by Jo Robertson
When the blow glanced off his arm, he recognized the weapon as the tire iron from the trunk well. Fortunately, her aim was off and the second blow struck him high on the shoulder. He fell against the fender, blood dripping from his temple, and lashed out blindly.
He cuffed her hard on the side of the face and followed up with a half-assed blow to the stomach. She flew backward and dropped the iron. Instantly, she clambered away from him, staggered to her feet, and swirled around to flee through the wild weeds in the direction from which he'd just come.
Bitch! She shouldn't have fought him. Although his plan called for a noble sacrifice, he could just as easily butcher her. That was one execution he hadn't tried. Maybe, after all, he'd do to her what he'd done to the whore from the bar. Barefoot and half-naked, she wouldn't get far.
His nerves tightened like piano strings and he took deep, calming breaths as he staunched the blood with a rag from the back seat. He pushed the trunk lid down, leaving it slightly ajar, retrieved the tire iron from the dirt, and started after her.
*
Sheriff Slater drove the patrol car with lights flashing, but no siren, while the Judge sat silently in the passenger seat, feeling no need to be friendly to the natives. ADA Torres and Myron Higgins rode in the back. Slater had given him the bare facts as he knew them. Warren figured the Sheriff knew precious little, but at least he had a suspect, a warrant, and a man searching the suspect's residence.
Slater finally veered off Interstate 80 to Highway 99 south, and ten minutes later, the radio squawked. "What's up, Deputy Harris?"
A deep mellow voice broke through the static. "Just finished the search, Sheriff. At first, we found nothing, but then I checked the desk in the study. The drawers was all locked."
"But you didn't let that stop you." Slater glanced at the Judge who lifted his brows in expectation.
The deputy's laugh boomed over the phone. "No, sir, wouldn't let a little thing like a lock stop me."
"What'd you find?" Slater asked.
"Looks like some kinda property book tucked away in the bottom drawer."
"A ledger?"
"Yes, a ledger that lists a lot of property the family must own. Let me read some entries."
The ledger listed what Warren guessed were the numerous properties belonging to the suspect's family estate.
"Stop," the Judge ordered when Harris named a property that lay west of Marysville about fifteen miles. "Church property?"
"Yes sir, the land belonged to the Catholic Church," Harris explained, "but shut down when the old priest died and mass attendance dropped off."
"What's important about a church?" Slater wondered aloud.
"In the late eighties," Harris continued, "the Randolph family bought up the property, the church and its adjoining grounds, but it hasn't been used for the past twenty years."
"Why would a family buy church property?" Slater asked after he'd snapped shut the cell phone.
"Run a check on Randolph's family," Warren suggested, "especially the mother. There's some religious fanaticism there. Maybe they wanted a private place of worship. An isolated church makes sense. That might be where he's taken the Gant woman."
Slater barreled off the freeway, made a complete circle back, and headed west on Interstate 80 toward Marysville.
"What most people don't understand," said the good-looking ADA leaning from the back seat, "is that almost all serial crimes are sexual in nature."
"Even though no sexual acts are committed on the victim?" asked Slater.
"The killer may not behave in a sexual manner at the crime site, but he gets aroused and has the greatest sexual release at the moment of his victim's death," Torres answered. "When it's over, he can relive the experience in his memory, or with the trophies he takes from his victim."
"Son of a bitch!" Slater struck his fist on the steering wheel.
"And this killer's changing," the Judge added. "He's becoming more aggressive."
"Rape?" Slater asked.
The Judge shrugged. "And torture. He's going to make her suffer and he'll enjoy every minute of it."
"Why change now?" Slater asked. "What happened that's different?"
"Probably a psychotic break," Torres answered. "Prior to this, he's seen himself as a kind of avenger, a disciple punishing those who've committed transgressions."
"And now?" Slater asked.
"Now he's straddling the line between being the religious center in his own morality play and being the demonic figure," Warren sneered, "and I'll bet he enjoys playing the devil.
