The Redeemed

by Jonas Saul

  She managed the stairs relatively well, leaning into the railing until she reached the bottom where she stopped walking and used the wall to stay upright.

  Mike stepped around her and led the way down the corridor to the next stairwell. He looked back once. She stayed close behind him, her naked form tight, sinewy.

  A floor below, at the small window he installed in the wall, Mike looked in at Father George. The man was on his knees in the center of the room, a rosary wrapped around his clasped hands, head tilted back, praying.

  Mike slammed the wall and yelled, “Where’s your God now? You think whispering words and looking skyward will save you?” Mike roared with laughter. “If there really is a God, I would love to see him.” He turned to Eve. “Do you believe in God?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good girl. Smart girl.” Back at the window, George was on his feet. He mouthed something, but the room was too sealed to hear him.

  “What’s that?” Mike shouted.

  Father George’s mouth moved but nothing came out.

  “To hell with you, George.” He pointed to a small lever in the wall beside Eve. “Push that down, will you?”

  Eve complied.

  Mike pressed his face up against the glass and watched as dense smoke emitted from the vent on the wall.

  Eve stepped closer and peeked inside the room, too. She frowned when she saw Father George.

  “Let me explain,” Mike said. Eve’s pleading eyes met his. “This room is sealed off and the walls are lined with asbestos. Encased inside the room, I filled a holding tank with concentrated sulfuric acid. That lever you just pushed,” he pointed at it again, “released cyanide pellets into the sulfuric acid which turns it into hydrogen cyanide gas. Basically, it’s an asphyxiant gas, similar to the kind used in the chambers where they gassed people during World War II.”

  Eve’s forehead glistened and her eyes widened as she struggled with what he was telling her. She peeked through the small window again. Mike followed her gaze.

  Father George held his throat, his mouth wide, gasping for a clean breath.

  “Take a couple large breaths, Father George. Get that gas deep inside. You’ll die faster and avoid a painful, prolonged death. Hurry up the process.” Mike looked at his watch.

  Eve looked away. She gagged as she bumped into the wall.

  “Hey, take it easy. Don’t you go throwing up on me.”

  Mike took one last look at Father George. He had moved to the vent in the wall. He ripped at the homemade seal around it, even as his body was convulsing with death.

  “Nooo,” Mike yelled. “Leave that alone.”

  If the seal broke, some of the toxic gas would enter the corridor. He would need an oxygen mask to survive. But the only oxygen mask he had was in his van at the rear of the building.

  Father George’s body bucked and kicked as the gas took over.

  Eve gagged behind her sealed off mouth.

  Everything was coming apart too fast, unraveling. He needed Eve to finish his mission. Eve was there in the beginning in the Garden of Eden with Adam and he needed Eve to be there at the end.

  Father George was still now, the contortions over, life finished, death accomplished.

  Mike grabbed Eve and slapped her. Her bladder released and the strong scent of urine filled the hallway. She was devolving in front of him, her throat convulsing.

  The only way to save her was to get the duct tape off her mouth. He grabbed it around the back of her neck and pulled. Eve moaned louder than at any other time before. None of the tape came away, only hair.

  He pulled again but only succeeded in lifting Eve up a couple of feet.

  Everything he had worked for with Eve, the risks he had taken, the money spent on her, unraveled as she vomited in her mouth again and again.

  “No, no, no …”

  Her cheeks distended as her mouth filled with bile with nowhere to go. As her stomach clenched and more vomit shot upward, Eve had no chance to swallow it back in time. As she choked on her own liquids, he released her. She dropped to the floor in a fit of seizures and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Tan-colored stomach contents spilled out her nostrils, cutting off all airways and after another seizure, she stilled on the floor at his feet.

  “Mother Mary! Now what?”

  If he had known she would throw up at the sight of Father George’s death, he wouldn’t have brought her down for it.

  “Dammit.”

  He kicked her naked corpse.

  “What a waste. I was just thinking we could have more fun before the fireworks later.”

  He looked in at Father George’s body. It didn’t appear that George had much success in breaking the seal on the vent, but it was hard to tell as the interior was mostly filled with the white gas.

  Mike made up his mind. There was no way he was vacating this building without his African Rock Python. He would take Eve upstairs for one more bout of love making while she was still warm and then leave her to rot.

  Instead of pulling her upstairs by her hands and being too close to her putrid vomit, he grabbed her ankles.

  “I’m so sorry you had to die like this. I had much better plans for you.”

  On each stair, her head bounced with a thud. Vomit dripped from her nose, leaving a grotesque trail, a reminder of his mistake.

