Shadow of a Killer

by David Anderson

  “No one can condemn what you did,” Fr. Sergio insisted, “It was your only possibility of survival. God provided–”

  “Provided nothing! He was there and I prayed to him but he wouldn’t answer.”

  “By his miracle you survived.”

  “It was desperation, not a miracle!” I shouted through a screen of tears.

  “It was both. Don’t judge God or yourself, Cal.”

  My shoulders shook and my whole body seemed to deflate to a shaking, trembling mass. Fr. Sergio embraced me tightly and wouldn’t let go until I finally stopped sobbing.

  A doctor came in and injected something into my arm. I fell into a deep sleep and María came to me, smiling and whole and alive. My heart soared with happiness. But all too soon, she began to fall back and fade away. I reached out desperately to hold her, make her stay.

  Then I woke up. She was gone. My tears flowed all over again. This time there was no comfort.

  Chapter 54

  In the belfry of the old stone church across the road from the hospital, the eleven o’clock bell rang for a special mass, to be celebrated by the Bishop of Rancagua, Monsignor Carlos Concetti. I pulled the rim of my hat down until it touched the top of my sunglasses, kept my head lowered, and slipped in by a side door. No one paid me any attention. Ten days after my talk with Fr. Sergio and I was still weak and underweight, still emaciated really, but fit enough now to get about for short distances on my own. My new clothes, from a Santiago high street store, had been anonymously donated.

  I had so much to be thankful for, and today I wanted to express my gratitude by attending the mass and listening to the proceedings. The church was broad, full of stained glass, dark wood and creamy white candles, and about three quarters full. I sat at the back, at the end of the centre aisle, where I could see the activity up at the front. Three brightly robed priests moved around in various ways I didn’t quite follow, the Bishop gave a short homily and then moved down to preside over the mass itself. Despite not knowing the language, the rhythm of the liturgy wrapped itself gently around me. I found myself lulled and soothed by the harmony of words and motions.

  When the time came, even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to, I stood up and went to the front along with everyone else. Copying the person in front of me, I knelt and received the little wafer in my mouth, crossed myself and moved on. It felt good, pure, a cleansing thing. Cool fire melting on my tongue. The same mouth which had committed such grave sin now longed for the body of Christ.

  Afterwards, I hung around as planned, exploring the nooks and crannies of the building with my eyes, until the church was completely empty. Only then did a priest come out and lead me into a back room.

  As soon as I entered the room the Bishop stood up and we embraced. It felt natural and unforced. He was tall, wiry and bald, with steel rimmed glasses. The mitre and fancy robes were gone, and he now wore a plain white gown with a purple clerical collar. A big ruby ring adorned his right index finger.

  “You came early,” he said. For a moment I panicked. He must know I was at the service. Took mass when I shouldn’t have . . .

  I ignored his comment and thanked him for agreeing to see me.

  “Not at all,” he replied, “Fr. Sergio and I go a long way back. He said it would help you and I was coming here today anyway. Let’s talk privately.”

  He led me into an even smaller room where there were only two chairs with a small, narrow table between them.

  “May I call you Cal?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “Well, Cal, you asked to make your confession to Fr. Sergio and he explained why that wasn’t possible, as you are not a Catholic. Instead, he thought it would help you to talk to me. I’m happy to listen and here” – he looked around the small room – “we are alone and can have an informal confession if you wish. I hope that meets your needs.”

  I said it did and he spoke a short prayer. Then he sat sideways to me and I got on with it. The words flowed easily, as if they were bursting to get out. At the end he nodded several times before looking up.

  “Like Fr. Sergio, I do not hesitate to endorse what you did,” he said in his slow, measured way, “You did not take the decision lightly. That you waited so long proves that. Your sober and religious spirit, then and now, is commendable.”

  “But, Monsignor–”

  “Call me Father, if it’s easier.”

  “Father, what about the cannibalism?”

  “Your anthropophagy was allowable to stay alive. It was your only possibility of survival. Therefore it cannot be condemned.”

