Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  FOUR HOURS LATER she found herself in her kitchen. Vincent was in the basement with two of his brothers watching a Flyers game. Dishes were in the dishwasher. Leftovers were put away. She had a glass of Montepulciano working. Sophie sat in the living room, watching a DVD of The Little Mermaid.

  Jessica walked into the living room, sat next to her daughter. “Tired, sweetie?”

  Sophie shook her head and yawned. “No.”

  Jessica held Sophie close. Her daughter had that little-girl bubble-bath smell. Her hair was a bouquet of flowers. “Time for bed anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  Later, with her daughter snuggled under the covers, Jessica kissed Sophie on the forehead, reached over to turn out the light.

  “Mom?”

  “What, sweetie?”

  Sophie rummaged under the quilt. She pulled out a book by Hans Christian Andersen, one of the tomes Jessica had checked out of the library.

  “Read me a story?” Sophie asked.

  Jessica took the book from her daughter, opened it, glanced at the illustration on the title page. It was a woodcut illustration of the moon.

  Jessica closed the book, flipped off the light.

  “Not tonight, honey.”

  TWO AM.

  Jessica sat on the edge of the bed. She had felt the stirrings inside her for a few days. Not the certainty, but the possibility of the possibility, a feeling once removed from hope, twice from disappointment.

  She turned to look at Vincent. Dead to the world. God only knew what galaxies he conquered in his dreams.

  Jessica glanced out the window, at the full moon high in the night sky.

  Just moments later she heard the egg timer ding in the bathroom. Poetic, she thought. Egg timer. She got up, scuffed her way across the bedroom.

  She flipped on the light, looked at the two ounces of white plastic sitting on the vanity. She was scared of the yes. Scared of the no.

  Babies.

  Detective Jessica Balzano—a woman who strapped on a weapon and faced danger every day of her life—trembled slightly as she stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door.

  EPILOGUE

  There was music. A piano song. Bright yellow daffodils smiled from the window boxes. The common room was nearly empty. It would soon fill up.

  The decorations on the walls were bunnies and ducks and Easter eggs.

  At five thirty they brought dinner. Tonight it was Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. There was also a cup of applesauce.

  Charles looked out the window, at the long shadows growing in the forest. It was springtime, the air was fresh. The world smelled like green apples. Soon it would be April. April meant danger.

  Charles knew there was still peril in the forest, a darkness that swallowed the light. He knew that girls should not venture into the woods. His twin sister Charlotte had ventured into the woods.

  He took his mother’s hand.

  It was up to him, now that Roland was gone. There was so much evil out there. Ever since he had come to live at Devonshire Acres he had watched the shadows take human form. And at night he heard their whispers. He heard the rustling of leaves, the swirling of the wind.

  He put his arm around his mother. She smiled. They would be safe now. As long as they stayed together, they would be safe from the bad things in the forest. Safe from those who would do them harm.

  Safe, Charles Waite thought.

  Ever after.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are no fables without magic. My deepest thanks to Meg Ruley, Jane Berkey, Peggy Gordijn, Don Cleary, and all at the Jane Rotrosen Agency; thanks as always to my fabulous editor, Linda Marrow, as well as Dana Isaacson, Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Rachel Kind, Dan Mallory, and the great team at Ballantine Books; thanks again to Nikola Scott, Kate Elton, Cassie Chadderton, Louisa Gibbs, Emma Rose, and the brilliant group at Random House UK.

  A cheer (yo) for the Philly crew: Mike Driscoll and the gang at Finnigan’s Wake (and Ashburner Inn), as well as Patrick Ghegan, Jan Klincewicz, Karen Mauch, Joe Drabyak, Joe Brennan, Halley Spencer (Mr. Wonderful), and Vita DeBellis.

  For their expertise, thanks to the Honorable Seamus McCaffery, Detective Michele Kelly, Sgt. Gregory Masi, Sgt. Joanne Beres, Detective Edward Rocks, Detective Timothy Bass, and the men and women of the Philadelphia Police Department; thanks to J. Harry Isaacson, MD; thanks to Crystal Seitz, Linda Wrobel, and the gracious folks at the Reading & Berks County Visitors Bureau for the coffee and maps; thanks to DJC and DRM for the wine and patience.

