THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller

by M. William Phelps

“Because I know it’s killing you to know what she wrote about you.”

  “And?”

  “And, well, a lot of things.”

  “About?”

  “Jake, I know what you asked Rossi to do. She and I were tight. She asked, and I told her to do whatever you said. I could care less. This thing with Mo, you cannot save the guy. He’s drowning. Just watch your ass. Talk is that you’re going with him.” Jake shook his head as Dickie spoke. Squinted his eyes. “You need to calm down. You shouldn’t allow yourself to get carried away by all of it.” Dickie leaned over an open drawer. “I know this case is eating you up. I realize you need to prove yourself.” Dickie walked over to where Jake sat. Glanced down at him like a father to his son. “That shit with the little girl—that wasn’t your fault. You’ll come through it. You’ll be fine.”

  “Appreciate the advice, Dick.” Jake looked up at him and blew out a ribbon of exhaled smoke to a sound of satisfaction.

  Dickie went back to digging through the files.

  “I saw you last night,” Dickie said. “Outside on the balcony of the hotel. Bet you didn’t sleep two hours.” Jake stood as Dickie continued with his guidance. “Your brother, your father, that little girl, you harp on that shit and you’ll be back in the loony bin, man. Trust me. I’ve seen tougher cops go down. That, or you’ll turn to something.”

  “Southie, Dick. Not a good place. I thought it hardened me growing up. Mo always told me that a kid who made it through life in Southie could survive anything. Mo was so different then.” Jake walked toward Dickie. “I think I need to give all this chasing bad guys up, Dick. I’m not cut out for it anymore.”

  “Part of the problem is, Mo brings back all that stuff about your dad. My advice, hey, just let Mo go.”

  Jake dropped his head. He didn’t know what to say.

  “You need to keep your job, Jake. You know, there’s always somebody who’s going to tell you you’re unworthy. Forget about making everyone happy. I understand you want everyone to like you. But you need to find that here,” he pointed to his own heart, “before you expect it from anyone else.”

  “Shit, Dick … you TiVo-ing Oprah now?” They laughed. Jake paused. Rubbed his temples. “Just tell me what Rossi wrote.”

  “Rossi didn’t write about any of that Mo bullshit. Pretty loyal girl. Smart, too. She wanted to impress you—and, I should note, she looked up to you.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah, she was keeping notes of meetings and cases. Like studying. She wanted to impress us both. Thought maybe she could solve this case particularly. Now, can we get out of this shithole? My feet are wet and cold.”

  Jake turned. “You hear that?” Sounded like breaking glass.

  Dickie looked toward the door, eyes wide. “What the hell?”

  “Shh.” Jake whispered. “Hold on. Don’t move.” They palmed their Glocks. Jake inched toward the door. He whispered: “You stay here.”

  “You won’t get an argument out of me.”

  “Watch my back.”

  Jake walked out into the hallway. Light shone in gold beams from his right, the sun just rising over the mountain in back of the orphanage. The glare had a majestic, alluring pull to it, inviting Jake to walk that way. He looked left and went for it.

  Then the noise—breaking glass and blowing wind—again. Jake’s stomach tightened. He turned. Dickie had his head out the doorway, covering the opposite end of the hall with his pointed Glock.

  Jake continued into a hallway on his right, out of Dickie’s view. There was a room, orphan beds lined up along the walls. A gust of wind came at him in through the corridor and made a whipping sound, rattling all the loose fixtures, shaking the broken glass in the widows and the beer bottles along the floor. It sounded as if a group of people were whispering all at once.

  There it was again. Someone was outside the window.

  Jake called out for Dickie. “Come on. Over here.” With the barrel of his weapon, Jake waved Dickie over to the window.

  They stood on both sides of the opening.

  “On three.”

  At once, they popped up and stuck their guns out the window, each in opposite directions.

  A tall man with white hair ran into the woods. Looked to be older. He had a shotgun in his hand. Jake thought he might have recognized the way the man moved.

  Dickie leveled his Glock. “By the time we get outside, we’ll never find him.”

  Jake used his hand, pushed the weapon down and away. “Let him be. Probably some local-yokel nosing around.”