"If he gets away with killing Olivia – " Torres began from the back seat.
"He won't get away with it," Slater said. "We'll catch the bastard."
Warren glanced over at the Sheriff. He didn't have Slater's confidence. He didn't figure saving the professor was all that important, but they'd better reach the property in Marysville in time to save Jack.
*
Olivia ran like the devil. Prickly weeds tugged at her legs and branches dipped low to scratch her arms. Damn it! She'd blown her chance, maybe the only one she'd get. She'd found the tire iron by sheer, dumb luck under the carpeted trunk floor and planned a well-placed blow. Lying in the trunk all those long minutes, she'd fantasized about using it on Howard.
When she'd heard the first raspy footfall through the undergrowth, she positioned herself, knees bent, feet facing outward. She clutched the tire iron tightly in both hands, her arms bent over her head. Waiting, her muscles quivering with strain, she scarcely breathed. She kicked outward as hard as she could, catching him in the gut and when he'd gone down, she swung the iron with all her might.
It had glanced off his body like a fly swatter on an elephant.
She swung again, meaning to aim a killing blow. She didn't care if that made her a murderer. Her survival instinct kicked in and she wanted Howard dead. But the blow hit his shoulder and before she could swing again, he punched her, once in the head and then again in the stomach.
The breath whooshed out of her like a balloon deflating noisily. All she could think of was to run. Run! She galloped off into the brush with no idea of where she was going. She just knew she had to get away from him.
The scrapes on her arms, legs, and face stung. She stopped a moment and bent at the waist, hands on knees as she tried to catch her breath. She heard thrashing behind her. How had he gotten so close so fast?
She took off again, pumping arms and legs as hard as she could. A stitch spasmed in her side and her bare feet felt swollen, sliced, and wet with her blood. She ran harder, adrenaline spurring her on, ignoring the cuts of face and feet, the burning in her lungs.
Just as the woods opened into a clearing at the edge of what looked like a parking lot and an abandoned building, a knotted tree root tripped her. She sprawled gracelessly to the ground, her arms outstretched to brace herself, her elbows taking the brunt from wrist to shoulder. Mud, dirt, and leaves covered her bruised and bleeding body.
As she jumped to her feet, poised for flight, Howard slammed her from behind and threw her to the ground. He was on her in seconds, slapping her face open handedly, grabbing her hair in his fist and pulling until tears ran down her cheeks.
His breath was hot and heavy at her temple, and even though he panted, his voice was oddly detached, even calm. "Don't ever run from me again, Olivia. You'll regret it."
She would've been less afraid had Howard raged at her.
Moments later he dragged her to the building and shoved her down three cement steps. She lost her balance and received another abrasion to her knee as she landed at the bottom. Hauling her to her feet, he pushed her toward a corner of a wide, open basement where an industrial sink took up space.
"Remove your clothes," he ordered, brandishing a small, but nasty-looking knife in one hand and the tire iron in the other.
Hysteria bubbled up in her. No shoes, boy shorts for underwear and a skimpy tank top, she could hardly be described as clothed. What was left?
He tossed away the tire iron and his fingers pinched her upper arm while the knife nipped at her ribs. He hauled her closer to the sink. His eyes dilated wildly as if he were on drugs. A nasty snarl hurled from his mouth. "You really don't want to make me ask twice, Olivia."
The fighting strategy hadn't worked against Howard. She'd have to be more cunning if she were going to outmaneuver him. If she could just reach the tire iron or get him to discard the knife.
Olivia jerked the tank top over her head and pushed the shorts down to her ankles where she stepped out of them and kicked them aside. Goose bumps rose on her body and she rubbed her crossed hands up and down her arms. What now? Howard's eyes glittered and his body tensed. Angry because she'd hit him and nearly escaped? Or crazy with lust?
He reached behind her and grabbed soap and a rag from a shelf she hadn't noticed. With the other hand he turned on the water faucet. "Wash," he commanded.
"Why?"