  Once again, I’d like to thank the city and people of Philadelphia for indulging my imagination.

  Merciless is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Richard Montanari

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Montanari, Richard.

  Merciless: a novel of suspense / Richard Montanari.

  p. cm.

  1. Police—Pennsylvania—Philadelphia—Fiction. 2. Serial murders—Fiction. 3. Philadelphia (Pa).—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.05384M47 2007

  813'.54—dc22 2007013644

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-345-50015-1

  v3.0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part I: Shadow House

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part II: The Singing Boy

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

&
nbsp; Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Part III: Death Clock

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Chapter One Hundred

  Chapter One Hundred-One

  Chapter One Hundred-Two

  Chapter One Hundred-Three

  Chapter One Hundred-Four

  Chapter One Hundred-Five

  Chapter One Hundred-Six

  Chapter One Hundred-Seven

  Chapter One Hundred-Eight

  Chapter One Hundred-Nine

  About the Author

  Also by Richard Montanari

  Copyright

  For Darla Jean

  Sorella mia, cuore mio

  | ACKNOWLEDGMENTS |

  With deepest gratitude to Meg Ruley, Jane Berkey, Peggy Gordijn, Don Cleary, Mike McCormack, Christina Hogrebe, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency—magicians all; to Linda Marrow, Dana Isaacson, Rachel Kind, Junessa Viloria, and the brilliant team at Ballantine Books; to Kate Elton, Nikola Scott, Chrissy Schwartz, and all my mates at Random House UK; to Detective Michele Kelly, Marco Marangon, and Tom Ewing; to George Snyder of Snyder’s Magic Shop, for never showing me how it was done; to my father, Dominic Montanari, for being there when the words were not; and to the city of Philadelphia, for letting me write about its neighborhoods, streets, heroes, and monsters, both real and imagined.

  | PROLOGUE |

  In the darkness, in the deep violet folds of night, he hears whispers: low, plaintive sounds that dart and shudder and scratch behind the wainscoting, the cornice, the parched and wormy wood lath. At first the words seem foreign, as if uttered in another language, but as dusk inches toward dawn he comes to recognize every voice—every pitch, tone, and timbre—as a mother would her child on a crowded playground.

  Some nights he hears a solitary scream rage beneath the floorboards, stalking him from room to room, down the grand staircase, across the foyer, through the kitchen and pantry, into the consecrated silence of the cellar. There, below ground, entombed by a thousand centuries of bone and fur, he accepts the gravity of his sins. Perhaps it is the dampness itself that accuses, icy droplets on stone shimmering like tears on a brocade bodice.

  As memories flower, he recalls Elise Beausoleil, the girl from Chicago. He recalls her proud manner and capable hands, the way she bargained in those final seconds, as if she were still the prettiest girl at the prom. A Dickensian waif in her high boots and belted coat, Elise Beausoleil liked to read. Jane Austen was her favorite, she said, although she considered Charlotte Brontë a close second. He found a yellowed copy of Villette in her purse. He kept Elise in the library.

  In time he recalls Monica Renzi, her thick limbs and body hair, the frisson of exhilaration as he enthusiastically raised his hand like one of her contemptuous classmates when she asked why. The daughter of a Scranton shopkeeper, Monica liked to dress in red; shy and wordstruck and virginal. Monica once told him that he reminded her of a young banker in one of those old movies she watched with her grandmother on Saturday nights. Monica’s room was the solarium.

  He recalls the thrill of the chase, the bitter coffees consumed in rail stations and bus terminals, the heat and noise and dust of amusement parks and Home Days and county fairs, the frigid mornings in the car. He recalls the excitement of driving through the city, his quarry so delicately in hand, the puzzle enticingly engaged.

  In time, in that gauzy cleave between shade and light, in that gray confessional of dawn, he remembers it all.

  Each morning the house falls silent. Dust settles, shadows depart, voices still.

  On this morning he showers and dresses and breakfasts, steps through the front door onto the porch. Daffodils near the sidewalk fence greet him, brazen blonds spiriting through the cold sod. A breeze carries the first breath of spring.

  Behind him looms a sprawling Victorian house, a lady of long-faded finery. Her back gardens and side yards are overgrown, her stone paths tufted, her gutters dense with verdigris. She is the very museum of his existence, a house crafted at a time when dwellings of such distinction and character were given names, names that would enter the consciousness of the landscape, the soul of the city, the lore of the region.

