The Shadow Cell: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 6)
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The Shadow Cell
A Wolf Lake Thriller
Dan Padavona
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Hushed whispers echoed off the steepled interior of St. Mary’s church, lending an air of secrecy to the place of worship. Father Josiah Fowler roamed the basement corridors, ambling from his office to the stairs, before he turned left and strode past the shadowed pews toward the confessional booth. The church was gloomy and cool and blanketed by the reserved hush common to all places of worship. A handful of guests mingled in the vestibule, though it was too dark to make out faces as Fowler slipped inside the ornate structure.
He fiddled with his hands. After two decades of listening to confessions, he’d never acclimated to the suffocating confines or the heavy gloom of the booth. The inside smelled of cheap cologne, aged leather, and the sweat of old men. The cushioned chair was murder on his back. He always felt off balance when he sat here. Curtains cloaked a latticed opening on both sides. A kneeler lay against the dividing wall with a matching hassock in the opposite compartment.
Fowler sat in silence, sensing eyes on him. Judging. He’d made his share of mistakes, some he never learned from. The whiskey on his breath an hour before lunch spoke to his longest running vice. Several years ago, he’d blacked out driving on a rural road outside Wolf Lake. He awoke on the gravel shoulder with the engine still purring and no idea how he’d gotten there. He’d heard the distant sirens drawing closer. Fowler drove home before the authorities wandered past and ticketed him for driving while intoxicated.
The morning after the drunken ride home, a knock on the rectory door tugged him out of sleep. Lana Gray, Sheriff Stewart Gray’s wife, had crashed on the same road Fowler had driven. They’d found her dead behind the wheel, the front end of her car crumpled and wrapped around a tree. A witness claimed a vehicle resembling Fowler’s had weaved across the centerline moments before Lana Gray came around the bend.
Fowler peeled back the curtain and assessed the empty compartment opposite his. Had he murdered the former sheriff’s wife? He prayed it wasn’t so, that he’d pulled over before he blacked out. The investigators discovered skid marks from one car—Lana Gray’s. No proof someone forced her off the road.
As Fowler shook away the memory, footsteps trailed between the pews and angled in his direction. Each step reverberated like faraway thunder, unsettling the priest for reasons he didn’t understand. The door opened on the other side. A black silhouette filled the opening before the figure sat across from him. No greeting, just the man’s steady breathing beyond the lattice.
Fowler waited. Sometimes, a man needed time to gather his thoughts. The priest lifted his wrist and glared at his watch.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The sanctimonious voice made Fowler wonder if another priest sat across from him.
“How many days since your last confession, my son?”
A pause.
“I don’t remember. Not since I was a young adult, I suspect. And I’m not your son.”
The words sliced like tiny razors. Why did the stranger unsettle him? In that moment, he imagined not another priest beyond the lattice, but the devil himself. Father Fowler’s instincts told him to walk away, hurry down the staircase to his office, tucked at the rear of the basement, and lock the door. Fowler cleared his throat and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“What is your sin?”
Fowler was careful not to address the stranger as his son this time. Whoever sat in the neighboring compartment, it wasn’t a parishioner. Or at least, the man hadn’t visited St. Mary’s in many moons.
The priest checked the time again and tapped his foot. He was scheduled to speak at a fundraiser for the local food bank in an hour.
“While we’re young,” Fowler said, hoping to draw a laugh out of the man. The curtained lattice made it impossible to identify faces, only the shape of the man. Agile, strong, a few hairs taller than Fowler. “Your sin?”
“What is the ultimate sin, Father?”
Fowler peered through the holes. The man hadn’t moved since sitting down. It was like chatting with a bronze idol.
“The three unforgivable sins involve the murder, torture, and abuse of others, especially children and animals.”
“I see. Interesting, the church equates children with animals.”
The quiet stretched out like a tether tightened to the point of snapping.
“And how many of these sins have you committed?” the stranger asked, continuing.
“I’m unsure I understand the question.”
“It’s simple, Father. How many unforgivable sins do you beg forgiveness for?”
“I thought you came to me to confess. That’s how the process works.”
A laugh followed. Like parchment paper crackling inside a fire.
“A woman murdered the sick and weak under your nose. Right here, in God’s house.”
