by Blake Pierce
The lawyer began to sputter in protest again, jabbing a small finger toward the camera.
But Lavigne cleared his throat and reached out with a cuffed hands to steady his representative.
“What do you want, Agent?”
Adele shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and then, slowly, she sighed. “I need your help,” she said. “If you’re telling the truth, and if you had nothing to do with it, I need your help. It will go a long way to clear your name.”
The lawyer was speaking quickly now, muttering beneath his breath. “Don’t listen to her, Gregor, you can’t trust them. You need me here, and Agent,” he said, raising his voice, “all of this is highly irregular. Is it true you questioned my client before I arrived?”
Adele ignored him, her gaze fixated on Mr. Lavigne. “You’re a historian, yes?”
At the word, the man perked up a bit. He coughed delicately. “I know my area,” he said. “Architecture of religious persuasion in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,” he said. “Parts of my interest branch into the twentieth century as well.” Was it her imagination, or had his chest puffed a bit as he said this?
Adele swallowed, shaking her head. “I need your help then. I need you to help me find out where the killer is going to hit next.”
“Agent,” the lawyer began to speak, “this is all on the record. I hope you know, just by turning off the camera, it doesn’t mean—”
“You can leave,” Gregor said quickly.
Adele blinked in surprise. The lawyer looked like he’d been shot. He turned sharply. “Gregor,” he said, quietly, “listen to me. You can’t trust them.”
But Mr. Lavigne shrugged one shoulder. His chains rattled. “Is it important he isn’t here?” he asked to Adele.
She cleared her throat, glanced at the yellow legal pad, then back at Mr. Lavigne. “I just need your help,” she said, simply.
Gregor Lavigne studied her for a moment.
“Your historical expertise,” she pressed.
He frowned. “Don’t flatter me.”
She winced, but nodded apologetically.
Gregor made a shooing motion with his cuffed hands. “I’m fine, Arthur. I’m going to be okay. Just stand outside, I’ll call if I need you.”
The small, diminutive lawyer seemed to want to protest further, but then, at an iron look in his client’s gaze, he sighed, shrugged, and slowly got to his feet, shaking his head. His wild, jutting hair was dark beneath the lights. He hefted his briefcase, and, muttering, brushed past Adele, moving out into the hall. Another thud, and a click.
Cameras still off.
They were alone.
For a moment, Adele and the suspected killer just studied each other across the table.
“You had nothing to do with this?” she asked, softly, staring at him. “Is that your story?”
“You have my word,” he said. “As a devout Catholic.”
Adele considered this. Her father took his faith seriously. Swearing on the Bible was just as close to swearing on his own mother. Most religious people, at least to the degree Mr. Lavigne was religious, took their faith seriously. An oath on it wasn’t taken lightly. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be lying through his teeth, playing her emotions and instincts. And yet, somehow, she shared the same sense as Agent Paige. They had missed a step. Mr. Lavigne wasn’t the killer. Which meant she had to find out who was.
Now, standing alone in the room with the suspect, she nodded resolutely, making up her mind, and she marched across the line of sight of the deadened camera.
“All right, here,” she said, stiffly. “You know about those properties from ten years ago, the ones sold by the church. Is that right?”
“The ones Becker was after? So he is the one who put you on me?”
“Just answer the question. You know about the church properties?”
“You already know I do. We bid on them.”
“You lowballed.”
“Is there something I can help you with, Agent? I can just call the lawyer back in if you want.”
“No, I’m sorry. Look, I need you to tell me about these addresses.” Adele pulled her phone out, scrolling to Becker’s cursive handwriting and placing the device in front of Mr. Lavigne. She waited, smelling sweat, and feeling her own legs beginning to ache from her rigid posture. She shifted back and forth, waiting, watching.
“All of them?” he muttered. She flicked to the next screen, and then to the third page. She zoomed in on the highlighted names, allowing Mr. Lavigne to read the addresses.
“What about them?” He looked up at last, frowning. “The church properties. Right? Is that what you’re curious about?”
“I already knew they were church properties. I’m specifically wondering what sorts of church properties?”
“That’s all? Easy. Cloisters and convents mostly. A church or two thrown in there.”
Adele frowned. Cloisters and convents? This lined up with what she’d learned at Becker’s. “So refuges? For nuns and the like?”
“Exactly. Well, for the most part.”
“What you mean for the most part?”
“I—now mind you, I have done my research. Most of them were your usual run-of-the-mill cloisters. Most of them were staffed by perfectly respectable and lovely women of God. You have to understand this.”
“Why do I sense a but coming?”
“I’m not sure I like your tone. You come in here with my rosary, dangling it about as if it didn’t matter. Using my faith in a way to leverage me.” Mr. Lavigne was shaking his head, clearly frustrated. “I wish you would judge my faith by its claims and content, rather than its abusers. Anyone can wear a title.”
“Claims and content aren’t my area. I’m specifically looking for a murderer. He’s killed three women already.”
“I just want you to understand, most of these convents, these cloisters, were run by good people with good intentions.” He paused and glanced off, his expression carrying a glint of shame. “Not all of them though,” he said, softly.
For a moment, Adele forgot to breathe. “What do you mean?”
