MASS MURDER

by Lynn Bohart

  He stared at the face of Christ thinking about the convergence of all these things. He didn’t think this was the end of the road, but he would accept it if it was. He wasn’t afraid. On the other hand, he wouldn’t go easily if caught. He had no intention of spending the rest of his life in jail. If all else failed, he could run, but this time there would be no place to go.

  He took a deep breath and stood up, thinking perhaps it was time to leave and get out from under the watchful eyes of the police. He needed time. San Francisco popped into his head and an embryo of an idea began to form. Jack, the real priest, no longer existed except in the minds of the people who had once known him. Maybe he could stretch the charade out a little further. He decided to return to his room, craft a plan, and be gone by morning.

  As he stepped away from the bench something clinked at his feet. He glanced down to find a small, round object glistening in the moonlight. He bent down and wrapped his fingers around an old brass button. Holding it up, he could see it was imbedded on one side with a Latin cross. Suspicious, he looked around wondering who had thrown it. There was no one else in the garden, and all the windows to the monk’s rooms were closed. Only two of them were even lit. The air had grown cold, and a slow chill inched its way down his spine.

  Cautious now, he decided it was time to go inside. He was getting spooked and that could spell disaster. Tossing the coin into the flower bed, he turned toward the door and then stopped cold. Standing in the middle of the cactus garden was a boy of about thirteen. The youth wore dark knickers and suspenders and was eerily transparent. Cato stared with horror at the flickering image. The boy was suspended about six inches off the ground. A moment later, a second boy, dressed nearly the same, appeared next to a rose bush a few feet away, his image as transparent as a piece of gauze. Two more boys hovered near the far wall.

  Cato backed away, trembling. Not from the chill, but from a fear he’d never known. Father O’Leary had talked about ghosts at the monastery, but he’d never believed him. Is that what this was − ghosts?

  Slowly, Cato edged to his right along the path, never taking his eyes off the apparitions. They didn’t move to stop him, but merely watched him from where they shimmered in the moonlight. When something moved to his left, he snapped in that direction. A large, dense shadow emerged from the garden wall like someone stepping through a doorway. The shadow had a vaguely human shape, but was much taller and larger than the boys. As Cato watched in a near panic, the shadow took on the distinct shape of a rotund man dressed in the traditional robes of a monk.

  Father O’Leary!

  Cato turned and ran for the double doors, grabbing the knob and flinging the door open so violently it slammed against the wall. He entered the hallway breathless, searching the shadows for more apparitions. In a panic now, he ran for the stairs to his left.

  “Father!”

  Cato whipped around to find Father Rosario in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel in his hands.

  “Are you alright? You look frightened.”

  The small priest stepped forward as if to comfort him.

  “No, Father, I’m fine,” the young monk blathered rapidly. He held up a hand when Father Rosario started to move towards him. “Really. I’m fine,” he gulped. “I just had a bit of an anxiety attack out there, out in the garden. I was thinking about that young woman and then Father O’Leary and Father Damian. All the murders. It’s just so tragic, so horrifying. All of this.”

  His breathing came in short gasps and he struggled to calm himself. He couldn’t help stealing glances back towards the garden, but nothing had followed him through the door.

  “I understand,” Father Rosario commiserated. “Perhaps you should lie down. You don’t look well.”

  “Yes. Yes. It’s time I retired anyway. And then, I think, Father, I may choose to leave the monastery.” The moment the words left his mouth he realized he may have hit on just the excuse he needed. “I’m just not sure I can take much more of this. I’m scared, Father. I feel any one of us might be next. You understand, don’t you? Aren’t you frightened?

  “Of course, my boy. We all are. You didn’t bargain for this when you came here. No one could blame you. Get some rest and perhaps things will look better in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Father. I will.” Cato started backing up the staircase, nearly tripping on his robes. “Good night, Father.”

  Both men were surprised by a flash of headlights that swept across the front windows.