  “This is all because of the Catholics. I had to do this because of what the Catholics did in Croatia.” He spoke to Eve as if she could still hear him. “Back in the forties, a man named Anton, a practicing Catholic and regular visitor to the Vatican, ran several extermination camps. One of them was headed by a Franciscan friar. They were called the Catholic Ustashi.” At the top of the stairs, he paused and looked back. “Are you listening?” After not getting a response, he started up the last set of stairs dragging Eve’s body behind him.

  “The Catholic Ustashi burned their victims alive.” He glanced back again. “It’s a true story. I wouldn’t lie to you. That’s why Father George had to die this way. You understand, don’t you? The eye-for-an-eye thing, live by the sword, die by the sword doesn’t work for humans and for God. But it works great for my boss. In the end, he just gets more souls.”

  When he got to the bedroom, he dragged her body over to the bed where he set her feet down. Careful to keep her vomit-leaking head near the pillow area where he wouldn’t spend much time, he lifted her front half up first, then her feet up. He pulled her feet to the end and spread her legs wide. Her neck was craned in an odd position but that didn’t matter. He had no use for the upper part of her body. The urine glistening along her inner thighs aroused him.

  He began to undress.

  “Have you ever heard of Herman Mudgett?”

  Eve didn’t respond.

  “I didn’t think so. His other name was Dr. Henry Howard Holmes. He’s referred to as America’s first serial killer. In Chicago, he built a huge mansion, which he called ‘The Castle.’”

  Mike had his pants off and worked on the buttons of his shirt.

  “Inside this mansion, there were trap doors, secret passageways, fake walls, and hidden staircases.” He held up a finger. “But here’s the best part. He lined rooms with asbestos so they could be turned into homemade gas chambers.” Mike removed his underwear. “He was my inspiration for what happened to Father George.”

  Mike crawled onto the bed. Then he pulled on Eve’s hips, raising her buttocks to better suit him. Her skin was clammy and already cool to the touch. He would have to hurry or she would get too cold too fast for his liking.

  “Good old Herman was accredited for twenty-seven murders, but they think there were a lot more.” He stroked his member until he was ready. “I want to beat that number. That really turns me on. To be known for such atrocities does wonders for the self-esteem. Counting you, I now have seven deaths at my hand. Seven, count them.”

  He leaned in closer, ready for her now.

  “I should reach ten before I do the rest in
one explosion. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? One big bang, just like how the Earth started. One big bang and twenty or thirty people will be executed at once. Maybe more, if I can pack them in.”

  He touched her cool skin with his member.

  “Just like right now. One big bang and you’re done.” He laughed. “I’ll be done, too.”

  As he entered her corpse, the snake rattled its cage in the corner.

  Chapter 11

  The deafening report of Miles’ gun beside Sarah’s face didn’t slow her down. Her right hand shoved the slide back and clicked the slide stop into position all in one fluid motion. The gun was immobilized.

  Sarah snapped down at the base of Miles’ forearm and twisted his wrist back as far as it would go.

  He yelped at the sudden sharp pain and his grip opened.

  In her peripheral vision, she picked up movement behind Miles. His friends were moving in.

  The M1911 dropped out of his hand and into hers. With her butt still firmly planted on the hood of the car, she kicked him away with her good foot, dropped the slide stop back into place, slipped her finger inside the trigger guard, aimed and fired.

  The first bullet went wide. She fired again, hitting face-tattoo man in the calf. Miles made a break for the bushes.

  “Freeze,” Sarah shouted.

  She fired twice into the pavement by his feet which stopped him, his hands in the air.

  A car squealed to a stop nearby. Doors opened.

  “Drop the weapon!” someone shouted behind her.

  “Identify yourselves,” Sarah yelled back without taking her eyes off Miles.

  Someone whispered, “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “We’re the Los Angeles Police. Drop the fucking weapon. Now!”

  The third gangbanger had disappeared in the bushes. Miles faced away with his hands up. His tattooed friend writhed on the ground holding his leg, a tight expression of pain on his face.

  Sarah released the handle of the gun and let it dangle with her finger inside the trigger guard. Then she lowered it slowly and let it go when it was a foot from the pavement.

  The cops moved in fast. One of the officers kicked the gun under Parkman’s rental. He grabbed Sarah from behind and yanked her arms back.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the cop yelled in her ear. “You just shot that guy in the leg.”

  “Officer,” Parkman said. “Take it easy. That’s not how it happened.”

  The cop turned around. “Stay back there. By the car door. You’ll get your turn. Keep your hands in the air.”

  More cruisers pulled in. Two other cops cuffed Miles’ wrists. He cried out when they grabbed the wrist Sarah had wrenched. Two paramedics ran for the guy on the ground.

  The cop picked up Sarah’s crutch and helped her to her feet. He attempted to support her, but with her hands cuffed behind her back and no weight on the crutch, she leaned into him too much.

