Relentless (Elisabeth Reinhardt Book 1)

by Nancy Alexander

  Jake was coming undone. He knew the cops would be returning any minute with those damn dogs. He knew he wouldn’t be able to control his ‘gang’ much longer. They were out of money and he was going to be killed, or worse, sent to jail forever. He had to think. He needed some time to get his head together. Roughly, he pushed the priest toward his study in the back of the church. The priest’s study was a quiet room, a place for reading and quiet conversation. Shelves of books and holy objects were arranged around a worn black leather sofa and three smaller arm chairs done in muted woven fabric. A black desk pad with matching pencil holder sat on an old schoolmarm’s desk strewn with books and papers. Father Wallington walked behind his desk to a worn leather chair and sat with his hands folded on the desk. “Mind if I use your phone, Padre?” Jake asked, enunciating every syllable sarcastically as he walked over to the priest and lifted the receiver from the old black phone and yanked the cord out of the wall. Then he reached into the priest’s pocket and extracted his cell phone. He walked into the community room eyes on the priest sitting at his desk and paced. He had intended to go into town and find those two old ladies who knew where Reggie was but it was getting too hot to stay around here anymore. Too risky…he had a better idea. Pleased with himself he dialed a number from memory, pacing as he talked.

  “Hey, Ruff n Red-y old buddy,” he started out, “It’s me. Yea! Hey old Buddy, I need you to check something out for me. No, listen Bud I have to make this quick. I need you to find out where this gal is. Yea… (Whispering...) That was her name at the time. Think maybe so. Not sure what it would be. I’m in a load of shit ….Red-y my friend.”

  He listened for a while, rubbing his chin and nodding ‘uh uh’s into the phone. “I need it quick, Man. Good. If all goes well, we’ll meet at ‘Sit in.’ He listened some more. “Sure, that’s a plan, I’ll hold onto this one. Thanks buddy, I owe you one! You find her for me OK, Buddy?” he said and clicked off. He then strode back to the window and watched Slim and Custer in the garage. It looked like they were taking the car apart. He only hoped they would do it fast enough to get them out of there in time.

  Jake strode back into the study swearing angrily, knocked some books off some shelves, knocked over a lamp and kicked a footstool. The man’s calm bothered him. He couldn’t understand why the priest wasn’t scared of him. It was weird. He should have been frightened. “What the hell is wrong with you man?!” he shouted.

  “What do you mean, my son,” the priest answered calmly. “Stop calling me ‘son,’ you aren’t my G-d Damned father,” Jake spat out.

  “Alright,” the priest replied, “what shall I call you?”

  “How about asshole?” Jake sneered.

  “I’m sorry,” the priest shook his head, “I can’t call you that. What’s your name?”

  Oh, what the hell, Jake thought, “Call me Jake.”

  “Alright, Jake, what did you want to talk to me about?” the priest asked reasonably.

  “I want MONEY,” Jake blurted out angrily, “MONEY, MONEY, MONEY!”

  “I see, well, Jake, we are a small church,” the priest began, but Jake flew across the room and leaned menacingly across the desk.

  “Don’t give me that shit, Man, you have money. The Vatican sends you money. The Fucking POPE sends you lots of money and I want it. I want all the money you have or I’ll start shooting everyone I see.”

  “Of course, I’ll give you what I have, Jake, but it’s not much,” the priest swiveled his desk chair and reached to open a cabinet behind him when he heard the gun click.

  “Hold on there, Father,” he heard Jake warn, “let me see your hands, up in the air, high.” Father Wallington raised his hands. Jake came around and bent over to see what was in the cabinet in front of the priest. There was a small combination safe behind the doors. No gun. No knife. Nothing else.

  “OK,” said Jake, “open it.” He stood bending over the priest’s shoulder watching his every move. The safe opened to reveal a small grey box. The priest took it out and put it on his desk.

  “Shall I open it?” he asked politely.

  “Yeeesss pleeease, Father,” Jake drawled with exaggerated politeness.