  “Now, I wonder who that could be so late,” Father Rosario said, moving in that direction. “I’ll take care of it, Father. You go to bed.” The little priest wandered down the hallway towards the front door saying to himself, “I do hope it’s not that detective again.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The huge building sat docile in the cool night air, a complacent child compared to the storm-raged teenager it had been only a few nights before. A light glowed from within as if the building were half asleep. Rocky had barely turned off the truck’s sputtering engine before Giorgio jumped out, heading for the chapel. He felt the same kind of excitement he’d felt as a child on Christmas morning when he knew what presents he would get. They’d solved the crime. Now all they had to do was reel in the killer.

  Father Rosario met them at the door, and Giorgio asked to see Father Frances.

  “Detective, it’s late and Father Frances just retired,” the small monk said with restrained patience. “He helped me clean up earlier, but something has upset him and he’s gone to bed. Perhaps this could wait until tomorrow.”

  “No, Father, it can’t wait.” Giorgio brushed past him. “We need to see him tonight.”

  “All right, but I hope there won’t be any more surprises.”

  “You can count on at least one more surprise, Father,” Giorgio snapped. He ordered Grosvner to stay put and turned away.

  “Please, Detective,” the small priest raised his voice. “We’ve lost bookings and bread orders. The Abbot is in the hospital under suspicion, and the monks are feeling the strain. Father Frances just said he plans to leave the monastery tomorrow. What more could you possibly find?”

  “The killer,” Giorgio replied with a level gaze. “Please, watch the dog.”

  The two officers left Father Rosario staring after them. They crossed the carpeted hallway and took the back stairs two at a time. The residence hallway was no more than a dimly lit tunnel at night, but they caught a retreating figure at the far end. The figure turned back as the brothers reached the landing. It was Father Frances. Giorgio called out, but Frances turned with a jerk and rounded the corner, robes flying. An instant later, a door slammed and the brothers broke into a run.

  Giorgio arrived first, but the door was securely locked. He pounded on the worn, wooden door calling out the monk’s name. When no one answered, he pulled his weapon, stepped back and splintered the old door with a well-placed kick. Giorgio burst into the room just as a doorway across the hall opened to reveal the grizzled face of one of the older monks.

  “Police. Go back inside!” Rocky barked at the surprised man.

  The door slammed shut, and Rocky joined Giorgio in an empty room. They made a quick search. Frances was nowhere to be found. Both men looked around bewildered as if the rabbit had just disappeared out of the hat.

  “Shit! Here we go again,” Giorgio exclaimed, holstering his weapon.

  At his feet was a brown robe. Giorgio spied it suspiciously.

  “There must be another secret door in here,” he snarled, kicking at the robe.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for a search warrant?”

  Giorgio glared at him. “We had permission to speak with Father Frances and he ran. I’ll deal with any fallout later. Check the rooms on either side. Make sure he didn’t sneak through to one of those. I’ll search in here.”

  Rocky hurried out and banged on the door around the corner. Giorgio scanned the room he was in. It was larger than other rooms, reminding him this one had once be
en the room Father Wingate had been murdered in. It held a single bed, a small desk, and a built-in closet along the back wall. The closet presented the only possible place for a secret door. He approached it and threw both doors wide. Two dark pullover sweaters were folded neatly on an upper shelf, while two black shirts and a pair of black pants lay on the floor as if they’d fallen off their hangers. There was nothing else in the closet except a pair of work boots and a set of faint scratches across the closet floor. There was only one reason for those scratches. He began looking for the mechanism that would release the secret door.

  The closet was divided from top to bottom by stained-to-match molding that ran along the interior walls. There were no hooks, knobs, or other embellishments, and the wood had a stringy grain which meant there were no visible knots to push. Frustrated, Giorgio studied the clothes bar which extended the entire width of the closet. The closet was about two and a half feet deep, making it impossible for the back wall to open without hitting the bar. The bar also made it impossible for either of the side walls to open since it was braced against them. Yet the scratches didn’t lie.

