“Sonofabitch. How’d we miss that!”
“Exactly.”
“You run that name and see what turns up. I’m driving straight to Walden.”
“I’ll call Father John and let him know.”
Jake wondered why Dickie would say that. Then, “No,” he shook his head quickly, “don’t alarm them. I’ll text Dawn. They’re supposed to be moving to a seminary near Hampton, anyway.”
The new locale was in Bangor. A retreat center.
Jake sped off.
Dickie stood, stunned, watching Jake drive away. Sure that Jake was out of sight, Dickie took out his personal notebook, licked the end of his pencil, wrote something down.
Near Hampton seminary…
75
Sunday, September 14 – 3:24 P.M.
Father John forced a smile as he pulled up to the trooper standing guard along the gravel driveway leading to his cabin. The priest was no actor. Nor was he thrilled about lying. Today would be a test of will.
Rainn Meyers looked at his prisoner. He brandished enough of the razor hidden under his left thigh to remind Father John who was in charge. The priest did not doubt that Meyers would lift that blade, slice his throat, then slash the cop in the face before either of them knew what happened.
“Father Charles Howard, you got it?”
The priest said he did.
“Officer,” Father said, rolling his window down.
The trooper leaned in. He looked at Father John’s passenger. Then raised the barrel of his M-16 into the opening of the window. Nodded. All business. “Who’s that, Father?” He pointed to Meyers with the barrel of the gun.
“That, my good son, is Father Charles Howard, from Reading. He’s here to speak to the child and Dawn. Counsel them about what’s going on. Detective Cooper approved the visit. Encouraged it, even. Please call the detective and ask.”
Rainn Meyers did not like the addition of that last part. He ground his teeth. Blinked his eyes. Rolled his tongue across his bottom lip. Took a deep breath.
“I haven’t heard anything about this,” M-16 said. “What’s up with your neck? Nick yourself shaving?”
“Indeed. Darn dull razors.”
“Hold on a minute.” M-16 stepped away from the driver’s side door. Lifted his walkie-talkie, said something they couldn’t hear.
Father John sat still, looking straight ahead. Bounced a finger on the steering wheel. The air coming into the car was noticeably colder out here in the woods, a cool dampness to it. Father John could smell the sweet, pungent aroma of the pines all around them.
“Shut off the car,” M-16 ordered, leaning down, pointing his weapon at them.
Meyers stayed calm. “Keep cool,” he whispered to Father. “You are going to do this.”
The cop was on his radio again. Clicking and talking cop-speak to his counterpart, who was walking out the front door of the cabin.
Dawn, Mother Lucinda, Brendan and one of the sisters stood in the doorway, looking on, wondering what was going on.
Both cops stood on each side of Father John’s car. “Get out,” M-16 said sternly, as he had been trained to. The second trooper had a shotgun pointed at Meyers’s head.
“Everything okay, son?” Father John asked M-16.
“Just fine, Father. Get out.” He used the barrel of his weapon to point.
He stepped out, walked away from the vehicle. “Listen, Officer. Father Charles is, well, he’s not in the best shape. Problem with his legs.” The priest put a hand up to shield the side of his mouth, whispered. “He’s in the early stages of multiple sclerosis. Doesn’t want anyone to know. He’s soiled himself. Needs to change his Depends.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, he really shouldn’t be getting out of the vehicle until we can get him into the house. Maybe you can carry him. Detective Cooper is not going to like this. But if you insist.”
M-16 looked over the roof of the car at his partner. Motioned with his eyes for a huddle. They talked in back of the car.
“Fine,” M-16 said, approaching Father. “Get back in. We’re going to allow you to pass. If you need us, there’s a radio inside, on the kitchen table. You press the big button on the right side, then you speak.”
Father John drove away.
M-16 and the other cop, standing at the end of the cobblestone driveway, watched Father John and his companion drive toward the cabin.
76
Sunday, September 14 – 3:39 P.M.