  Dickie walked around the deserted room, a long and narrow space full of rusted iron bed frames without mattresses. Some of the beds had trunks—like those full of gold coins pirates pillage in kid stories—at the foot. There was debris scattered all over the floor. Fallen beams. Ceiling tiles broken into bits and pieces. Rat feces. Decomposing animal corpses. Torn up linens.

  A gust of wind kicked up and whooshed through the room, as if the building took a deep breath.

  The noise was ominous. It was there, but then again, it wasn’t. Jake’s mind filled in the blanks. “You know what that is?” He looked around the room.

  Dickie shrugged. “Do I want to?”

  “Echoes of the undead—the memories this building has, Dick. They’re speaking to us. We’ve come to the right place, my friend.”

  64

  Sunday, September 14 - 8:04 A.M.

  He slept in his priestly vestments. He had put the white collar, vest, black pants, shoes and jacket on the night before and went out to the local Taco Bell to see how people reacted. By night’s end he had blessed three old ladies with crooked backs who carried rosaries in their pocketbooks, heard one hasty confession in the restroom, and promised a young couple they were doomed to hell if they continued along the path of their marriage.

  The black and whites fit him well. He considered the idea that if he had followed his first calling, he would probably be out in the world working in some parish, doing incomprehensible things to the community’s children.

  The man who called himself Charles Howard had blood on his soul.

  He got up off the couch. Put some coffee on. No breakfast. Today was a day to let adrenaline and caffeine fuel his body. Food would only slow him down.

  He straightened the vestigial tab—the white cube hiding the Adam’s apple—displayed through the square cutout in his black shirt. Then looked at himself in the mirror. After fixing each button of his shirt, he patted down a few stray hairs with a wet thumb. He didn’t need to shave. The two-day growth gave him a contemporary look.

  “Father Rainn Meyers.” He said it out loud and it sounded good. Even had a ring to it. Meyers was his namesake. He’d changed Randy, his given name, to Rainn, only because he liked the way it looked on paper. Rain was how he felt, anyway. Gloomy, wet. Irritating. Who liked rain?

  “You were chosen,” he heard the Teacher say, “because I knew you could take it, Randy—and you would continue what I taught you.”

  Fawning over himself in the mirror, he considered the idea that not every abused kid grows up to be an abuser. It took an unusual breed. He knew he was one of them.

  Special.

  Chosen.

  He straightened his jacket by pulling down both front flaps at the same time. Brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder. He could hear the coffee machine in the kitchen making that familiar, pleasant steam-popping noise as it percolated. It was almost done. Smelled good, too. Fresh, like the morning should.

  He pointed and talked to himself. “Time is short. I must get on the road. Busy day ahead.”

  He turned. Stopped. Went back to the mirror. “Father!”

  Sitting at his kitchen table, Rainn Meyers checked his watch. The convent was a forty-five minute drive. On the way, he needed to make an additional trip off the beaten path. Just in case.

  Micah.

  This time the image of the Teacher’s face brought with it a smile.

  65

 
Sunday, September 14 - 8:12 A.M.

  Dickie pressed the voice mail button on his cell phone. Put the speaker to his ear. Listened. He and Jake were parked outside, facing the Bainbridge Sheriff’s Department, waiting for the sheriff to arrive. It was a small building. Looked like maybe an old converted schoolhouse or library.

  “You have two messages …” the mysterious cell phone lady’s voice said.

  Beep: “Honey, I made it here okay. I’m fine. Don’t worry ‘bout me. Love you.”

  Caroline. Such a bastion of purity. Always doing the right thing.

  Beep: “Shaughnessy, Matikas …” Dickie hit pause. Tapped Jake on the shoulder. Pushed speaker: “We found something on the Taylor kid’s computer… and zeroed in on a postal station out of Revere … that paint chip backed it all up. Tell Cooper—asshole must have shut off his phone—word is that his boy Mo is being indicted any moment now on extortion, bribery and corruption charges, the papers will be filed soon … I’m hearing there are several others under the indictment, but no word on names.”

  Jake stirred in his seat. He didn’t like the sound of that. He looked out the window, focused on the hedges. Ted Williams Tunnel. Jake saw himself as a young cop running over to a construction trailer at Mo’s request to pick up a package and bring it to the station house.

