sizes too small.

  He searched the nightstand and dresser for any phone numbers or friends’ names, but couldn’t find a single one. There was no computer to search, no phone left behind. Not even a yearbook. If this kid had friends, he hadn’t brought any evidence of them into this house.

  Tucker looked at the photo again and remembered his last run-in with Ricky. He’d been jumped three months or so ago by a group of preppy teens with too much time on their hands. The grandfather had reported it. Tucker had met with him. Nice enough man who’d died just after Halloween. Maybe his death had sparked Ricky’s decision to leave.

  Or maybe . . . His mind flashed to the bloody scene behind the library and his gut twisted.

  He made another note to look into the report on the beating. He’d pay a visit to the kids who’d done it. See if they knew anything or if there was any chance it had happened again and Ricky was out there somewhere, hurt and unable to get help.

  Teens. The biggest pain in this town’s ass.

  He closed the nightstand drawer and dropped to his knees to look beneath the bed. There was nothing there except a box full of metal band posters and a journal. While nothing was written in the journal, there were sketches. The kid had talent. It looked as though he’d drawn at least two dozen sketches of various gods of mythology. Dragons. Ancient symbols.

  Judging by the content of the artwork, Tucker was ready to guess that Ricky Schneider had no use for the religious aspects of this town. Tucker didn’t know much about witchcraft or the Wiccan religion, but he knew pentagrams when he saw them. He also wasn’t closed-minded enough to believe that pentagrams themselves meant anything bad or evil-intended. They were just stars, used in many religious and scientific drawings. But they were hidden in a box under the bed for a reason.

  If Ricky had run away and there was a chance he’d return, Tucker didn’t want to cause him any more life suckage by calling his parents’ attention to the box. He took snapshots of each page, put the journal back in the box, and slid the box as far back beneath the bed as possible. Retrieving an evidence bag from his pocket, he slid a hairbrush inside before venturing down the hall to the bathroom. There, he bagged the lone toothbrush laying on the counter and another comb, then closed the door behind him and headed back downstairs where Lieutenant Bowen was finishing taking the parents’ statements.

  Tanya Schneider sat sloppily at the small kitchen table, puffing on a cigarette, her eyes glazed from the half-empty bottle of tequila in front of her. Her partially opened housedress gave him an unwanted eyeful of sagging, leathery cleavage freckled with age spots. Her husband stood by the fridge, looking way more pissed than worried about his son’s fate.

  Tucker held up one of his bags for verification. “This Ricky’s toothbrush?”

  Tanya nodded.

  “I think we have eve
rything we need here,” Bowen said, closing his notebook. “You’re sure he doesn’t have any social media accounts?”

  Stan sneered. “What’s he going to use them on? Kid doesn’t have a phone, and the last computer we had in the house broke about five years ago.”

  Tanya sighed. “He could have made one at that damned library, Stan.”

  “The library?” Tucker asked. “He go there a lot?”

  She nodded, inhaled, blew a ring of smoke so thick she had to squint through it to see him. “Every damned day. I don’t care though. Kept him out of trouble for the most part.”

  Tucker pulled his phone from his pocket and did a quick search on both Facebook and Twitter. There was a ton of Ricky Schneiders on there. He’d have to go through them one by one to see if any belonged to their kid.

  To Bowen, he said, “Have someone go check out the library computers. See if we can find a social media account, something that might give us an idea of who his friends are or where he might have gone.”

  “The kid don’t have any friends.” Stan jerked open the refrigerator, rummaged around for a minute, opening the crispers before taking a beer from the shelf and slamming the door.

  There was no food on the shelves.

  Tucker turned back to Andy, who looked at the parents and shook his head. Tucker could read the disgust in the lieutenant’s eyes. Having come from a broken home, Andy took situations like this a little personally.

  “And you’re sure he hasn’t called home or any of his friends?”

  “Why would he call us? Kid hasn’t had much use for us since he was in diapers.” Tanya Schneider gripped her cigarette between her teeth and poured a double shot of tequila into her glass. The woman was well beyond being shitfaced. “And we told you, he don’t have friends. Little punk ran off. Stan says he’ll come home when he gets hungry enough.”

  As she brushed her hair behind her ear, he noticed a knot circled with a black ring on her cheek. “How’d you get that bruise?”

  She gingerly touched her face, glancing at her husband. “I tripped on thin ice.”

  I’m sure you did. Eggshells and thin ice. This house felt made of the things. Once again, his mind flashed back to the blood in the alley. If it did belong to Ricky, there was a possibility it had everything to do with Stan Schneider.

  The last time he’d had Stan before the judge, the judge had warned Stan that if he saw him in his courtroom again, Stan would do substantial jail time, along with losing his parental rights. Maybe Stan Schneider had taken care of Ricky to make sure that didn’t happen.

  And maybe you shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

  Tuck took several deep breaths to calm the anger churning his gut. Until he knew otherwise, he’d stick to the assumption that Ricky had simply had enough and ran away.

  “Do you have any family? Someone Ricky might have gone to?”

  Someone you can go to if I haul your prick-ass husband to jail?

  “Of course we have people, but they would’ve called Stan the minute Ricky showed up on their doorsteps.”

  He handed her one of his cards. “If you hear anything, or need anything, please call.”

  Tucker closed the notebook and stuffed it in his pocket as he tossed his equipment bag over his shoulder. “We’ll notify you if we find anything. If Ricky calls or comes home, please let us know right away.

  He said the words more out of habit than anything else. He was rooting for the kid to have found a safe place with a distant relative—somewhere far away from the hell that had been his home.