It took Rainn Meyers exactly three minutes. He and Father John hustled into the cabin. Meyers grabbed the boy at razor point. Made a slight cut along his neck—nothing too deep or dangerous—to prove how serious he was. The boy cried. Meyers then held the razor to the boy’s neck and led Dawn and Father out of that pile of logs as effortlessly as he had walked in.
Father John drove. Dawn was forced to sit in the backseat where Meyers had Brendan choked underneath his arm.
“Tell the kid to stop the bawling or I scalp him in front of you.”
Dawn pleaded with her son. “Brendan, please, honey … listen to the man.”
Meyers felt great about himself. Just like that, he had what he wanted—the ultimate prize. Dawn. He could care less about the kid. Or the priest.
Dawn was his h—the final sacrifice.
“Don’t hurt him.” Dawn fell apart quickly as Father drove. She put her hands over her mouth. Tears streamed down her face. Her heart melted like wax. One moment she was talking to a nun about faith, the next she was staring at the man who was going to kill her son.
“I will if I have to.”
Father John hoped Dawn could keep the killer distracted enough so he could grab his rifle underneath the seat.
As they exited the gated area of the cabin driveway, Meyers gave a smile to the trooper, along with a sober warning via the walkie-talkie he took from the cabin. “Drop your weapons. If you follow us, you will listen as Detective Cooper’s only child being gutted like a fish—his wife maimed in the face for life.”
The two troopers could only watch them—and their careers—drive away.
Onto the main road, Meyers made his order clear to Father John. “You pull up to that convenience store and shut the vehicle off.”
Father John took a right into the parking lot.
“Now, we need to do this quickly as possible. Mrs. Cooper, you stay in this car with me.”
Father John opened his door. The overhead light turned on. That irritating ding-ding-ding chimed to let him know he had left the keys in the ignition.
“Father, don’t you go running off on us now.”
The priest stopped.
“Okay, Mrs. Cooper. You come over here.” The killer let go of Brendan. Then grabbed Dawn and put the razor to her throat. “You, kid, you get into the front seat with the priest.” Ding. Ding … “Father, close your damn door. Now!”
Meyers pulled Dawn out by her hair, then got her in a headlock. He leaned inside the car through the open passenger-side window, looked at Father John. “Drive away. Go west, toward Route 2. Do not look back. Give that radio to Mrs. Cooper.”
Father John looked at Dawn. “Go,” she struggled to get out. “I’ll manage.”
“No.”
“Go, Father.”
“I will kill that child, Father. You don’t want his blood on your hands.”
Father John put the car in gear. Drove away slowly. Brendan cried.
When Father John was out of sight, Rainn Meyers forced Dawn into the back of his SUV. He handcuffed her to a metal bar holding the spare tire in place. Then stuck a piece of silver duct tape over her mouth.
He looked in both directions. Steve had a phone to his ear, watching from the storefront window. Those two police officers from the cabin came barreling out of the dirt road, breaking speed records as they whisked past the parking lot and Rainn Meyers, not noticing a thing.
With the wild squeal of rubber sliding on tar, Meyers took off with his prize eastbound, in the opposi
te direction.
77
Sunday, September 14 – 6:31 P.M.
After escaping from Bainbridge as a child, Rainn Meyers killed Howard Charles Markmann and stole the man’s identity. Dickie processed the addresses for every Howard Charles Markmann and any other combination of those three names who had ever worked for the post office.
The trace did not take long.
He came up with Charles Howard, Beverly, Massachusetts. Howard fit the description to a T. Not to mention there were no other combinations of the three names working for the post office anywhere in New England.
Dickie, along with a team of blues and two cars of state troopers headed to Beverly as soon as he acquired the address. Not for one moment did they think Charles Howard, whose real name was Rainn Meyers, would be home. Dickie knew, however, it was as good a place as any to start looking.
6:44 P.M.
“Gone,” the trooper said over the radio.
