by Dan Padavona
“And if he’s still sick?”
“He’ll be fine, deputy. You worry too much.”
He departed through the open door and closed it behind him. Absolute darkness filled the cell.
But the dark wouldn’t prevent Aguilar from finding the stone and digging her way out of the cage.
44
At two in the morning, the moon vanished behind the hill and plunged the state park into a deeper darkness. Darren’s body hummed with adrenaline. He paced the grounds, his gun and radio at his hip. Darren didn’t expect the man who attacked LeVar, potentially the psycho the FBI pursued, to follow them to the state park. The Poplar Corners ghost fled after LeVar fought back. Knowing how tough the former gang member was, Darren suspected LeVar injured his foe. The ghost was probably holed up and nursing his wounds.
LeVar hadn’t required stitches. A bandage over his brow stopped the bleeding. He’d wear a goose egg on his forehead for a few days, but the teenager showed no signs of a concussion.
What if LeVar had arrived too late? The ghost tried to attack Scout, Naomi, and Serena. A chill rippled through Darren’s body when he pictured Raven alone in the park with that maniac creeping through the night. Too close for comfort.
Darren rounded the cabin where Scout and Naomi slept. The lights were off, one window open a crack to invite cool air inside. His sneakers swished through the grass as he confirmed they’d locked the door. Serena and LeVar’s cabin stood silent against the night, though Darren suspected LeVar was awake.
At the edge of the campgrounds, Darren leaned against a tree and blended with the night. Now and then, branches snapped and dry leaves rustled inside the forest.
His phone lit up. He’d kept the ringer on silent so he wouldn’t disturb the others. Reading Thomas’s name on the screen, Darren answered.
“Everyone safe up there?”
Darren glanced at the cabins.
“Safe and secure.”
“Keep your eyes peeled. Our killer was active tonight.”
“Now what?”
“We fished Josiah Fowler out of the Nightshade River.”
“Father Fowler?”
“He’s dead, Darren. The killer stabbed him in the chest and stomach and beat the hell out of Fowler’s face. Whoever this guy is, he’s out of control.”
A twig snapped behind Darren. He reached for his gun before a raccoon scampered across the trail.
“Thomas, someone attacked LeVar in Poplar Corners tonight.”
“Is he okay? What happened?”
“A few bumps and bruises, but he’s fine. I’m convinced it was the Poplar Corners ghost.”
“Can LeVar identify him?”
“It was too dark, and the guy jumped LeVar from behind. But Scout flew the drone over the meadow and caught the ghost moving through the forest.”
Thomas drew in a breath.
“That’s the break we need. I want that footage, Darren. Can you send it to me?”
“I downloaded the video files after we returned. I’ll send them to your email. There’s something strange about the footage, though.”
“What’s that?”
“The drone tracked him through the meadow and into a thicket. A second later, the guy disappeared. I thought the video glitched, or we lost several seconds of footage. But we captured a continuous stream until the drone landed.”
“Maybe he ran out of the trees and ducked inside a garage. You’re certain he emerged from the thicket?”
“Positive.”
Darren recognized Agent Gardy’s voice in the background.
“All right, Darren. Send me the files, and I’ll have the Harmon lab enhance the video.”
“I’ll send them now. Call me if anything changes.”
Darren crossed the clearing and unlocked his cabin. In the bed, Raven curled under the covers, her even breathing like gentle waves. He kept one eye on the window as he set the laptop on the kitchen table. After he emailed the footage to Thomas, he filled his mug with coffee, checked his weapon, and stepped into the night.
Nobody was getting past Darren. He’d die before someone harmed his friends.
45
Mrs. Langstaff nervously adjusted her shawl. Thomas worried about the elderly woman. She leaned on a cane as she brushed a tissue across her eyes inside the St. Mary’s church vestibule. Mrs. Langstaff had been with the church for as long as Thomas could remember. Until recently, she’d seemed ageless. Now every movement made her wince, and her face appeared skeletal in the half light.