The madness in his eyes clambered to the surface. "Because you are filthy," he said. "Because you are unclean." Spittle spewed from his mouth and spattered her face as his voice rose to a shout. "Because I command it and you dare not disobey."
Not sexual frustration, but insanity.
When she still hesitated, he threatened, "Unless you'd rather I do it myself?"
Undressing in front of Howard and performing such an intimate act as bathing disturbed her more than if she'd done the same things before a complete stranger. She wet and soaped the rag under the icy stream. Wringing out the cloth, she wiped her arms and legs. The sting of the soap burned in the raw cuts and scratches. She bit back a wince while Howard watched her carefully.
When she finished, he tossed her a large, clean towel which she used to dry off. Her skin was red from the abrasive soap and the freezing water. She dropped the towel to the floor, put her arms down, and stood defiantly before him.
Bastard! She wouldn't show him her fear.
Grabbing her upper arm, he dragged her to the bottom of a flight of wooden stairs. After climbing to the landing, he opened the door at the top and whirled her around to face him, pressing her close against him. She felt his growing erection against her naked body.
His mouth hovered over hers. "My intention was to use you, Olivia, use that perfect little body that you've been enticing me with all semester." He ran his fingers across the top of her naked breast. "You'd be good for a quick fuck, right?"
She flinched at his crude language and he laughed. "And I may do that yet. But you're such a perfect specimen I couldn't resist offering you as the penultimate sacrifice."
Forcing calm she didn't feel, she summoned the courage to fight Howard in a way that might give her an advantage. "You'll never do it, Howard," she jeered. "You didn't rape the other victims. You don't have the balls."
He ground his mouth into hers, his teeth cutting, his tongue trying to push through her tightly-closed lips. Then he released her abruptly. "Maybe we'll do both." He smiled and pinched her cheek viciously. In a flash his manner changed from the vicious would-be rapist to the mild-manner professor. "Now, wouldn't that be fun?"
Although she didn't see the hand that held the syringe, she should've anticipated it. Right before she lost consciousness again, the prick of the needle told her what he'd done.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Jack left the Blazer at the foot of an inclined wooded area off the highway, and hiked on foot the rest of the way. The Blazer could've made it up the narrow dirt road, but he didn't want the engine to alert his prey.
When he arrived at the clearing, the trunk of the sedan was partially open. He nudged it with the tip of his knife blade, and it swung smoothly upward without resistance. He ducked his head into the empty trunk and inhaled deeply.
Beneath the Olivia-scent and the fetid animal-scent, his heightened faculties imbibed the faint residue of an unfamiliar smell, the odor of incipient life, the human zygote. The implication drew him back from the trunk's gaping maw. It wasn't possible for Olivia to be pregnant, his human mind insisted. But the beast growled, a deep guttural sound low in its throat, a warning call to the predator, the animal's protection in defense of its young.
He turned around slowly, his cat-like vision scanning the woods for signs of them.
That way, he decided, and crouching low, followed the scent of Olivia and the enemy. The sunken footsteps in the moist dirt and the small, lighter prints indicated two people – a heavier person and a lightweight one – running fast.
Less than a quarter mile down the overgrown path, he glimpsed what looked like the front of an abandoned church rising like Hawthorne's seven-gabled house some hundred yards off a narrow, paved road. But that was not where the enemy had accessed the building.
An empty parking area, overgrown with weeds pushing up through the cracks and crannies of cement, stretched in front of the edifice. The entire erection looked like a giant dollhouse, tossed into the wilderness and forgotten, only to be taken over by the encroaching forest.
Jack padded carefully around the perimeter, sniffing cautiously, seeking the strongest scent left by the killer. He nosed his way around to the side of the building where a short flight of concrete steps led below the ground level. A basement.
When he jiggled the knob, it turned beneath his hand. Unlocked, though a barred door wouldn't have stopped him. As he stole inside, he found himself among a series of pipes and storage cages, dust and cobwebs and general clutter. A set of wooden steps in the corner wound upward. Even from the outside entrance he could hear the clear sound of footsteps above him.