  He eyed the molding that extended like a chair railing around the interior. It gave him an idea. Why would a closet have decorative molding? Perhaps only the lower half of the wall moved. He reached in and knocked in several places on the back wall and then along the inside right wall where the scratches were. The hollow thud that greeted him along the right wall prompted him to glance at the shirts lying on the floor. He reached for the clothes bar and wrapped his hands around it, twisting it towards the back wall. Nothing happened.

  “I’ve checked both rooms,” Rocky said behind him. “A Father Emanuel lives in the one around the corner. He heard the door slam but that was all. A Father Cannon lives on the other side. He was praying, but also heard the door slam. What are you doing?”

  “He went through here,” Giorgio said, staring into the closet. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  He grabbed the clothes bar again, this time twisting it towards him. The lower half of the right interior wall popped opened.

  “Whoa! You’re getting good at that,” Rocky whistled.

  Giorgio pulled the panel open as far as it would go allowing the two brothers to peer into what looked like an old, dark elevator shaft with the top of a wooden staircase barely visible. Around the corner was a shelf where Giorgio found a wooden box filled with some stage makeup and a grayish-brown goatee. Next to the box was a pair of brown pants, shirt and shoes.

  “Damn! I saw him.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “In the gift shop. In disguise. This guy has balls. Let’s go,” Giorgio commanded.

  He took out his weapon and squatted down to climb through the small opening. The rickety wooden staircase swayed under his weight but made little noise as he began to carefully descend.

  “Leave the door open to give us some light,” he called back to Rocky.

  Rocky followed, bumping his head as he bent his lanky frame into a pretzel to squeeze through. They emerged into a dark, musty alcove.

  “Where the hell are we?” Rocky whispered, producing a small LED flashlight attached to his key ring.

  Giorgio pulled out his own pen light and squinted into the inky blackness that crowded around them.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, stepping away from the stairs.

  His eyes strained to find identifying landmarks. The pervading damp, stale air gave rise to a brief catch of claustrophobia, and Giorgio had to cough to relieve the anxiety building in his chest. Rocky moved in front of his brother, his light revealing the tomblike quality of an ancient mud-caked hallway with a low-beamed ceiling that angled upwards to the right. While the walls appeared to be made from an adobe mixture of clay, straw and pebbles, everything was reinforced by a matrix of wooden supports.

  “I think we’re below the other tunnel,” Giorgio said with the back of his hand pressed to his mouth.

  “You mean we’re underneath the other tunnel?”

  “Not directly underneath, but further underground. The air is heavier and it’s colder.”

  He followed Rocky into the passageway and felt along the walls with the flat of his hand, grimacing at how the clammy surface of the clay-dirt mixture clung to his skin.

  “There used to be a Spanish Rancho located here in the seventeen hundreds, back when Mexico passed out land grants to its military and nobility. This one was built too close to the foothills and a massive mudslide buried the entire thing. From what I read, the monastery was built directly over the site a hundred years later. I’d guess we’re standing in an interior hallway of that old Spanish Rancho. Look how the ceiling slants upwards to the right. That’s a roof line. And from the look of these reinforcements, the good fathers found it and wanted to maintain it for some reason.”

  Rocky moved forward, bending over to avoid bumping his head on a crossbeam. “Didn’t someone say the monks built tunnels during the war as a means of escape?”

  “Be careful,” Giorgio warned. “Frances could be anywhere, and we’re sitting ducks with the flashlights down here.”

  They crept along broken adobe tiles covered with dirt and debris, their lungs filling quickly with the stench of rotting water, rat droppings, and foul air. Occasionally, Giorgio’s hand sought the wall for support, recoiling from the touch of water seeping through the clay. Rocky cursed every so often when he became entangled in a cobweb, and Giorgio couldn’t help wondering about the boy. After all, this seemed the idyllic environment for a ghost. Would the boy make himself known? Would they see other dead souls?