“Are you certain it was Father Fowler? He was inside his office when I left at eight o’clock. What was he doing at the river?”
Thomas caught the woman when she stumbled.
“Why don’t we sit down, Mrs. Langstaff?”
She sniffled and glanced around, as if confused where she was. Thomas led her to a padded bench beside the entry doors. Her cane clicked against the floor and rang hollow against the vaulted ceilings.
“Did Father Fowler expect a visitor last evening?”
“No, nobody visits that late.”
“Did you notice anyone outside when you left? A vehicle beside the curb, perhaps?”
“Nobody.”
Thomas sighed. He’d expected as much. As he questioned Langstaff, Thomas glanced through the open doors. Deputy Lambert conferred with Agents Bell and Gardy outside the rectory. Lambert had cordoned off the walkway with police tape after discovering blood on the concrete.
“I remember you from when I was a boy. How long have you been with St. Mary’s, Mrs. Langstaff?”
“For three of your lifetimes, Sheriff.”
“So you were here when Father Fowler first arrived.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen my share of priests come and go. There was Father Magdalen when I was young. That was a long, long time ago. But Father Fowler was special.” She cried into her tissue. “I can’t believe he’s gone. Who would do such a thing?”
Thomas waited until Langstaff composed herself. A question poised on the tip of his tongue. Did anyone suspect Fowler of sexual abuse? Langstaff’s love for Fowler convinced Thomas she’d never accept such a rumor.
“It’s possible Father Fowler knew the man who attacked him. We think the murderer attended St. Mary’s when he was young.”
Langstaff placed a hand over her mouth.
“No, that can’t be.”
“I’m interested in communion classes from two and three decades ago. Does the church keep photographs that far back?”
“Yes, they’re kept inside the rectory.”
“Would you show me?”
The elderly woman gave Thomas a worried look before she nodded. He helped her down the steps and walked beside her to the rectory. Her hands trembled, making it difficult to fit the key into the lock. Inside the rectory, Langstaff hobbled to a bookcase and removed a white photo album adorned with a gold cross. Someone had placed the communion photos in chronological order with the dates written on the back.
Thomas flipped through the photos as Langstaff fretted, worried he’d crumple the well-kept pictures. He paged back two decades and removed ten years of photographs. The name of each child was handwritten on the back, the names painstakingly arranged in order. In each picture, the children in front sat cross-legged with their hands pressed together in prayer. The taller children stood in back.
“May I borrow the photographs?”
“It would be better if I made copies.”
“Please. I promise I’ll keep them safe and return them in a few days. I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.”
She gave him a reluctant nod, and he tucked the folder of communion photos beneath his arm.
Agent Gardy waited outside the rectory when Thomas emerged from inside.
“As Agent Bell requested,” Thomas said, handing the folder to Gardy.
The FBI agent sifted through the images.
“These are perfect. Bell is sure our killer is in one of these pictures.”
&nb
sp; “There must be twenty kids in each. Over a decade, that’s two-hundred names.”
“Remove the females,” Gardy said. “That gets us down to a hundred.”
“Still too many,” Thomas said. “I’ve got three kidnapping victims to locate, and I’m running out of time.”
Thomas peered over his shoulder. Old Mrs. Langstaff leaned in the rectory doorway, watching them. The woman’s faith was strong. She loved her church, and she only saw good in the parishioners. Thomas thought of his mother, a St. Mary’s devotee who’d supported the church, even after the Thea Barlow murders.
It seemed unthinkable that this house of worship produced two serial killers.
46
Through a window cut into the front door, Chelsey watched the blonde-haired FBI agent stride across the parking lot toward Wolf Lake Consulting. She’d held reservations about meeting with the BAU profiler. Scarlett Bell was a household name, a star among people fascinated with darkness and death. But everything Thomas had said about Bell made Chelsey think she’d like the agent. Bell was a rebel, unafraid of angering the higher-ups. And she uncovered truths hidden from the naked eye.