  The priest sighed, looked up at the petulant killer and then took a key from his pocket and opened the lock box. Inside were several stacks of bills. One of $1.00 bills, maybe 20 of them. One was a stack of $5.00 bills, perhaps 10 of them. And one was a stack of $20 bills, perhaps 5 of them. Taking the money out the priest counted out $170 and handed the bills to the killer.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” Jake exclaimed. “The Vatican is filthy rich.”

  “That’s true Jake but this is not the Vatican. It’s Hurricane West Virginia and this is all we have.” The priest then extracted his wallet and handed that to the killer as well. Jake opened the wallet to find a total of $42.00. “That’s it,” the priest said, “That’s all the money. You have it all.”

  For once in his life, Jake was speechless. He believed the priest. He didn’t think that priests were allowed to lie. At the same time, it was unbelievable to him that this money was all the money he had. Jake knew there was no money upstairs in his bedroom. He’d already searched up there and, in fact, all over the church. He had known that this safe was in here, just hadn’t had time to break into it, yet. They’d been a little busy since they got here! “You must be nuts,” Jake said staring at the priest, “You work for that little money? As hard as you work, living here and taking care of people all the time and everything. You do all that for this shit?” He waved the bills in the air, making flapping noises, “Really?”

  “Actually,” the priest replied, “I would do it for nothing. I get a small allowance from the church, housing is free and I eat most of my meals here at the church. I don’t need much. I am doing G-d’s work. It’s my life.”

  “Well, its nuts,” Jake said dismissively.

  “You see it differently, to you money means a lot,” the priest said good-naturedly.

  Jake was silent.

  “So Jake,” the Father continued, “are you the killer everyone is looking for? Are you the one who killed all those girls?”

  “ALL those girls?” Jake exploded, “Man, you don’t know the half of it. They haven’t found ALL THOSE GIRLS, yet!”

  Father Wallington held his face in an expressionless pose. He was horrified, but didn’t want to show Jake how he felt. Jake continued excitedly, “Man, there are dozens more, great looking girls, pretty and blonde and oh so good. Father you should have been there. You would have loved it!”

  Again, the priest kept his expression calm. “Why, Jake?” he asked, “What on earth would make you do such horrible things to another human being?”

  “Sex, Father,” Jake flaunted the word, “I love it! And I love hurting those pretty young things and I will keep on doing that ‘til the day I die! What do you think about that? How does that work with your argument about good and evil, Father?”

  The priest frowned. “I think it proves the argument, Jake. Absolutely proves it.”

  “Really?” Jake was surprised.

  “We believe that there is evil in this world that everyone is born with the potential to do either good or evil. That Satan is a real force in this world of ours and that only through G-d, prayer and confession can we find our way back from evil. Do you want me to hear your confession, Jake? Do you want to turn from your evil ways and find peace?”

  “Hell, no!” Jake exclaimed, “Hell NO! I don’t want to change anything except that I want to find one special little girl and do her good before I die. That’s my one last wish on this earth.”

  “You know your followers don’t share your passions, don’t you? You know they are not as possessed by the devil the way that you are,” the Priest said provocatively.

  “Yes, they are!” Jake insisted. He did not like the way this conversation was going. He didn’t want to think about his gang and how strained things had been lately. He knew that the Priest was picking up on so
mething real. His gang was falling apart. To push these thoughts away, he stood up and threw an armchair across the cozy little room. It thudded loudly against the wall causing the windows to shutter.

  “Why are you so angry, Jake?” Father Wallington asked, “So filled with hatred?”

  “Well, Father,” Jake replied, “you want to hear my sad story? First my mother died and then my father gave me away. How does that sound? Good enough reason to start raping and killing a bunch of girls?”

  “No, Son, it does not. But it does explain some things.”

  “I told you NOT to call me, ‘SON’, didn’t I?” Jake came forward and nearly punched the priest.

  “Sorry, Jake, I forgot. You can forgive an old man a slip of the tongue, can’t you? My memory’s not what is used to be,” the priest said calmly.