  “Look here,” Rocky whispered, interrupting Giorgio’s thoughts.

  Rocky had paused at the doorway to a small room. A broken wooden door lay splintered on the floor with its wrought iron hinges flattened and bent, probably the result of a large rock now propped up by a series of steel girders on the upper corner of the doorframe, forcing the whole corner to sag under its weight. A quick search of the room revealed nothing but rotting sack cloth, pottery shards, and broken shelving.

  The brothers exited the room quickly. Giorgio felt haunted by the prospect of everything caving in around them. They passed another room where the door was still attached, but where the far wall had been obliterated by the mud slide. The room still held a small shattered wooden table and three spindly wooden chairs, broken and lying on their sides. In one corner were several tanned animal skins, a couple of wine barrels, and a stack of empty, frayed cloth sacks that probably once held grain, long ago eaten by the rats. As the pen lights followed the edge of the intruding mudslide, Rocky paused when the light reflected off the long slender bones of a hand, reaching out from under the mud.

  “I suppose not many people survived the mudslide,” he lamented.

  “No,” Giorgio agreed. “Let’s keep going.”

  They returned to the hallway. Rocky kept his flashlight focused down, throwing the light sideways every few feet to scare away the rats that scurried before the oncoming light.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” he mumbled.

  The tunnel ended as quickly as it began. A short thirty feet from where they’d seen the skeleton, Rocky stopped at a wall of cement cinder blocks that emerged out of the compacted dirt and extended well beyond the ancient tunnel walls on either side. Inserted into the middle of the sturdy wall was a heavy timbered door. Giorgio stopped and looked up to where the cement wall extended past the ancient adobe roofline.

  “This is the bell tower,” he said breathlessly. “That’s how they found the tunnel – when they drilled down to lay the foundation for the bell tower.” The excitement in his voice was unmistakable. “Frances is in the bell tower!”

  Giorgio reached for the door latch but it didn’t budge. “Dammit!” he said, kicking the wall. “This is getting tiring.”

  Rocky leaned forward. “Here, let me run the light around the edges.”

  He revealed a heavy wooden frame that was bolted directly into the cind
er blocks. The door was almost a duplicate of the main door upstairs, which meant it was at least two inches thick and couldn’t be kicked in. Giorgio watched the light traverse the curvature of the doorframe deciding it couldn’t be opened by some spectacular means either. This was just a door, a locked door, and he needed a key. His gaze came to rest on the dark, angular keyhole that right now felt like the key hole from Alice in Wonderland. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for Elvira Applebaum’s key.

  “Rocky, shine the light on the keyhole.”

  Giorgio inserted the long, Victorian style key into the lock and with a strong twist, the internal bolt slid back.

  “Hot damn!” Rocky cooed. “Where the Hell’d you get that?”

  “We owe our thanks to a grand old lady,” Giorgio whispered with reverence.

  The wrought iron hinges sang as they pushed the door open. Giorgio cringed, thinking Frances would hear them, but it couldn’t be helped. A dark, stone staircase wound up away from them.

  “Okay, be careful little brother,” Giorgio warned. “Frances is up there, somewhere.”

  Holding his weapon close to his chest, Rocky went first, scuttling up the stairs like a crab, his back flattened against the rough stone, the faint flashlight guiding his way. The shaft was cold, and their passage raised a cloud of fine dust making Giorgio catch a sneeze. The staircase ended some thirty feet up at a small landing and another door. But this one was unlocked. Rocky threw it open, hanging back for protection. When there was no response, Giorgio ducked inside, breaking to the left with his weapon drawn. Rocky broke to the right. They were in a long, narrow room. Their tiny flashlights cut through the darkness to reveal a broken, primitive-style bed frame at the far end, along with a stained and shabby mattress, and two sets of manacles driven into the wall. There was no exit. And the room was empty. Both brothers paused and holstered their weapons to take stock of their surroundings.