It had been an uneventful morning after last night’s murder. The forensics team had picked blonde hair off Father Fowler’s shirt, despite the priest bobbing in the water for an hour or more. Yet no one had noticed a vehicle along the river or a man dumping a body into the rapids. Hadn’t Harmony Santos told Gerald Burke her stalker had blonde hair?
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Chelsey said, offering her hand. “We met at the sheriff’s station. I’m Chelsey Byrd.”
“The private investigator, yes. I read the interview notes you shared with Sheriff Shepherd. Excellent work.”
Chelsey led Bell down the hallway and into the office.
“Always happy to help, especially when innocent lives are at risk. Did you ever find records for a red Camaro convertible in Poplar Corners?”
“No, but I’m intrigued by the vehicle.”
“How so?”
“It fits the killer’s profile. Not saying someone who drives a high-end muscle car is a narcissist. But I’d expect a malignant narcissist to flaunt his power with the clothes he wears, the vehicle he drives, the way he carries himself.”
Chelsey’s partners, Raven and LeVar, were at their desks, splitting attention between the Harmony Santos case and the attack in Poplar Corners. Both believed the cases were related—the Peeping Tom had kidnapped Harmony Santos four years ago. Chelsey made introductions before leading Agent Bell to her desk. Bell pulled up a chair and scanned the wedding photos laid upon Chelsey’s desk.
“So you wanted my opinion?”
“It’s crazy,” Chelsey said, biting a nail as she flipped through the pictures. “Ever since Lawrence Santos dropped off the wedding photos, I’ve had a creeping sensation that Harmony’s kidnapper is in the pictures. But nobody sticks out. What’s really weird is I’m most uncomfortable when I look at pictures of Harmony.”
Agent Bell’s face remained unreadable as Chelsey slid the pictures across the desk.
“And you want a second set of eyes.”
“If you’ll be so kind.”
Bell anchored her hair behind her ear and spread the pictures out. She focused on the men in the photos, shaking her head as she eliminated potential suspects.
“I don’t see anyone sneaking peeks at the bride, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Not exactly,” Chelsey said, releasing a breath. “The more I study the pictures, the more they creep me out. It’s like the killer is staring me in the face, and I can’t see him. This must all be in my head.”
Bell’s eyes slipped from one photo to the next, her nails tapping against the desk. Chelsey worried she was wasting the agent’s time. In a moment, Bell would stand and shake her head, confirming Chelsey’s imagination had run amok.
Yet she didn’t.
Agent Bell stacked several photos together and pushed them aside. Five pictures remained on the desk. They were all closeups of Harmony Santos. The truth hit Chelsey when Bell’s gaze swung to her.
“Strange the groom never appears in these pictures,” Bell said. Her eyes sharpened. “It’s a wedding reception, right? These photographs are all of Harmony Santos. Notice how the lens zooms in, cutting out distractions. Lovingly. Almost obsessively, don’t you agree?”
Chelsey palmed her forehead. How had she missed it?
“The photographer.”
Before Chelsey confirmed Agent Bell’s suspicion, she swiped through her contact list and phoned Lawrence Santos. The phone rang several times. She got his voicemail.
“Hi, Mr. Santos. This is Chelsey Byrd at Wolf Lake Consulting. I had a question about the wedding photos. If you could call me back as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.”
Chelsey didn’t wait long. As Bell rearranged Harmony’s photographs, Lawrence Santos returned her call.
“Ms. Byrd, I received your message. Sorry, I just stepped out of the shower.”
“No worries, Mr. Santos.” She blew out a breath. “So I’m going through the wedding photos again.”
The tension rose in the husband’s voice.
“Did you find Harmony’s kidnapper?”
“Not yet. Who was the photographer?”
A few seconds of silence passed.
“That was four years ago. Harmony hired the guy. Hold on. Maybe I have his card.”
Chelsey trembled with anxious energy as a desk drawer opened and closed over the phone. Papers rustled before Santos returned.