  Jake had never had a conversation like this one. Something about it was real and honest. He was actually enjoying himself. The priest was actually listening to him and actually talking to him like a real person. Jake realized he liked this man and in his whole life he had never really liked anyone before. It felt odd and a little bit scary. He wondered for a moment what his life might have been like if he’d met this man when he was a kid. He was silent for a while. Then he wondered if the priest was trying to trick him. Sure, that must be it. Then to push his good feelings further away, he wondered if the priest was coming on to him. Maybe he was gay. Then he had another worry. He liked this man, was this what it felt like to be gay, to like another man? He never thought that before. Even with all his years in prison he’d never considered this question about himself and it worried him.

  Sneering at the priest he declared, “You’re playing mind games with me, aren’t you? Well, it’s not going to work. I don’t kill people because of Satan or anyone else. I do it because I want to. I’m in charge of me, not anyone else. What do you say about that Mr. Priest-man?” Father Wallington didn’t argue. He was not looking for an argument. He didn’t care if he won or lost the arguments with Jake. He was playing for time. He didn’t want this gang of killers to leave the building. He wanted to see if his plan would work, it was a gamble, he thought, mostly a matter of good timing and G-d’s will. Whatever happens is G-d’s will and G-d’s plan. I just need to play for time.

  At that moment, Slim came in the door. “Let’s go, Man,” he said, “Van’s ready, our stuff is in it. We’ve got to go, Man.” Jake pulled the priest out of his seat by his lapels and shoved him toward the garage. Custer was already under the seat in the far back of the van. Slim and Jake crowded under the back seat.

  “Alright, Father, you better keep us out of trouble or heads will roll,” Jake cackled as he pulled the top of the seat down over his head. He was wired now, hyped up. Slim and Custer had managed to pull the stuffing and springs out of the seats so that just the outer shell was left. Jake wedged the gun out through a small opening in the seat fabric and pointed his gun at the priest’s head. “One false move and your head will be the first to roll,” he cackled again as the motor turned over the van pulled out of the garage.

  “I’ll do my best, Jake,” the priest responded still playing for time, “but I have to go slowly. I don’t want to attract attention and some of these roads are old and bumpy. This is an old van, you know, we don’t want to get a flat tire or anything, right?” The priest didn’t think that Jake would shoot him, no matter what he threatened. They needed a driver and a hostage not another dead body.

  “Okay,” Jake said grudgingly, “just hurry and remember I have a gun.”

  “I remember. I’ll do my best. Now you boys just be patient and let me get you out of town, Okay?” the priest suggested in his fatherly tone.

  The priest turned right onto the main road driving slowly away from town, turning on side streets and back roads in hopes of avoiding police roadblocks. The old van bumped along over snow and ruts in the road. The priest headed for as many bumps as he could so he could justify driving slowly and keep their attention focused. He planned to take as long as humanly possible, sometimes driving in circles and doubling back on his route. They were virtually blind back there so it was unlikely they would know what he was doing. If Jake shoots me today, Father Wallington thought, so be it. My conscience is clear and if it is G-d’s plan for me to die today then I’m at peace. I just want to give my plan time to work, he thought grimly as he headed for another rut.

  CHAPTER 48

  ROLL OF THE DICE

  “I thought he was really upset, didn’t you?” Gladys asked her friend.

  “Oh my, yes,” said Lois, taking off her heavy jacket, “I think the missing wine really bothered him.”

  “Well, my goodness, that wine costs lots of money, and it was all gone.”

  “I’ll bet he thinks that the kids drank it, that teen group. You know how kids can be.”

  “He didn’t say that though and he looked real upset.” Gladys mused.

  “Well, something was odd,” Lois said, “because he hugged us goodbye and he never does that.”

  “I know,” Gladys agreed, “that was a bit odd. Perhaps all that mess and the missing wine made him emotional. You know even priests can get emotional.”

  “No, it was something else; it was like he wanted to tell me something. He made a little motion with his face.”

  She frowned as she recalled his expression, “You know like a ‘this is important,’ look.” She imitated the look she had seen on Father Wallington’s face. Gladys looked over as she drove and watched her friend’s expression.