  Don’t ask, don’t tell.

  Mo had involved him.

  Sonofabitch.

  “Yo, there’s the sheriff now,” Dickie said, slapping Jake on the arm. And they watched a monster of a man, six-four, three hundred pounds at least, blue jeans, Stetson. He exited a black Ford Tahoe and marched up the steps toward the sheriff’s department front door.

  “Thought they did away with the cowboy hats after those two troopers got sucker-hit with bats because they couldn’t see beyond the rim of the hat?”

  “Why am I thinking … Chuck Norris and Billy Jack?” Dickie offered.

  “Let’s not fuck with this guy, Dickie. He’s all business—that’s obvious.”

  “Sheriff?” Dickie yelled, opening the car door. “Sheriff?” Dickie flipped through his little notebook as they walked toward the stone steps. “Sheriff Townsend? Can we get a minute, sir?” Dickie sounded like a reporter. He had called ahead the previous day for an appointment. But the deputy laughed at him. Something about “appointments being for you city folk.”

  The big man turned. Looked at the two of them. Spat a dime-sized tab of chewing tobacco on the steps and, without answering, continued into the building.

  Jake and Dickie picked up their pace.

  The sheriff stood on the opposite side of a wooden saloon-like gate into the small office area. There were three desks cordoned off by a partition. “Cal, show these boys here to the conference room, would you?” The sheriff opened the door to his office and slammed it shut behind him.

  Deputy Cal Sheraton said, “Follow me, boys.”

  They walked behind the vivacious deputy to the rear of the building.

  “The sheriff here, well, he took the liberty of collecting all the records he could find for Our Lady after your lieutenant called last night and told us you was coming.”

  “Why would you people laugh at me when I asked for an appointment?”

  Cal smiled at Dickie. “The sheriff here doesn’t meet with people, Detective. He’s got the business of watching over a county to contend with. Just the way he does things is all. Don’t take offense.”

  Dickie and Jake looked at each other. Strange country people.

  Inside the conference room were ten boxes of files, a few additional folders of medical records, and a large crate of remainders from the orphanage—diplomas, medals, certificates.

  “Sheriff says you might want to go out and talk to Buster Turbach. Buster’s the only employee from that old place there who is still alive and living in town. Buster’s old. But sharp as a new sickle.”

  “Can we thank the sheriff?” Jake said. “Can you ask him to come out here?”

  “Nope, busy. Doesn’t want to be disturbed.” Cal used his fingers to make quote marks, as if disturbed was a new word for him. “You need anything, however, you just call on ole Cal here, and I’ll take care of it for y’all.”

  Jake wondered if they were in Maine or Kansas.

  “We were out at the old Orphanage. Some old guy with white beard, overalls, a shotgun, scared us half to death. Any idea who he is, what he wanted?” Dickie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Where’s Buster live?”

  Cal took a piece of paper from his front pocket, stuffed it inside Jake’s suit coat pocket as Jake followed his hand. Cal tapped the pocket. “You’ll find his address and directions on there. Buster don’t have no phone. Now, anything else?”

  “Deputy. Anything else you can tell us would be helpful. We’re looking for a kid who might have caused some trouble up here in town after getting out of the orphanage. Anything like that.” Jake wasn’t sure what he was fishing for.

  Cal tapped a finger on his lips. “Not sure, Detective. None of that rings a bell.”

  “Anything you think of, let my partner here know. He’ll be around most of the morning going through these boxes.”

  Dickie rolled his eyes.

  “Well, the Meyers kid. Sumbitch done put a pickaxe to good ol’ Charlie.”

  “What’s that?” Jake jerked up his head quickly. “Any reports on that would be helpful.”

  “Nope, can’t help you there just yet. That case is still open. You’ll have to get your DA to call our guy and get word to the sheriff that you good old boys from the city need to dig into the file. Otherwise, sheriff here, he won’t let you see it.”

  “Goes by the book, does he? Well, okay, Cal. Thanks.” Jake decided not to push it. He turned to Dickie. “You go through these files. I’ll pay a visit to Buster and get what I can. Call the DA and get her ass working on that Meyers file.”