*
She was naked.
The pungent odor of incense filled the room where Olivia lay on her back, her head cushioned by some soft material, her legs straight out, and her arms crossed over her breasts. The dim room was lighted by dozens of candles that cast eerie shadows on the walls. The vaulted ceiling stretched far above her head and domed in a set of paneled religious carvings.
She lay naked inside a church.
"You're awake." The disembodied voice echoed off the walls. A figure rose up from the floor to her right.
A priest, she thought at first, even though she knew. Not a priest, but Howard dressed in a priest's double-breasted black cassock and white clerical collar. He came closer and peered at her curiously. She shifted to cover her nakedness and realized that her legs and arms were immobile. She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. She blinked her eyes rapidly and tried to open her mouth.
Was she dead already?
No, he'd given her something. Something in addition to the initial pinch of the needle. Some kind of drug that affected her muscles and rendered her helpless. Panic as strong as a tidal wave smashed over her. He'd paralyzed her! Her respiratory system would shut down and she'd die. She gulped in a series of harsh gasps. Sweet air filled her lungs and fury settled in her mind.
The son of a bitch! For months, he'd worked alongside her, used his slick, cloying manners and arrogant airs to fool her. And all the while, he'd been on a murderous spree, leaving all those helpless victims in the wake of his insanity.
She slanted him a look from the corner of her eye. No, she amended, Howard wasn't insane. She took in the costume he wore, his sacrilegious posture as a priest, a holy man of the clergy. Howard was driven by religious mania, not madness. By sexual perversion, not lunacy.
Olivia realized now that the maniacal glint of his eyes, the twisted leer of his lips had always been there, but gone unnoticed. He believed he was a holy avenger punishing sinners for their evil deeds and using ancient modes of execution.
What had Jack said? For a serial killer, it was all about sex. Howard wanted to have sexual power over her, not mete out punishment for her sins. She saw the dichotomy that he wrestled with. Needing to rape her and wanting to offer her as a religious sacrifice. Coveting both, but realizing he'd have to choose one or the other.
Howard's lips moved minimally in a face set in carved stone. "Feeling the effects of my little drug concocti
on, are you, my dear?"
His eyes ran up and down her body, and she felt the arrows of a thousand stings against her flesh, the humiliation of every one of his victims. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat muscles remained locked.
"Never mind," he chortled, "the effect is short-lived. You'll be chattering like a jaybird in a few moments."
Indeed, a moment later she felt the numbness receding, the particular tingling that meant the return of feeling. But how to handle him now that he seemed practically giddy with anticipation?
When her speech returned, Olivia wet her parched lips. "Would you please cover me up?" She forced herself to remain civil, and mildly subservient. Her anger would only make matters worse as it had before.
He hesitated, brows lifted. "Of course, my dear." He reached behind him for a pristine white cloth – a surplice, she thought – unfolded it, and draped it across her body. The brief surge of gratitude she felt for the man who'd kidnapped and drugged her annoyed the hell out of her.
Howard loomed over her. If all her muscles had been working properly she could've clawed his face. Spat at him. As it was, she could only muster up a frown. "What are you… " Her voice cracked like a rusty pipe and she tried again. "What are you going to do?"
"Something holy." He swept one hand around the spacious room. Then he dipped his fingers in a small stainless bowl she hadn't noticed resting beside the platform on which she lay.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he intoned, his solemn voice echoing in the vast room.
"What's happening?" The oily moistness of his fingers touched her forehead, her chest, and her shoulders. Anointed oil. Was he baptizing her? She gazed into the face hovering over her and knew she was looking into the face of moral and psychic aberration.
"I'm giving you a new name. Henceforth and forever, you will be known by this name. When God calls you up into his sacred presence, this is the name He will use." He closed his eyes and tilted his head backwards, raising both hands and uttering the phrase. "Deo volente. Deo volente. Deo volente."