The Priest's Graveyard

by Ted Dekker

  “Can I help you?”

  Danny held out the manila envelope, on which he’d written Renee’s name. “I hope so. I’m from the law offices of Morton and Laurence and I have a document that must get into the hands of Renee Gilmore as soon as possible. I understand she’s a guest of yours.”

  “She just left.”

  “Ah.”

  “But I can take it for you.”

  He pulled the envelope back. “Sorry, state law. I can’t actually deliver it into the possession of any other person. But I could slip it under her door. Or I could put it in her mailbox. Anything as long as I don’t physically give it to another person. I know that sounds crazy, but that’s California for you.”

  A whimsical smile crossed the clerk’s mouth. “We don’t have mailboxes. She has a slot, but no door on it.”

  “That could work. Show me.”

  The young man walked to a bank of slots to his right. “Right here.” The slot that belonged to Renee Gilmore was marked 232.

  “Should work,” Danny said. “Just make sure no one but her touches it. You think that’s okay?”

  “Not a problem.”

  He handed the envelope over the counter. “Do you mind?”

  “Sure.” The manager slipped the envelope into the slot.

  Danny thanked the young man and left. He rounded the hotel, walked in past a guest who was leaving through the back entrance, and made his way up the stairs to the second floor.

  Three minutes later, he sprang the lock on number 232 and stepped into Renee Gilmore’s current place of residence.

  The room appeared hardly lived in. It was, as the name of the hotel claimed, a suite, with a door that led into a bedroom. One couch and one chair bordered a scratched but polished coffee table. A laptop computer sat open on a small desk in one corner, and next to that desk, a new red Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner.

  The worn carpet had the telltale markings of a recent vacuuming. The kitchen counters, bared of all but one sparkling glass half full of water, were spotless. Clean.

  She’d been pleased that his house was clean. Even in this way they were similar.

  He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Small bottles of pomegranate juice filled the top shelf in perfectly aligned rows. No milk. No butter. No cheese. No meat. No condiments. Two opened boxes of baking powder occupied the bottom shelf, one on each side. Vegetables filled both of the bottom drawers. Renee was clearly a vegetarian.

  He closed the door and opened the cupboards, one by one. Again, all plates and glasses were crystal clean and perfectly ordered in rows and stacks. Even the sink was spotless, not just clean but wiped down and dried. No dish towels or rags in the open—they would attract mildew and germs.

  If Danny were to guess, he would say that Renee suffered from a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder. Had she always been so orderly?

  He left the kitchen and walked to her bedroom, noting that he would have to allow for time to vacuum the carpet. She would spot the indentations from his shoes immediately.

  The bedspread was white with pink flowers. Two pillows had been fluffed and positioned at the head of the bed, not a wrinkle on either pillowcase. Three books, one about the FBI and two true-crime paperbacks by Ann Rule, were neatly stacked on the nightstand.

  Danny walked up to the books and picked up one of the true-crime paperbacks. It was titled The Stranger Beside Me, a familiar account about a serial killer named Bundy. It was there, standing by Renee’s bed and holding that small book in his hands, that Danny felt his heart begin to break.

  How often had Renee read late into the night, identifying with the accounts of these innocent victims? How often had she cried herself to sleep as she mourned the loss of the one man who had given her meaning and life?

  It was as if Danny held his own shattered heart.

  So few people thought about those left in the wake of injustice. When Bourque killed Lamont he’d also killed Renee, not once but a thousand times, night after night, with each recurring nightmare.

  Danny knew this. He had been one of those victims. His pain returned now, suddenly and with a vengeance, like the fist of God.

  He set the book back on the nightstand, slowly lowered himself to the bed, and fought to control his emotions. But the pain he’d barricaded in the deepest part of his soul raged to the surface, and he could not stop himself.

  His mother was there, in the house, screaming to be saved. But he’d let them all down.

  And now you will run away from another victim?

  Danny pushed himself up. He’d stepped on holy ground here. He’d violated Renee’s space.

  He hurried to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face, thinking only then that he was making a mess. The carpet, the bed, the sink—he’d practically ransacked her suite!

  He worked quickly, retrieving paper towels from the kitchen to wipe the sink.

  He would not peruse the contents of her computer as he had planned. He’d lost track of time. For all he knew, she was walking down the hall at this very moment.

  He had to vacuum the carpet to erase the indentations from his shoes, then get out, even though he’d learned nothing new from his visit. Unless she invited him, he would not return to her home.

  Danny headed for the living room but paused at the sliding doors of the closet. He pulled one of the doors open and stared at the shelves carefully lined with what were surely Renee’s most prized possessions.

  Jeans, T-shirts, a gray business suit, and several blouses hung from a rod to the left. Socks and underwear were carefully stacked in color order on the bottom shelves. Shoes and slippers neatly lined the floor.

  But it was the contents of the top four shelves that arrested his attention. Two pairs of binoculars—one small, one large. A night-vision scope. A pair of handcuffs. A pair of nunchaku. Three knives, one of which was longer than her arm. A set of lock picks. A camera. A pair of brass knuckles. Wire cutters and flexible wire, the kind that might be used for a garrote. A box of rat poison. At least twenty books similar to the ones on her nightstand.