  “It’s something like, ‘this is important, just between me and you.”

  “Yes, like pay attention or something.”

  “Like a secret.” A secret? They looked at each other. Was the priest making a pass at Lois? No! Of course not, that was ridiculous, her being as old as she was and him being a priest and all. That’s not right. No, it was something else.

  “You know,” Gladys said, “I remember making those kinds of faces when I was in school and I used to pass notes to my friend and didn’t want the teacher to see.” They stared at each other. There was almost a ‘click’ between them. “He was trying to tell me something! He wanted us to know something. Did he pass us A NOTE!? Was that what the hug was about?” Lois turned and dragged her heavy overcoat over the backseat and began to search the pockets. In seconds she found a crumpled note in the priest’s slanted writing. “Call 911. Tell them everything. HURRY!” the note said.

  “Oh, my,” Lois said, “there must have been someone else there in the church. That’s why he wanted us to leave real quick. He didn’t want us to get hurt. He was protecting us. That’s why he made that face and gave us that note. We have to help him.”

  “Someone else was there in that church,” Gladys echoed.

  “Maybe a robber.”

  “Oh my,” they breathed, and speed forward looking for a policeman. Approaching a police roadblock, the women drove the old station wagon forward in a state of agitation. Honking and waving their arms out the windows, they both talked at once. Their priest was in trouble. He’d given them this note and someone messed up the kitchen and drank all the sacramental wine. Yes, it was the church called Our Lady of the Angels. They were on the flower committee and had been there arranging fresh flowers. They weren’t sure what to do, but the priest wanted them to get the police and look he gave them this note. “Get Chester down here,” an officer said, pressing ‘talk’ on his radio. “We’ve got something here Chief, it’s important...”

  Chester Rugger and Lou Fairmont arrived and hustled the two women off to the mobile command station where they heard their story in greater detail. The women drove away from the church about 15 minutes ago. They had gone by the Post Office to mail a package for Gladys’s sister and then they realized he’d given them this note. Lou and Chester wanted to know exactly what they found in the kitchen, how many plates and glasses, how many empty bottles of wine. They read the note, asked the women if they could borrow the key to the churc
h and then provided police escorts to their homes. At the same time, officers checked with Motor Vehicles Department, put out a BOLO on all vehicles owned by the church and dispatched SWAT teams to Our Lady of the Angels. Ricky and Lucy were also dispatched. Upon arrival, the team discovered the van was missing, but did a thorough search of the church from top to bottom. Once inside the church, the dogs tore up the stairs to the third floor where police found evidence that several men had recently been there. Cups and food wrappers were scattered about, furniture askew. The dogs alerted them to the stairs leading to the bell tower and roof.

  “They were watching us the whole time, your dogs were right,” the Kentucky leader said. Ricky’s handler was irritated, “I told you Ricky was never wrong,” he said bitterly. “We’d have those bastards in custody by now if we’d listened to him.”

  “Our damn luck they were holed up at a church. If it had been anywhere else, we would have breached the door and gotten in,” the team leader said.

  “See if the dogs can pick up their scent anywhere, I don’t think we are far behind them.” They let the dogs take the lead and within minutes both dogs picked up the scent and were running in tandem through back roads and narrow paths across fields with police cars trailing them. There was an odd circling pattern they didn’t understand. It was as if the driver was deliberately driving in circles.

  Twenty minutes later, the tracking team spotted the back of the old green Chevy van. They radioed in for instructions. “Follow at a discrete distance, but do not lose sight of the van,” Chester ordered. The police collected the dogs and slowed their pace while the Chief developed a tactical plan. They were only able to get a visual on the driver, but assumed that the killers were hiding somewhere out of sight. The van was about 100 feet ahead of them when they saw the priest raise his left hand near his ear and hold up 3 fingers. “He’s signaling to us, Chief,” the Kentucky squad leader informed Chester as he lowered his window and signaled the priest that he’d gotten the message. “Three fingers! The killers are in the van.”