“I got it. Phil Streeter. He has a studio in Kane Grove. What’s this about?”
“Just double-checking a lead. Thank you, Mr. Santos. I’ll get back to you soon.”
“Phil Streeter,” Bell repeated, rolling her chair to Chelsey’s side of the desk as Chelsey typed on her keyboard.
The website loaded.
“I found him. Phil Streeter, wedding and portrait photographer. Artistic, documentary, and modern photography.”
“Is his picture on the website?”
“I’m looking.” Chelsey ran her eyes over the screen until she found Streeter’s bio. “Here it is.”
She clicked his profile. A dark-haired man in his forties smiled amiably.
“He’s not blonde.”
“But he took those closeups of Harmony.”
Bell clicked her tongue.
“Most wedding photographers have a partner.”
“Good point.”
Chelsey dialed Streeter’s number and held up a finger as the phone rang.
“Streeter Photography,” the man answered.
“Good morning, sir. Are you Phil Streeter?”
“Yes, I am. Are you interested in hiring my studio?”
“Actually, I’m a private investigator in Wolf Lake.”
Streeter gave a lighthearted chuckle.
“So you’re a female James Rockford. Am I in trouble?”
“I’m investigating a woman’s disappearance from four years ago. Harmony Santos. My records show you photographed her wedding. Do you remember the Santos wedding?”
“I remember all my clients. But that wedding sticks out.”
“Why?”
“The news. I couldn’t believe it when I saw that poor woman’s picture on television.”
“You were around Lawrence and Harmony all afternoon. Do you recall anyone causing trouble, someone paying close attention to Harmony?”
“If I had, I would have told the authorities. Nothing like that happened. The Santos wedding was wonderful. The family enjoyed the reception, and they treated me like an old friend. I pray nothing bad happened to Mrs. Santos.”
“Do you have a partner, Mr. Streeter?”
“Not at the moment. It’s difficult holding on to talented photographers. After I teach them the trade, they all want to open their own studios.”
“Did you employ a second photographer for the Santos wedding?”
“
Absolutely not. I’m the sole photographer for weddings.”
Chelsey pressed her lips together. She’d run into another dead end.
“So you didn’t have a partner four years ago.”
“I did, but he’s not with the studio any longer. Thank goodness.”
“Who was your partner, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Heck, no. I don’t mind. A pretentious fellow by the name of Justice Thorin. He’s a bigwig with a local university.”
“Kane Grove?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
Chelsey snapped her fingers and gave Agent Bell a thumbs-up.
“So Justice Thorin worked for you?”
“Mostly post-production. I’ll give the devil his due. He’s a master with Lightroom and Photoshop. I photograph clients, but Thorin made the pictures shine. I never understood how he did it. A splash of color enhancement here, a contrast adjustment there. The man has an eye for image editing.”
“Why did you let him go?”
Streeter groaned.
“Justice Thorin is a conceited prick. And a perfectionist. In his opinion, the photographs were never good enough. He upset a client on the phone, so I told him he needed to go. A shame. He really is talented.”
After thanking Streeter for his help, Chelsey turned to Agent Bell.
“Thorin did post-production for the Santos wedding.”
“Imagine the hours Thorin spent alone and hunched over a computer, staring at Harmony.”
“So those closeups of Harmony, the ones that never included Lawrence Santos . . .”
Agent Bell nodded.
“Thorin cropped everyone out of the picture except the woman he obsessed over.”
“And then he took her.”
47
“It feels right,” Thomas said, thinking aloud. “And he lives in Poplar Corners.”
Agent Neil Gardy sat across from the sheriff’s desk, one ankle propped on his knee, his fist pressed against his mouth. Chelsey and Agent Bell had called about Justice Thorin, Phil Streeter’s former assistant.
“The same town Harmony Santos disappeared from,” Gardy said. “And he’s a professor at Kane Grove, where a stranger with blonde hair stalked Santos.”