  “I condemn myself.”

  “Don’t torment yourself, Cal, you’ve already been through enough. Don’t blame yourself for something you would not blame in someone else.”

  “People are already blaming me.” I’d managed to borrow a laptop to while away the long hours in bed. The BBC had been first out with the story and, despite the shock of seeing myself on their website, it hadn’t been too bad. I’d expected it. There was a lot worse to come once planes and helicopters located the crash site. It was a story made for the National Enquirer and, sure enough, they and their like jumped on it. In one multi-page spread I came across, the magazine had printed photographs of María’s uncovered limbs and bones, under the headline; ‘May God Forgive Him’. I’d had to be sedated that day.

  “Yes, you will have many challenges still ahead.”

  No kidding. The Enquirer-type rags had just been a few of many exploiters. The news media had let loose and there was no sign of any let up in the floodtide of broadcasts and editorials. Journalists were besieging the hospital more than ever before and there were now two security guards permanently stationed at my ward doors. Their full time job was showing reporters unceremoniously to the exit.

  “Morally,” the Bishop continued, “I, and the Church, see no objection to what you had to do. It was a question of survival, Cal. It was necessary, in spite of the natural repugnance it evoked in you, and now in others.”

  My rational mind told me he was right. The one piece of sympathetic coverage I’d found on the internet was L'Osservatore Romano, the news site for the Vatican, which had pronounced me blameless, for the same reasons the Bishop was now giving me. So why couldn’t I accept it, and to hell with gutter journalism and gossip magazines?

  “It was so different than they’re all saying,” I replied, hearing the hurt in my own voice, “It was like a kind of communion with her, with God for that matter. Like she was giving herself for me.”

  “I know what you’re saying, Cal. It was not equivalent or comparable to the Holy Mass of course, but it was a spiritual communion for you, giving you inspiration needed to carry on, and therefore legitimate.”

  There was one more thing haunting me. “Father, why me? Why not her? If God helped me to survive, then why did he allow María to die, and die so horribly? It seems, well, so terribly arbitrary.”

  It was a long time before he answered me. “We have to trust that God is love, Cal. Sometimes, however, he does not send us his angels to help us when we need them.” He paused again, thinking some more. “María is now with God in heaven and you are a changed man, stronger and more courageous, more serious about life. More than that, I cannot say.”

  The Bishop then prayed again. I felt his hand on my head as he gave me a blessing. Afterwards, I thanked him for his time and we parted with a warm embrace. I felt strengthened and grateful for the man’s wisdom.

  I left by the big front doors, still deep in thought. It was a mistake.

  Outside, at the top of the steps, a woman in a headscarf stood directly in front of me, blocking my way.

  “Señor Knox?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  For the first time I noticed she had a small child with her, hugging her legs, so young it looked barely able to stand. She pushed the child between us.

  “Señor Knox, my son Maximiliano is very sick. If you can embrace him, say a prayer for his healing, I a
m sure the Virgin will hear you and Maximiliano will become well again. Please, Señor.”

  I was stunned. Obviously this woman thought I was some sort of walking miracle worker. If I only hugged her boy, healing power would flow out of me and he would be cured. My mouth opened and shut. I literally didn’t know what to say or do.

  To get it over with, I picked the boy up, hugged him tightly, and put my hand on his head the way the Bishop had done to me. Then I closed my eyes and silently began to count to twenty. Halfway through, I heard men talking rapidly, commotion, and bright lights flashed in front of my eyelids.

  I opened my eyes and saw a mass of reporters and photographers flocking around me.

  “God bless you, Señor, God bless you!” The woman grabbed the child out of my arms and hurried away. Microphones appeared like magic in front of my face.

  “Mr. Knox, can you comment on how you survived?”

  “What was your relationship with María Suarez?”

  “How does it feel to have eaten human flesh?”

  “Are you denying it?”

  “What were you doing in the church?”

  “Do you now feel you have healing powers?”