The stranger spat God with derision. Fowler thought of Thea Barlow, his former assistant. Barlow believed herself an angel of mercy. Over several nightmarish days last year, she murdered the sick and dying before the sheriff stopped her. A shiver rolled down Fowler’s spine.
“You watch the news and read the papers, I see. I assure you God will pass His judgment on Ms. Barlow. But that’s not why you’re here, is it? You didn’t come all this way to question me about Barlow. Unless you’re a reporter. You aren’t, are you?”
Another snicker.
“I’m no reporter, Father. But I know more than any newsman would about what goes on in your church.”
Father Fowler groaned.
“If you came for an apology, I couldn’t feel worse over what happened. The victims Ms. Barlow
attacked were my friends, loyal parishioners who filled my Sundays with joy. Every time I stand behind the lectern, I look out at the crowd and expect to see their faces. Then I don’t, and the memory of what happened rushes back to me. Satisfied?”
“No. You have a rather short memory, Father Fowler. It’s as if nothing significant occurred within these hallowed walls before last year’s tragedies.”
Fowler shifted. Soaked with sweat, his back stuck to the chair.
“But we all assume risk when entering a new situation,” the stranger said.
“As an example?”
“Take flying on an airplane. The moment you strap yourself into your seat, the attendant explains how to breathe or float should the airliner crash into a body of water. Not reassuring.”
“The odds of a crash are low.”
“So are rare cancers and heart attacks among the healthy. Yet the newspapers are full of tragedies of people who drew the joker card from the deck.”
“This is all very interesting. But I have a pressing meeting, sir. If you’ve nothing to confess, you’ll understand my need for haste.”
“Oh, don’t rush off, old friend. I brought you a gift.”
“A gift?”
“Something for you to remember me by, since your memory fails you.”
“This is highly unusual. Perhaps if you visited outside confession hours, we might sit and talk. I’m certain if I saw your face, I’d remember you.”
“I’m sure you would. But I won’t keep you, Father. Run along to your little meeting. My gift lies beside my feet. You may retrieve it once I exit.”
Silence.
“Is that it, then?”
“For now. We’ll meet again, Father.”
The shadowed figure rose. With a creak, the door opened and banged shut.
Father Fowler sat breathing in his private compartment, the old leather and sweat smell returning now that the man’s overbearing presence didn’t dominate his thoughts. He didn’t want to peer inside the neighboring compartment. As he procrastinated, footsteps warned him as another person approached the confession booth. Elderly Mrs. Carr covered her mouth with her hand when Fowler burst into the aisle, waving his arms.
“If you’ll give me a moment, Mrs. Carr. I must attend to the booth before you . . . never mind.”
She turned and clicked her heels toward the vestibule, shooting him a confused glance before she pushed through the doors.
Fowler stood outside the confession booth. His heart jack-hammered. As if viewing his actions through a camera lens, he felt displaced while his hand reached for the handle. He pulled the door open and ducked his head inside. The booth appeared empty until his eyes settled on a wooden box tucked beneath the chair. With trembling arms, he removed the box and glanced around the church. No one watched.
He set the box on a pew and lifted the lid. Fowler gagged and glared up at Jesus, hanging on the cross.
A bloody, severed hand lay inside the box.
2
Chelsey Byrd glanced up from her desk when the front door to Wolf Lake Consulting opened. Her noon appointment was here, and LeVar Hopkins’s voice carried down the hallway as he directed the client inside.
She stood when Lawrence Santos entered. Though Santos was thirty-five and physically fit, the lines in his face and the charcoal gray dotting his hair spoke to the hardships he’d endured.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Santos said, offering his hand.
She shook it and gestured at the open seat across from her desk.
“You came a long way. Poplar Corners, that’s near Kane Grove. There’s a fine private investigation firm in Kane Grove near the university. I’d be happy to—”
Santos waved her offer away.
“I read about your team. You’re the best in upstate New York.”
Two desks away, LeVar rolled his chair in front of his computer and clicked his mouse. LeVar ran with the notorious Harmon Kings gang before Sheriff Thomas Shepherd offered him a way out of gang life. Now LeVar lived in a guest house behind Thomas’s A-frame overlooking Wolf Lake. The teenager swore off his old life, earned his GED, and enrolled as a freshman at the community college where he took criminal justice classes.
“That’s kind of you to say. How can Wolf Lake Consulting help you?”