  And a Browning nine-millimeter pistol.

  This was the treasure trove of an amateur obsessing over the perfect crime. As he paired the contents with an image of the young woman who’d asked him to help her kill Jonathan Bourque, Danny’s heart melted.

  It was both tragic and endearing at once.

  The sound of the front door opening jerked him from his thoughts. She was home? So soon? He hadn’t vacuumed!

  Frantic to avoid embarrassment, Danny stepped into the closet and pulled the sliding door closed as quietly as he could. He stood between her T-shirts and blouses, breathing in near-perfect darkness.

  What had he been thinking?

  15

  THE MOMENT I opened the door to my suite, I knew that something was wrong. I saw it clearly right there: The carpet had been stepped on.

  I was already in a bad place. The night before, I’d left my embarrassing encounter with Danny Hansen and was filled with a new fear that he was right—I didn’t stand a chance against my evil enemy. My mind worked furiously and I could not sleep as I conjured up all kinds of nasty endings to my own life.

  Now I saw proof-positive evidence that my enemy had entered my room and was waiting in the bedroom to kill me. The thought almost made me drop the bag of hygiene products I’d purchased.

  Instead, I tightened my grip on the plastic bag and stood perfectly still, studying those prints on my carpet. Maybe I’d walked on it before leaving. Of course that had to be it.

  The prints were fairly large, however. Much larger than mine. A man’s prints, I thought, and if I hadn’t been so freaked out I might have felt some satisfaction for that piece of detective work. But I was far too preoccupied with the possibility that someone was in my suite.

  I almost ran back out the door. Down the hall, out into the street. But then what? While I ran down the street with nowhere to go, whoever was here would ta
ke all my files and money and maybe turn me over to the police. Or wait for me to come back so he could kill me then.

  For all I knew, the person had already come and gone. Or maybe the manager had come in to set a breaker or something. With the door open behind me I had an advantage, right? I could make a quick escape from this position if I needed to.

  Heart banging away like a woodpecker on speed, I carefully set my bag down. I gripped the door frame to give myself leverage to hurl myself backward if anyone with a gun or knife suddenly bolted out of my bedroom.

  “Hello?” My voice was high-pitched and shaky, not the kind that might frighten anyone, especially not a man with a gun. No one responded.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  Still no answer.

  I weighed a dozen possible scenarios, some taken directly from my many books that detailed crimes of passion and murder. Instead of running, as the intruder would likely expect, I should play it smart and call his bluff. I could hide myself and wait for him to leave.

  The thought of going in while someone with a gun or a machete was lurking in my bedroom made my pulse peak, but I had read so many accounts of people doing stupid things in the heat of the moment, things that could have been avoided with a little thought. Like bolting.

  Redding had said he had ties with the police. If he found any incriminating evidence against me, like the suitcase full of cash under my bed, he might send them to investigate. Running away would only leave me looking over my shoulder in a fog of fear. Someone had found out where I lived, and I needed to know who and why. The best way to do that was to stay put.

  All of this flashed through my mind in a few moments while my heart tried to tear itself free from my chest.

  The drapes (which I detested because they were green, heavy, and hard to clean) hung next to the sliding glass door, which led out to a tiny balcony. If I could get to them undetected, I would be able to hide in the corner where they were bunched. I was thin enough, and the drapes hung all the way to the floor, so my feet wouldn’t stick out.

  But I would leave my own marks on the carpet. The intruder might see the tracks, follow them to the drapes, and stab his machete through the material.

  Unless I went over the couch.

  I started to move, then hesitated as another thought hit me.

  “Okay,” I called, loud enough to be heard in the whole suite. “I’m going to get the manager. I’ll be right back!” Then I slipped out of my shoes and closed the door firmly behind me.

  Snatching up my shoes, I tiptoed to the couch and walked along the cushions, down the length toward the sliding glass door. If it had been a sleeper couch, the springs might have given me away, but I could hardly hear myself. I stepped on the carpet at the end, just one step far off the beaten track. I was now committed.

  I slipped behind the drape and snugged my heels into the corner, making only the softest of bumps when the shoes in my hands knocked the wall.

  Calm down, Renee. Breathe quietly.

  Light filtered through the drape but I couldn’t see the room. I couldn’t peek without risking being caught. I wondered if I’d be able to hear the intruder shuffling around; the drape was heavy. I could only wait for the sound of the door opening and closing.

  Nothing happened. No shuffling, no creaking, no heavy breathing, no door opening and closing.

  She was still in the suite, Danny thought. He could not be sure, but as he pressed himself against the back of the closet he’d heard a distinct bump along that same wall.

  She’d cleverly called out and shut the door in an attempt to make him think she’d gone to find the manager, but then she hid behind the drapes along the back wall. This was his guess.

  He could remain where he was and wait for the silence that would assure him she was in fact gone. Or he could slip out now and risk being seen if she had any line of sight through a break in the curtains.