  The questions came fast as bullets, and just as deadly. My head swam as I pushed my way through the throng, hoping they’d give up and it would just stop.

  Relentlessly, they followed me all the way back to the hospital.

  And that was just the beginning.

  Chapter 55

  Fort Stuart, British Columbia, a year later.

  When I drifted back into consciousness my head was throbbing but the bleeding had stopped. Immediately I found the automatic near my hand and listened for sounds of Bautista but heard none. How long had I been out? I had no way of knowing; maybe just a few minutes even though it seemed longer. Or perhaps my unconsciousness hadn’t been total and something in me had still been alert and listening. A sound might have brought me back up again. What had it been? Again I listened, ears like radar, but could detect nothing.

  Making no sound, I peered out from behind the corrugated iron sheets. On my right, seeming further away than it really was, the entrance showed as a dark grey rectangle amid the general blackness. No shadowy figure stood there. The broken windows above and across from me were too high and noisy for Bautista to access that way. The floor of the hangar was, I recalled, fairly clear of debris and obstructions, apart from the corners where there was all kinds of garbage. Keep away from those and, assuming my legs would bear me, I should be able to move around quietly.

  The rusty iron sheeting gave me some protection but if Bautista managed to get across to this wall he could approach silently and fire under the sheets, knowing I’d likely be hiding there. I left the backpack where it was and crept out the far side.

  The moon must have become completely obscured as it was now pitch dark in the hangar. I stood up; knowing that even a cat would have trouble seeing me. There was no sudden rush, no muzzle flash and shots ringing out. All was still and motionless in the black ink surrounding me. I retreated to the back wall, placing each step slowly and carefully. There was an old doorway there but it was boarded up. I stopped when I reached it.

  Silence reigned, broken only by the pounding of my heart. I should have been terrified, as I knew the tiger must be here, crouching ready to spring. The few minutes of unconsciousness must have done me good, as my panic was gone. Instead, I now felt relatively calm, reminding myself that even Bautista couldn’t see in total darkness. My job now was to make sure he didn’t wound me again with a lucky shot, leaving me helpless for him to finish off. I had to find him before he found me.

  At last I heard a scuffling somewhere ahead and on my left. I steadied my hand on the automatic and waited. The scuffling stopped. Then it began again, louder this time, and getting closer. My ears honed in on it, sure now that it was coming from the left wall of the hangar, about halfway down. I held the Sig Sauer rock steady with both hands and aimed it at the spot.

  The trampling sounds continued. Is he crazy? He must hear himself. Have I deafened him with a bullet or something? I had to take advantage of his carelessness, finish it now while I could. My finger tightened on the trigger.

  I fired, again and again. Four, five, maybe six rounds until the hammer clicked and told me the clip was all used up. As I fired I sensed I wasn’t hitting him, that I’d got something badly wrong. Even then, when he fired back the angle shocked me. Flashes came from way over on my right. I ran forward, tripped over something like a brick or lump of wood, and fell prone to the ground. Another round thudded into the concrete near my shoulder. He was shooting low, knowing full well I had to be on the floor.

  Silence again. I lay defenceless, an empty clip in my Sig Sauer, unwilling to move and risk more of Bautista’s bullets. What had just happened? I wracked my brains to figure it out. The scuffling on the left side of the hangar had sounded exactly like footsteps. Did Bautista have an accomplice? Sure, they had been strangely noisy, almost a bit random . . .

  “This place is full of rats.” Bautista’s voice was low, ominous, sneering, “If you’d grown up as I did, you’d recognise their sounds.”

  I tried to locate the voice. He was still on my right but the hangar was just one large black box, impossible for my eyes to fix on any specific spot. Wherever he was, I had to reload, get up, and vie for an advantage. My hand slid down to my jacket pocket and slowly undid the zip.

  Another shot rang out, this time pinging off the concrete floor down next my knee.

  “Am I getting closer?” the voice taunted, “Maybe that one got you? I’m in no hurry anyway.”