  In this mad place where walls move and stairways lead nowhere, where closets give onto clandestine workshops and portraits solemnly observe each other in the midday silence, he knows every corridor, every hinge, every sill, sash, and dentil.

  This place is called Faerwood. In each of its rooms there dwells a restive soul. In each soul, a secret.

  He stands in the center of the crowded shopping mall, taking in the aromas: the food court and its myriad riches; the department store with its lotions and powders and cloying scents; the salt of young women. He surveys the overweight couples in their twenties, urging the laden pram. He laments the invisible elderly.

  At ten minutes to nine he slips into a narrow store. It is garishly lit, stocked floor to ceiling with ceramic figurines and rayon roses. Small, shiny balloons dance in the overheated air. An entire wall is devoted to greeting cards.

  There is only one other patron in the store. He has been following her all evening, has seen the sadness in her eyes, the weight on her shoulders, the fatigue in her stride.

  She is the Drowning Girl.

  He eases next to her, selects a few cards from the glittering array, chuckles softly at each, returns them to the rack. He glances around. No one is watching.

  It is time.

  “You look a little confused,” he says.

  She glances up. She is tall and thin, magnificently pale. Her ash blond hair is pinned in a messy fashion, held in place by white plastic barrettes. Her neck is carven ivory. She is wears a lilac backpack.

  She doesn’t respond. He has scared her.

  Walk away.

  “There are too many choices!” she says animatedly, but not without caution. He expects this. He is, after all, an unknown piece on her game board of strangers. She giggles, chews on a fingernail. Adorable. She is about seventeen. The best age.

  “Tell me the occasion,” he says. “Maybe I can help.”

  A flash of distrust now—cat paws on an oven door. She peers around the room, at the publicness of it all. “Well,” she begins, “my boyfriend is …”

  Silence.

  He begs the conversation forward. “He’s what?”

  She doesn’t want to say, then she does. “Okay … he’s not exactly my boyfriend, right? But he’s cheating on me.” She tucks a filament of hair behind an ear. “Well, not exactly cheating. Not yet.” She turns to leave, turns back. “Okay, he asked out my best friend, Courtney. The slut.” She reddens, a sheer crimson pall on her flawless skin. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

  He is dressed casually this evening: faded jeans, black linen blazer, loafers, a little extra gel in his hair, a silver ankh around his neck, eyeglasses of a modern style
. He looks young enough. Besides, he has the sort of bearing that invites faith. It always has. “The cad,” he says.

  Wrong word? No. She smiles. Seventeen going on thirty.

  “More like a jerk,” she says. “A total jerk.” Another nervous giggle.

  He leans away from her, increasing the distance by mere inches. Important inches. She relaxes. She has decided he is no threat. Like one of her cool teachers.

  “Do you think dark humor is appropriate for the occasion?”

  She considers this. “Probably,” she says. “Maybe. I don’t know. I guess.”

  “Does he make you laugh?”

  Boyfriends—boys who become boyfriends—usually do. Even the ones who cheat on achingly beautiful seventeen-year-old girls.

  “Yeah,” she says. “He’s kinda funny. Sometimes.” She looks up, making deep eye contact. This moment all but splinters his heart. “But not lately.”

  “I was looking at this one,” he says. “I think it might be just the right sentiment.” He lifts a card from the rack, considers it for a moment, hands it over. It is a bit risqué. His hesitation speaks of his respect for the age difference, the fact that they’ve just met.

  She takes the card, opens it, reads the greeting. A moment later she laughs, covering her mouth. A tiny snort escapes. She blushes, embarrassed.

  In this instant her image blurs, as it always has, like a face obscured by rain on a shattered windshield.

  “This is, like, totally perfect,” she says. “Totally. Thanks.”

  He watches as she glances at the vacant cashier, then at the video camera. She turns her back to the camera, stuffs the card into her bag, looks at him, a smile on her face. If there was a purer love, he could not imagine it.

  “I need another card, too,” she says. “But I’m not sure you can help me with that one.”

  “You’d be surprised what I can do.”

  “It’s for my parents.” She cocks a hip. Another blush veils her pretty face, then quickly disappears. “It’s because I’ve—”