  “Shit,” Sarah said. “This isn’t going to work—”

  As she started to fall, the cop stepped away. All she could think to do was protect her broken ankle. She lifted it high in the second it took to smash her right shoulder into the cement. The grunt that escaped her lips couldn’t be helped. The wind was knocked from her lungs. As she coughed and struggled to breathe again, Vicky stepped into view, a smile from ear to ear on her face.

  “How does it feel?” she asked.

  Sarah’s response was another cough.

  “I’m Officer Vicky Chard.” She leaned down close to Sarah. “How did you know my name? I’ve been working undercover for a long time nailing deadbeat johns. But this operation was for Miles Johnson. Then you walk up, name me, and shoot at my suspect with his own gun. Who the hell are you?”

  Sarah caught her breath, but her shoulder ached from the hit. She rested her cast on the cement and laid her head back. She had no idea how she knew Jessica’s or Vicky’s names or how to disarm Miles’ gun. It was all Vivian’s doing. But if so, why still give messages through automatic writing? Why not just talk directly inside her head?

  “Why did you grab Miles’ gun?” Vicky asked. “You paramilitary trained or something?”

  “She just knows stuff,” Parkman said. “That’s Sarah Roberts.”

  Vicky straightened up and turned to face Parkman.

  “That would make you her colleague, Parkman?”

  “You know us?”

  “We all heard she was in town. Most of us steered clear for fear of hurting her by accident.” Vicky looked back at Sarah. “Your reputation with the authorities precedes you.”

  The cop who had let her fall came back over. “Oh, are you Sarah Roberts?” he asked, mock surprise on his face. He placed a hand on each cheek, his mouth a gaping hole. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” He got down and removed the cuffs.

  Detective Hirst had kept them isolated from the local cops in case some of them got the wrong idea about her. But now Hirst was nowhere around.

  “Can I help her up?” Parkman asked.

  Vicky nodded and stepped back to give him room. He slipped both hands under her arms and lifted her back onto the hood of the car.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Miles was escorted to a waiting cruiser. He had fired his weapon inches from her face. There had to be attempted murder charges waiting for him. The other guy was on a stretcher being wheeled to a waiting ambulance.

  “That was fast,” Sarah said, having caught her breath.

  “What was?” Vicky asked.

  “Your response time.” Sarah turned to her. “Everyone was waiting around the corner.” Knowing she was right, Sarah continued. “You were planning a bust tonight, but not for the johns. That’s the reason for so many cops and an ambulance.”

  “Why are you here?” Vicky asked. “Was it just to find Mercedes?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you?”

  “Try me.”

  “Then yes, we just wanted to talk to Mercedes.”

  “Weren’t you working with homicide on the priest killings?” Vicky asked.

  “You know a lot.”

  Vicky turned to the officer who let Sarah fall. “Hey, Russ, I got this. Go ahead and I’ll meet you downtown.”

  Russ grunted and turned away, the smile never leaving his face.

  “Come have a coffee with me,” Vicky said. “We’ll talk about Mercedes.”

  Parkman moved in to help Sarah, but she waved him off, pulled the crutch under her shoulder and started for the breakfast restaurant.

  With Vicky a few steps ahead of them, Parkman asked, “What’s happening, Sarah? How are you getting all their names? How did you know to do that to the gun?”

  “I’m not really sure. But whatever it is, I’m loving it.”

  She caught him staring at her.

  “Are you saying you did not have foreknowledge of that gun?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. But if Vivian wants to keep planting stuff in my head when I need it, I don’t mind. Miles entered that parking lot with intent tonight. Without Vivian, I might have gotten hurt.”

  Vicky turned around. “Did I hear you say you might have gotten hurt with Miles?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “The last girl he hurt is still in the hospital. We suspect he’s killed a few. When I saw him pull the gun on you, I didn’t approach until backup arrived.” She stared hard at Sarah. “He intended to kill you, or at the very least, maim you.”

  “Great. Thanks. I feel so much better knowing how close he came.”

  Vicky reached the restaurant’s door and opened it for Sarah. Once they were seated and had ordered coffees, Sarah asked about Mercedes.

  “Before I answer,” Vicky said, “what’s your interest?”

  A police cruiser pulled out, the lights reflecting off the restaurant’s window. Sarah wondered why no one offered Vicky a jacket to cover up. Maybe she’d been doing this so long she was comfortable being half exposed.

  “We’re
not sure yet, but we think Mercedes is involved or has knowledge about the priest killings.”

  “What kind of knowledge?” Vicky asked.

  “No idea.” Sarah smiled. “Gotta ask her.”

  “Are you being smart with me?”

  “I’m looking for Mercedes. You ask me for what kind of knowledge. Until I ask Mercedes, I have no idea what she knows or doesn’t know. So no, I’m not being smart with you.”