“What?” Jake was puzzled by this word. Gone. He was on his way up to the cabin to be with his family.
“Sorry, Cooper … he had the priest by the neck … said he’d gut your kid.”
Jake turned the radio off. He could not listen. He turned his vehicle around and headed back to D-15.
The anxiety of knowing Dawn was going to be killed numbed Jake. The images pounded on his fragile sensibilities. Father John had the boy, that was the only silver lining. They were on their way to meet Jake at the squad room.
Walking in, Jake ran into Matikas. “How the hell did he get into that cabin, lieutenant? Two troopers just let the guy drive in, I suppose?”
“He was dressed as a priest, Jake. Come on. We’ll find the bastard.”
“Before or after he kills my wife?” Jake walked away.
“Let’s not go there, Jake,” Matikas said, following behind. Everyone in the office stopped what they were doing and looked on. “We’re not sure that’s what he wants. I spoke to that FBI profiler. This is something that is, well, it’s the ‘end game’ for the guy. He’s going to use Dawn as a pawn to get something else.”
“What else could he want? Dawn is h!”
M-I-C-A-H.
Father John walked in with Brendan. The boy darted into his father’s arms. They hugged for a long time.
“I want him here. I want my son guarded under lock and key with cops all over the place.”
“We’re in a police station, Detective Cooper,” a blue said.
Jake stared at the young cop. “Brendan doesn’t leave here.”“Where’s Mommy, Daddy?”
78
Sunday, September 14 – 6:48 P.M.
Dickie put his weight and anger behind the kick and the door broke in two, a piece of it hanging off the hinges. He and the boys from the state police, along with a team of D-15 blues, were inside Meyers’s small, two-bedroom ranch. They dug through things they knew a search warrant would cover. Dickie told one of the blues to call Jake and tell him it was going to be a while before he came up with anything. “There’s shit everywhere. Boxes upon boxes of stuff. A damn darkroom, for cripesakes.”
At the station house, preparing to go find his wife, Jake didn’t care what was going on inside Meyers’s house. He wondered instead how he was going to find Dawn. He had to collect his composure. Falling apart, Jake knew he was no good. He needed to key the new information into his iPhone, call Kelsey to see if she had made any progress with the fishing reel. The focus had to be on what he could control, which Jake knew from experience was always easier said than done.
Father John stayed quietly by Jake’s side.
Dickie called. “Put me on speaker. Get the lieutenant.”
“Just say it,” Jake yelled. “Come on here. What do you have?”
“A brochure. It’s from the Museum of Science. There’s an exhibit going on through next week. Rare flowers. This guy had a brochure out on the table. Marked tomorrow’s date on a calendar he left next to the brochure and, of all things, a copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” There was a pause. Sounded like Dickie picked the book up, flipped it over for some reason, stared at the back cover, put it back down. “He’s sending a message. All this shit was left here for us to find.”
Jake did not answer.
Dickie knew why.
“We’re going to continue searching this place through the night, Jake. If we find something else, I’ll call.”
79
Monday, September 15 – 6:00 A.M.
“Wake up! Come on.” The Optimist slapped Dawn on the face. “We have work to do.”
Dawn was groggy. Her body was sore from being tied up all night. She was thinking how she was going to convince Meyers that she suffered from seasickness. When he wasn’t looking, she stuck a finger down her throat and vomited.
The sky was opening up over the horizon.
Rainn Meyers made Dawn sip from a bottle of water. “I need you alert and alive this morning. The rest of”—he stopped. “Well, Mrs. Cooper. How you fare the rest of the day is going to be entirely up to you.”
The sun was an orange ball of fire, a daisy yellow as it reflected off the water. The swells were running about four feet. Not too bad, considering a ferocious tropical storm off the southern coast of Maine had sent many of the Grand Bank fishermen from Gloucester south and into Boston Harbor to wait it out.
Dawn was disheveled. She had a gash on her forehead from when the Optimist had pulled her out of the back of the SUV. The wound throbbed. It felt swollen and infected.