  Wednesday

  MIRANDA ENTERED THE police department and took a minute to let the warmth from the overhead vent thaw her. She still couldn’t believe she’d convinced herself to come here. Tucker seemed like a nice enough guy, but he was law enforcement. She couldn’t forget that.

  But then, she wasn’t here for a date or anything. He was her landlord. There would be times, like now, when she couldn’t avoid him. If she hadn’t woken up this morning certain that she had icicles hanging off her toes, she wouldn’t be here now.

  As long as she was careful not to fall for his dimples and kind eyes—and kept her reasons for being here to herself—everything would be just fine.

  “Can I help you?”

  Miranda smiled at the woman sitting behind the oval counter that separated the reception area from the offices behind her. She had to be five or six years younger than Miranda, but lines of fatigue and frustration marred her forehead, making it impossible to guess her true age.

  “Lisa, did you get the reports back from the hospitals yet?”

  The receptionist held up her hand for Miranda to wait a moment and spun in her chair, facing the voice that bellowed from the back of the office. “Called every hospital from here to Knoxville, and spoke to most of the GPs and pediatricians as well. If any of them saw Ricky lately, then he never used his real name. Nothing at child protection, either.”

  Tucker entered the waiting area, and Miranda’s entire body came alive. She’d begun to wonder if she’d imagined how attractive he was. She hadn’t.

  He tossed a file on the desk in front of Lisa while Miranda pulled herself together. “Since you have a rapport with Mrs. Perry, why don’t you head over there and interview her for me. If he used the computers, see if she kept a log so we can determine exactly what he did while he was there. Did he meet up with anyone? Express interest in going anyplace in particular? That sort of thing.”

  “Shannon’s due shortly. Want me to go now or wait on her?”

  “I’ll hold down the fort until she gets in. Just get back as soon as you can. And if you bring me something useful, dinner for you and the kids is on me.”

  Lisa stuffed her notepad in her purse, grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, and rushed past Miranda as if worried Tucker might change his mind. The stress lines had completely disappeared from the short blonde, erased by the excitement of her new assignment.

  “Well hello there.” Tucker said, noticing Miranda for the first time. His smile was warm and inviting. The twinkle in his eyes suggested he was glad to see her.

  She offered a tiny wave. “If this is a bad time, I can come back later.”

  “No need.” He came around the desk. “First night in the cottage okay?”

  “The heat doesn’t seem to be working and your instructions didn’t say where to find extra firewood.”

  Was it the man or the badge pinned to his chest that made her hands sweat and her heart race? “I should have called or left a note on your door—”

  “Not at all.” He glanced at his watch. “I was about to grab some lunch. Have a meal with me, then we can head over there so I can give the furnace a quick look.”

  “Thanks, but there’s no hurry. I just wanted to let you kn—”

  “You wouldn’t make a guy eat alone, would you?” He flashed those dimples and her resolve melted. “There’s a hot dog stand across the street. Not a big deal.”

  “I—”

  “Just sit tight, all right? I won’t be but a minute.”

  Even though the intelligent half of her brain screamed at her to slink away when he disappeared back down the hall, she sat and kept her ass firmly planted in the hard plastic chair.

  Why? What the hell was wrong with her?

  He was so different than Detective Langley had been. She could see that right off. Tucker was friendly and had a ready smile. But did that make him different enough that he might believe her if she spilled her guts?

  Another receptionist swept in, this one about nineteen or twenty with long dark hair and no-nonsense black-framed glasses. She gave Miranda a curious look as she took her seat behind the desk and threw a graffitied backpack on the floor.

  “You waitin’ on someone?” she asked Miranda, popping open the lid to a steaming cup of coffee and taking a tentative sip.

  “Chief Ambrose. It’s okay. He knows.”

  The girl grunted and turned her attention to the computer screen, and
Miranda slid her phone from her pocket. She pulled up Safari and typed in “Father Peter Anatole.” She’d run this search a million times already, but every day, she typed it in anyway, hoping for something new. Still, the most recent search page led her here, to Christmas, with an article from the Christmas Chronicle proclaiming him the new priest at St. Catherine’s.

  “Ready?”

  He was wearing his Stetson again. She kind of liked it. She gathered her belongings and followed him outside, zipping up her parka as she went.

  “Mind if we stop by the Chronicle on our way back to the cottage so I can drop off a photo for them to run?”

  “No problem.”

  As they walked, she was well aware of her inability to make small talk, and she felt bad that he had to fill in the awkward gaps alone.

  “Sure a hot dog is okay? Can’t guarantee I have time to sit down for a meal and check out your cottage, too, but—”

  “A hot dog sounds great.” For once, she actually wasn’t hungry. They grabbed a couple hot dogs and cider from the nearest vendor and ate in silence as they walked back toward the cottages.

  Her footsteps faltered when she noticed they were across the street from St. Catherine’s. Tucker walked a few steps ahead before realizing she was no longer with him. When he gave her a curious glance, she thought as quickly as she could and dug her camera from her duffel.

  “Sorry. I have a thing for historic buildings. Mind if I take a look?”

  He checked his watch. “Your heat might have to wait another couple hours.”

  She contemplated telling him to go on without her, but the thought of having the chief of police at her side should she run into Anatole was too irresistible. “I don’t mind.”

  Standing this close to him on the street corner, she could smell the faint hint of his aftershave. She liked it. She also liked the way he was looking at her now, like he was trying to figure her out. And not in the I-know-you’re-up-to-something way she’d become accustomed to in Dayton.

  “We don’t have a lot of historical buildings,” he said. “The town’s less than a hundred years old. The oldest thing around is the First Baptist Church, but it’s been abandoned since they opened New Baptist more than a decade ago. If you’re looking for historic, St. Catherine’s doesn’t exactly fit the bill, either. It can’t be more than fifty years old.”