  On the other hand, now might be his only chance to leave undetected. If she was behind the drapes, she would more likely be staring at the back of the curtains, terrorized, than boldly peering out to catch the intruder.

  Then again, she’d shown herself to be surprisingly bold.

  The thought of her seeing him was so disturbing that it incapacitated him. He, a priest, caught violating her space? If he were in anyone else’s room, his decision would have come quickly, but his empathy for her was befuddling and frightening.

  He was about to slide the door open and take his chances when another thought presented itself to him. The bathroom was more often than not a person’s first destination upon returning from an errand. His only better chance of escape might come when she entered the bathroom to use the toilet. For a few seconds, any sound he made running from the room would be masked by the sound of rushing water.

  If he could remain hidden until that moment, he was sure he could get out unseen. To that end he’d made a mistake when he entered her closet. She would surely check it first. She would throw open the shower door. She would press her face on the carpet and look under her bed. She might very well check them all ten times.

  But there was a small balcony off the bedroom as well. And sliding doors with drapes. He couldn’t go outside, though. He wouldn’t be able to hear the toilet flushing and then make his escape.

  Statistically speaking, however, drapes were the most often overlooked hiding place in a house, because people tended to view them as an extension of the wall.

  If he hid behind the curtain as she had—

  A loud bump from the next room cut his thoughts short. She was moving.

  I would say it was my inexperience that made me panic, but it could just as well have been because the heroin had destroyed half my brain cells and left me a little stupid, like Lamont sometimes said.

  I don’t know how much time passed, but to me it felt like a lifetime, and I suddenly thought I had made a terrible mistake. Whoever had entered my room might have already left and taken all my money and files with him! The police might show up at any moment with handcuffs!

  Or, if the intruder left now while I hid behind the drapes, he would escape with my stuff and then send the police. Either way, I couldn’t just hide here! I had to know the truth, so I could escape. Or I had to stop him from leaving.

  I couldn’t think past this sudden realization, and so I threw the drapes aside and ran out, bumping the wall with my elbow as I did.

  If anyone was in the suite, they must have heard me, so I didn’t pretend any longer.

  “Okay, I know you’re in here, okay?” The sound of my voice gave me a little confidence, so I continued, storming into my bedroom. “I saw your tracks on my carpet. I have a gun! I swear I’ll blow your head off if you don’t come out with your hands up!”

  I shoved my hand under my blouse and pointed my finger like a gun. I didn’t know how else to hide the obvious fact that I had no weapon.

  The room was empty. But there were tracks all over the carpet. And my bedspread was rumpled as if someone had sat down—I would never have left it such a mess.

  “Out!” I screamed. “Get out here!”

  For the first time in a very long time, Danny was having difficulty thinking clearly. Renee had done the unthinkable by barging out of hiding, and by doing something so unexpected, she’d played her hand brilliantly, intentional or not.

  His indecision had cost him precious minutes. He was now immobilized and at her mercy.

  Part of him wanted to rush out, fall to his knees, confess all, and beg for her forgiveness. Part of him wanted to melt into the wall behind him, hoping against reason that she would go into the bathroom before checking the closet. Maybe even flush the toilet.

  All of him wished he was in the budget meeting rather than in her closet.

  Danny pressed his hands against the wall at his back and breathed a pointless prayer.

  I was yelling not because it was a smart thing to do, but because I was terrified and furious at once, and because no one was coming out w
ith his hands raised in the air. I took my hand out from under my shirt. It was ridiculous anyway.

  He was gone. Or he was hiding. But why would anyone like Redding hide from me? It made no sense. I could hurl all of my hundred pounds at a man like Redding and maybe, if I was lucky, put a dent in his shirt.

  Which could only mean the intruder was no longer here.

  I rushed to the bathroom door and spun in. Empty. I raced to the shower and pulled the curtain wide. Untouched.

  I ran back to the bedroom, dropped to my knees, and bent low to look under the bed. Nothing but the suitcase I kept my money in. It hadn’t been moved. Relief flooded my mind. If they hadn’t taken my money…Well, that was a good sign. Maybe the manager had come in to check on a maintenance issue. He’d done it once before, explaining when I complained that it was his hotel.

  That left the closet.

  I stood and stared at the sliding door. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it made no sense for anyone like Redding to hide from me. He would want to intimidate me, not sneak out on me. He would be the one with the machete, not the one hiding in the closet.

  But still, there was that closet. It was always the closet.

  I walked across the room, and just to be safe I gave one final warning to offset my fresh surge of fear.

  “I told you, I have a gun and don’t think I won’t shoot. I have a hair trigger. And I’m ticked.”

  I held my breath, hesitated a few long moments while tingles washed down my neck, and then I shoved the sliding door wide. They were all there, all my carefully placed possessions, set where I’d left them on my shelves. Not one had been touched.

  I glanced to my left, at my shirts, which hung from hangers so they wouldn’t have any creases in them. But the shirts were not the only thing there.

  The priest, Father Danny Hansen, who’d thrown me out of his house last night because he thought I was such a silly little girl, stared at me from between two pink shirts at the back of the closet.