Santos slumped his shoulders forward. From a manila folder, he removed a photograph of a smiling woman with flowing auburn hair. Her Irish green eyes commanded Chelsey’s attention.
“My wife, Harmony, disappeared four years ago, less than a year after our wedding day. The police never found her. Nobody gave me answers. I realize four years is a long time, but I never gave up hope.”
Chelsey picked up the photo and tilted it toward the window light.
“I’ll ask the uncomfortable question first, Mr. Santos. Is it possible your wife left on her own and doesn’t wish for anyone to find her?”
“We had a healthy marriage,” Santos said, pushing his fingers through his hair. A few strands fell to the floor. “No problems between us. Someone took her, and I can’t sleep another night until I learn the truth.”
“You understand the statistics. The odds of finding Harmony alive aren’t in our favor.”
“I understand. Goodness knows my family never stops reminding me. They’re not in favor of me hiring you.” An ironic grin formed on the man’s face. “Last week, they held an intervention.” Santos made air quotes around intervention. “They told me I needed to move on and live life before it passed me by, that Harmony would have wanted it that way.”
As Santos spoke, his eyes darted around the room. His gaze settled on LeVar, who focused on his computer. Chelsey nodded at the folder.
“What else did you bring?”
“Photographs from our wedding day,” Santos said, fanning the pictures out across the desk.
He’d labeled each person and noted who they were. A great aunt from Lawrence’s side of the family, Harmony’s college roommate, the parents of the bride and groom, Harmony’s sister, Adele. Santos reminded Chelsey of herself—obsessive and meticulous. He made quick glances over his shoulder as though he didn’t trust humanity. Chelsey had survived major depression during her teenage years and still suffered from anxiety issues. She’d almost died when a bullet fired by fugitive Mark Benson grazed her head.
“I can work with these, and the labels will save me time. Is there anyone you suspect?”
“Gerald Burke,” Santos said without hesitation. His mouth twisted. “Burke was Harmony’s boyfriend during college. After the breakup, they remained best friends. If you ask me, he never got over Harmony.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He didn’t bring a date to the wedding. As far as I know, he never married. Creep was hung up on Harmony.”
“Why did you invite him to the wedding?”
“Harmony insisted. How could we marry without her best friend in attendance?” Santos scoffed. “Every time I spotted him across the room, he was staring at Harmony.”
“Can you point him out in a picture?”
Santos shuffled the images and tapped his finger on a photograph of Harmony dancing with another man.
“That’s him.”
Gerald Burke stood a foot taller than Harmony. Shadows pouring off his forehead hid the man’s eyes, giving him a mysterious look that Chelsey didn’t trust. She scribbled his name on a memo pad.
“Who else?”
“There was a guy named Kit at the reception.” Santos rested his chin on his fist. “Sorry, but I don’t have a picture of him.”
“Was he Harmony’s friend?”
Santos shook his head.
“He claimed he was with the band. But I spoke with the band members after Harmony’s disappearance, and they never heard of anyone named Kit.”
“What do you remember about Kit?”
“He was short and average looking, a little dumpy. The guy talked everyone’s ears off and hung around the buffet table. I never saw him
without a plate of food in his hand.”
“Did the authorities look into Gerald Burke and Kit?”
“Nothing came of the investigation. They declared Burke clean, and the team never located Kit. Not that they put in much effort. The investigators were more interested in me.”
Chelsey wasn’t surprised. Statistics proved husbands abducted their wives more often than strangers. Chelsey rearranged the photos and pointed at Harmony’s sister.
“What’s Adele’s last name?”
“Sowl. She’s four years older than Harmony.”
“Do you have a better picture of Adele? A closeup?”
“No, why?”
“Sometimes a kidnapper changes the appearance of his captive so she’s not easily recognized. Harmony disappeared four years ago, so it’s possible she looks more like her sister did on your wedding day.”
“I never thought of that. I’ll search through our pictures and see what I have.”
Chelsey crossed a leg over her knee.
“Now the matter of compensation.”
“I have the money.”
“This investigation could take weeks, and there’s no guarantee I’ll find Harmony.”
“You’ll find her, Ms. Byrd. Your firm is the best in the state.”
Chelsey tapped her nails against the desk. Santos was determined to pay any price for information on Harmony’s abduction, though Chelsey doubted she’d find the woman alive. Too much time had passed to believe in fairytale endings. But she’d try.