“I’m not going to say it again, Mrs. Cooper. Move your ass. Now!” The Optimist was right in her face. Nose to nose. Dawn could feel his hot breath hitting her mouth.
Dawn managed to raise herself up alongside the bench seat on the bow. She used the stiff white cushion as leverage to stand. Her legs wobbled. Her hands were handcuffed in front.
Still, she was alive and had made it through the night. If his plan was to simply kill her, she would be fish bait by now.
Denny, she found herself thinking. She could see Denny Garcia in this man. Maybe that relationship with Denny could help. Optimist … he is going to give me choices.
“I had a plan to leave your corpse inside King’s Chapel.” He paced in front of her. “You know, that wonderful landmark downtown. I was going to prop it up on the altar. But then, oh, I don’t know. Something told me I was taking things a bit too far. Blaspheming such a sacred place, in front of God’s face like that. It would secure a place in hell for me—and to be honest, Mrs. Cooper, if there’s the slightest chance”—he held two fingers almost closed together in front of her eyes to make his point—“for me to be redeemed, I thought something like that would blow my chances.” Then he laughed.
Meyers jostled Dawn clumsily and aggressively by her shoulders. Set her down on the cushioned bench seat. Then walked back and forth in front of her, tapping the blade of a ten-inch knife on his palm.
Thinking.
Dawn was tired. In a lot of pain. But her strength was there. She could call it up when needed. She decided, however, to act as if she was drifting in and out of consciousness. She opened her eyes. She closed her eyes. Allowed her body to sway with the motion of the waves.
“I have something for you. You wait here.” The Optimist rubbed the knife down the bridge of her nose. “And don’t you go running off on me now.”
The killer emerged moments later from the small cabin below deck with a package. It was bow-tied. Wrapped with a shiny blue paper that matched the sky. He set it gingerly on Dawn’s thighs. Cradled her chin in his palm, lifted her face up to look at him squarely.
“Open it.”
She wished she could puke on it.
“Go ahead, please. Open it. It’s for you.”
Dawn didn’t move.
“Here, nudge over. Let me slip in there and help you out.”
Get him to talk about the past …
He tore open the package. Lifted the top of the box off, as if it were cheap chocolates you give out
on Christmas.
“Have a look inside. Come on.”
Dawn moved a bit, but refused to look down.
“Oh, well, if you must.” He grabbed the back of her head by her hair and forced her face down into the box. His voice changed into a deep, croaky tone. “I said look.”
Dawn could only feel the brittle softness of tissue paper against her face.
“Little memento for you, Dawn Cooper,” he said, bending down, whispering in her ear. “Savor this moment—because it just may be your last.”
80
Monday, September 15 – 9:10 A.M.
Sunshine stopped by the house after not hearing from Mo all day on Sunday. Last Mo had said, Jake Cooper was on his way over to talk. That was a day ago. Sunshine called Mo several times but got no answer.
He knocked several times, curious to hear what Jake wanted.
Drunken sonofabitch is probably passed out.
“Mo,” he shouted, “you in there?”
He walked around to the backyard, hoping to look in through the sliders. The shades were drawn, blocking his view.
Mo’s pooch, Magnum, barked relentlessly.
The mutt’s yelping followed Sunshine as he stepped around the outside of the house, trying to get a look in through a window.
“You in there?” Sunshine yelled, his hands cupped around his eyes, looking into Mo’s bedroom.
More barking.
He walked back around to the front of the house. Before turning the last corner, brushing up against an azalea plant and row of prickly evergreen bushes, by the gutter he noticed a way in. There was a small rectangle cellar window that opened from the bottom with a crank. It was cracked enough for Sunshine to get his thick sausage fingers underneath and pull.
It was a tight fit, but Sunshine forced his gut through the small opening, falling in and onto the concrete floor of the basement, groaning and brushing dust off himself as he struggled to get up.
THE DEAD SOUL: A Thriller Page 31