  The damned voice was floating, as if he was projecting it across the hangar like a ventriloquist. I couldn’t locate it with any precision at all. Our contest had rapidly become guerrilla warfare, something he was obviously used to, and was far more skilled at than me. In our life and death game of field chess, one more false move by me and I’d be in checkmate.

  My sole aim in life now was to get out of the hangar. But I was terrified of moving so much as a finger in case he would fire again and get me. The sliding of my shoes on the rough concrete, even a crack of my knee joints while getting up, might give me away.

  I fought down the fear, reminded myself of what I’d already been through and overcome, and very gradually eased the fresh ammo clip out of my pocket. Then slowly brought it up to the Sig Sauer. I went over the sequence in my head; eject the spent clip, slide in the new one, put a round in the chamber, point and fire. The sort of thing a trained professional does without thinking. I was no pro.

  “Say your prayers, Knox. You’re about to die.” The voice had shifted but remained even-toned, calm, and impossible to pin down. Still, it was encouraging to know that he too feared a lucky shot and was keeping on the move. His continued comments were meant to provoke a response, from which he would be able to tell if I was still in the same place and whether I’d been seriously hit or not. I kept my mouth tight shut.

  “You weren’t the first, you know. That slut María was a bitch in heat.”

  I was up on my hands and knees before I knew what I was doing. He fired again and made the rest of my movements completely automatic. I rose up like a sprinter out of his blocks and ran towards the entranceway. My hands moved, the old ammo clip clattered on the floor behind me, the new clip went in, my arm swung around and I fired several times at where I thought he was standing.

  Bautista screamed. It was glorious, the most welcome and lovely sound I’d ever heard in my life. His firing instantly stopped. I’ve got the bastard! My intention to get out instantly forgotten, I swung around, ready to fire again.

  The damnable silence returned. I listened intently for moans or groans, the sound of crawling, a gasp of pain, anything to indicate how badly Bautista was hit. Nothing. Have I killed him?

  Only one way to find out. I took several steps forward, deeper into the hangar again, closer to where he had to be hiding. The blackness enveloped me ev
en more. Physically, I could feel the adrenalin draining out of me, like a wave retreating from the shore. I staggered a bit on my aching feet and my head swam. The scalp injury had weakened me most. A wave of fatigue swept over me. I craved rest, sleep.

  There were plenty of little sounds coming from all directions; rats again, I assumed. Rotten planks expanding or contracting in the warm night. Scurries, creaks, the whirring of an insect flying near my face. Bautista somewhere among it all. I held the Sig Sauer aloft, trying to pick out a sound that could only be human. With only the remains of this clip and one more left, I wanted to be sure before firing again.

  I picked out a different kind of creak. A leather shoe taking three or four steps? Then a slight muffling, as if he was walking on a soft, dusty patch. Another crack – a footstep on dry wood! I pointed the automatic, ready to fire.

  By now I was pretty sure that Bautista had moved away from the right side of the hangar and crossed over toward the centre. All his noises had stopped, suggesting he was either standing perfectly still or, more likely, lying down on the floor to give me the toughest target possible. He was waiting for me to show myself, hoping I would make for the doorway.

  I spread my feet further apart to steady myself and very carefully bent my knees. In slow motion I touched my palms to the floor and spread myself prone, facing the centre of the hangar. If I was wrong about Bautista, so be it. I had to keep playing this game of odds and of waiting to its deadly conclusion.

  There we lay, separated from each other by maybe fifteen or twenty feet of space, neither of us daring to move or make a sound. My ears, and the taste of blood dribbling into the corner of my mouth, were the only senses I had left. A century – maybe five minutes – trickled by. Then I heard him. He was there all right, exactly where I’d estimated. Strangely, he drew a deep breath, a sort of slow, almost silent sigh. But it was not quite noiseless. I clenched the Sig Sauer tightly, closed my finger on the trigger, tempted to fire. But I would still have been shooting blindly into inky blackness. If I missed, which was likely, he’d see the flash of my muzzle and fire right back at me, but far more accurately.