He winced, shaking his head. “I actually don’t know if I remember the exact one. It’s on that list, I think it was an early listing. But,” he coughed delicately, “there were stories, rumors making the rounds. It was an older convent, but a special place.”
Adele’s eyes flicked back to her phone. “What about it?”
“It was where they would send special cases,” he murmured softly. He looked up now. “I’ll admit, even in the twentieth century, their methods were archaic.”
Adele shivered. “Methods for what?”
“Like I said, not all of it is salvageable history. I have a couple of diary entries back home, in fact. Pictures of the place that would help me remember exactly what street it was on. But, vaguely, I do remember this particular cloister was run by folk intent on curing demonic oppression.”
“Come again?”
“Demons, Agent Sharp. Many have them. For some, they’re simply memories. For others,” he said, shaking his head, “they’re darker, and more real. Many in my church certainly believe there are spirits out there. Forces for evil.”
Adele didn’t blink. “I’ve seen evil. What does that have to do with this particular cloister?”
“Troubled youth were sent there. They were considered demon possessed. Modern science might suggest they were more mentally ill than anything. Medicine hadn’t been developed at the time, though. Some of them, even to this day, wouldn’t have benefited. Hard cases, tough cases. Some of them insurmountable.”
“They were sent to this particular convent you’re talking of?”
“Like I said, most of them were harmless. But this one, they didn’t know what to do with these children. And so from what I remember, they would send the most troubled, the most difficult, the most,” he paused and trailed off, “possessed, to this convent. And so it was staffed by some of the harsher, har
der women. The ones who could deal with such traumatized cases. Children. Their methods,” he winced, shaking his head, “weren’t very kind.”
Adele shivered, staring at the side of Mr. Lavigne’s face. “And this convent, you say you have diary entries?”
“Maybe, somewhere. I think so. But I do have a picture, I know that. It came out when I was researching some of these properties to make my case to the government.”
“The case to prevent their sale?”
“My case to enable their preservation,” he returned. He shivered now, looking off again.
Adele’s mouth felt dry and her fingers cold. She spoke softly, but sincerely. “Mr. Lavigne, if you’re innocent, we have a killer out there. What I need to know is how I catch this particular predator.”
He shrugged. “For me to help you further, I need my books and collections. I have them back at my house; other than that, there’s not much I can tell you.”
“And you have a picture of the people who ran this convent? You’ll be able to tell me exactly which address it was?”
Mr. Lavigne looked at her, and he dipped his head slowly once and said, “Yes. I could help if you let me.”
She stood slowly, shifting back and forth. “Could you tell me where this information is?”
He looked at her, and his eyes narrowed, “I can’t say I remember that either.”
So that’s how it was going to be. She was cornered, and Mr. Lavigne seemed to know it. Could she trust the guy? Obviously not. He was still a suspect. A very likely suspect, despite all the acting, and emotions, and posturing. The cameras off, the lawyer was gone, the police officers left too. The decision was now Adele’s.
“Will you help me?” she murmured.
“Will you help me?”
It weighed heavy on her; one way or another, she was taking a risk. She closed her eyes for a second, ignoring the speculation, the scrutiny across the table. Ignoring the bright lights above her. What would Robert have done?
Perhaps, more importantly, what would he have told her to do?
Trust your instincts, a soft voice whispered in her mind.
Courage didn’t always require storming a gunman’s position. It didn’t always require battling a serial killer over a discarded knife. Sometimes, courage was simple, found in the smallest choices.
Trust your instincts.
She sat there, feeling the swirling anxiety in her stomach. No part of her wanted to trust her instincts. No part of her wanted to shoulder this weight again. She didn’t want the blame for another death. Someone else could take the lead. Someone else could make the fatal decision.
But no decision was just as good as the wrong one. By not trying at all, she failed by default. Another little thing Robert often said.
Trust your instincts.
“Dammit,” she growled. “Fine, you’re coming with me.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out the handcuff keys and moving toward Mr. Lavigne.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Adele could feel eyes burning through her shoulders as police officers in the precinct watched her march Mr. Lavigne down the marble stairs and out the front of the sliding glass doors.
“Adele,” Agent Paige was insisting beneath her breath at her side, skipping to keep up, “what are you doing? Agent Sharp. Adele!”
But Adele kept her eyes fixed ahead, one hand on Mr. Lavigne’s shoulder, guiding him toward the unmarked SUV Paige had managed to borrow from the locals. Her other hand clutched the keys as if they were a life line tossed into choppy waters.
This had to work.
Either her instincts were on the verge of altering the case… or they were about to get her killed and help a killer go free.
“Adele,” Agent Paige snapped as Adele clicked the locks and then opened the back door, gesturing at Mr. Lavigne to enter ahead of her.
“After you,” she muttered.
“Merci,” he returned somewhat chagrined, rubbing at his wrists. Mr. Lavigne’s diminutive lawyer was standing on the top step outside the precinct recording everything with his cell phone.
But the historian didn’t hesitate in sliding into the back of the SUV. Adele moved hurriedly around the front toward the driver’s side and waited impatiently as Agent Paige, still blustering and protesting, entered the vehicle as well.