  “Ask Buster ‘bout ole Charlie and that Meyers kid. He can tell y’all what that sumbitch evil kid done did. I think he escaped from the orphanage, went on a rampage. Something like that.” Cal whistled as though he had dodged a close call. “I was a boy then. But heard things.”

  Dickie sat down. Put his head in his hands.

  “Get going on that reading. I’ll bring you back a coffee.”

  66

  Sunday, September 14 - 9:00 A.M.

  Jake had explained to Dawn in a text message that she needed to take Brendan, Mother Lucinda and maybe a sister or two, and drive to location number two. What Father John had told him about that rogue priest asking questions was too close for comfort. It was time to move.

  Early that morning they left St. Catherine’s Convent in the Lynn Woods Reservation, coats over their heads, hustled into the cruiser. In that unmarked vehicle, they were driven south on I-95, past Wakefield, Reading and Lexington, onto Route 2, then down into the Walden Woods section of Concord. Father John owned a cabin near Walden Pond. It was given to him some thirty years ago by a man whose son Father had saved from a heroin overdose. The cabin was surrounded by over two hundred acres of preserved forest. If you didn’t know where it was, good luck.

  Father John sent two state troopers Jake had called in up to the cabin. One walked the grounds to make sure a stray mailman wasn’t lurking in the bushes somewhere. The other guarded the end of the driveway. Both carried M-16s and pistols.

  Dawn sat with Mother Lucinda on the back deck of the cabin. It was a gorgeous day. Birds chirped loudly, as it were spring. The wind blew in soft, gentle, warm drifts. A bright canopy of morning sun shone on their backs. Brendan played with a model plane. Colored. Picked wild flowers and gave them to Dawn and Mother.

  Dawn felt safe here. The nuns were comforting.

  “You’re very kind to come here with us, Mother. I appreciate your hospitality.”

  Mother Lucinda smiled. Bowed her head, eyes closed.

  “I don’t think the troopers are necessary way out here, Mother. But you must understand my husband. Before
anything else, he is a police officer.”

  “I do understand, Mrs. Cooper.” They both looked toward the driveway entrance. One trooper held his M-16 off to the side and paced the entrance to the driveway. His partner, roaming around the grounds, called on a walkie-talkie every once in a while to ask if everything was clear.

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to leave in a day or two. Go back to our homes.”

  Mother blinked here eyelids.

  “Is Father John coming today?”

  “I do not know.”

  9:25 A.M.

  Father John planned to meet up with Dawn. He told Jake he would watch after his family and decided the only way to fulfill that promise was to stand by their side. He packed an overnight bag and his hunting rifle, a .22 caliber gun his father had given him the day he turned eighteen. It was difficult getting rid of the gun. Nostalgia pulled it back every time the priest went to toss it. Placing it in the car, Father wondered why he was even bringing it. Was he going to actually shoot a man if the opportunity presented itself? Did the rifle even work?

  He tossed his bag in the backseat. Placed the gun under the driver’s seat. Pulled up, looked left and right, then took off out of the rectory driveway.

  From St. Paul’s, the cabin was an hour’s drive. A nice, quiet, relaxing ride into the heart of Massachusetts’ beautiful woodlands. The ride gave the priest time to consider all that had happened recently. He did not question what role God played in any of it. Yet knew there would come a time when Jake would pester him about this. Jake needed answers to the big questions. He would knock on the rectory door one day, ask Father John to resolve how a compassionate God could allow such a morally corrupted soul into the world. He would demand to know how a caring God could create a human being who scalped women and cut their legs off. “And I don’t want to hear about free will, Father.”

  Two weeks ago, when Jake first heard Mo was possibly involved in a scandal going back all those years, during the Big Dig era, Jake showed up unexpectedly at the church. He was broken and bitter. He questioned his future, not to mention his faith. He and Father John sat outside on the front steps. Jake said he didn’t want to go inside. He was thinking of leaving the BPD and the Church. “Everything! Screw it. Maybe all of this,” he raged, meaning the Church, “is just a scam. Some ‘thing’ dreamed up by ancient men hungry for power and wealth.” They could hear kids yelling and having fun at the playground nearby. Cars whizzed by, beeped. Waved to the priest. “Nothing makes sense to me anymore, Father.”