“Adele!” Paige was still saying. “Have you gone mad? Why isn’t he in handcuffs?”
Adele started the engine, again weathering the storm of the directed attention. She cleared her throat delicately, glancing in the rearview mirror and holding Mr. Lavigne’s steady gaze.
“To your home?” she said, softly.
“That’s where my collection is,” he replied, equally calm. He kept glancing between Paige and Adele like a spectator witnessing a tennis match.
Adele nodded, gunned the engine, and began maneuvering out of the police parking lot, still enduring Paige’s protests without comment. It wasn’t until she’d guided onto the side street, leading back toward the rundown neighborhood where they’d first sniffed Mr. Lavigne, that she finally glanced toward Paige and gently but firmly said, “I know what I’m doing.”
Paige blinked, caught mid-protest. She swallowed, leaning back, still unbuckled in her seat. She had twisted in such a way that it allowed her to keep one eye on Adele and one eye on Gregor. “Do you?” she said at last. “Truly? Because it looks like we’re taking a suspected serial killer for a joy ride without cuffs or backup in a civilian vehicle.”
“I know. But I don’t think he did it,” Adele said, simply. “He has information. I think it’s going to help.”
“Help what?”
“Actually solve this. Hold on—I’m going fast.”
She floored the pedal, tearing up the street and ripping down the long road, moving by memory through the small coastal town toward the westernmost section.
She glanced in mild recognition as she passed the old trailer where Mr. Durand worked, his smiling face beaming out from the placard on the side of the mobile home in the abandoned lot. As they passed, Mr. Lavigne uttered a quiet series of expletives.
Agent Paige kept her gaze fixed firmly on the side of Adele’s face, but still spared a scathing glance every couple of seconds for the back seat.
“If he’s the killer,” Paige whispered, her voice as low as she could manage, barely audible over the sound of the engine, “this could all be a trick. We’re following him into his lair.”
“His home,” Adele said.
“Home turf advantage.”
“A calculated risk.”
“Adele!”
“No—look, too late—we’re here now!”
She pulled up to the small, squat single-story home with the peeling number 15 etched into the faux brickwork on the side. A jutting piece of wood had been snapped off, suggesting a mailbox had once occupied the space but no longer.
Overgrown weeds poked through cracks in an already broken pavement, leading to the house with greasy windows and dusty porch steps.
Adele parked with one wheel on the curb and, without readjusting, hopped out of the car, circling to the back and throwing open the door.
“Well, Mr. Lavigne, we’re here. Lead the way, sir.”
The bearded man with the squinting eyes combed fingers through the thinning top of his hair. He coughed delicately, glancing nervously from Adele to Agent Paige and then, with slow, careful movements, he slid out of the car onto the cracked sidewalk.
“It’s—ah, just the front door is locked. We’ll have to go around the back.”
“Adele!” Paige insisted.
“Fine,” Adele said. “Around the back it is. Lead the way.”
Gregor nodded quickly, moving slower than might have been warranted, but, likely in his mind, providing Agent Paige with no excuse to draw her weapon.
Adele’s fingers buzzed with excitement, her chest hammering. Her eyes fixed on Gregor’s form as he moved through a small, white gate past a large, gnarled tree jutting between t
he driveway and the house in the small, cramped space allowed for it. Adele followed along with Agent Paige and as they moved along the side of the house, Gregor called over his shoulder, “Any idea when I can get my car back?”
“After impound,” Adele replied reflexively. “I’m sure we can figure out a way to cover costs. Please just focus for now, sir.”
Gregor sighed but then moved around into an overgrown backyard, more weeds and thorns than grass. A small shed, not much larger than a doghouse, occupied a back portion of the equally tiny lot. He stepped over a discarded pile of tires and past a row of small shingles which had been laid neatly out as if to dry in the sun.
“What are those?” Adele asked, frowning at the shingles and glancing at the roof of the house. They didn’t match.
“Nineteenth-century brickwork,” he said, a note of excitement creeping into his tone. “I managed to get them from a demolition site.” The excitement vanished just as quickly to be replaced by scorn at this last phrase.
He stepped toward a door two stairs down into the foundation. Adele glanced uneasily at Paige, whose hand rested firmly on her holster. Both of them exchanged long looks and waited as Gregor fiddled with a combination pad. His fingers trembled badly though, and after a moment, a soft beep left him cursing.
“Sorry,” he said, “forgot I changed it. One sec.”
He tried another combination and then another beep and the pad flashed red.
“Damn it,” he said. “Hang on… Yeah, there we go.” A third time, another beep, but longer this time, and a soft click. Gregor fished a small silver key from a tray inside the keypad’s receptacle and used it to open the low door in the base of the home.
A sheet of dust dislodged from the top of the frame, falling across his shoulders and swirling about in the failing light outside his house. He coughed, waving a hand around his face, and then with a look over his shoulder, he stepped into the darkness, swallowed by the house.
“Adele,” Paige said quickly, her voice warning.
Adele stepped forward, down the two cement steps. She frowned at the still swirling dust. Didn’t seem like a well-used entry at all. Had he been lying all along? Was she walking into a trap after all?