by Dan Wells
“That’s it for the inside,” Mom said after a moment.
I nodded. “I’m done on the front. Let’s roll him over.”
We set down our jars of Vaseline and stood on the body’s left. I grabbed his shoulder, Mom grabbed him under the hips, and we rolled him up and over onto his face. Mom gasped out loud, and we both stared.
“I think we’re going to need more Vaseline,” I said.
The back of the body was full of holes, presumably stab wounds—some long, some jagged, all deep and deadly. Any one of them could have been a killing blow. The two holes where the poles had been inserted were obvious, as they were slightly wider and rounder than the others, but the police had never said anything about any other wounds in the back. I touched one, lightly, trying to guess what had caused it—a single claw, or a whole hand of them? I glanced over the body quickly, looking for a pattern, but there didn’t seem to be one.
The holes were ragged and messy, wet with dark black and purple blood, like a liquid bruise. The entire surface had been mutilated and tenderized with animalistic ferocity. Nothing about the killer’s clean, meticulous method had hinted that there might be anything like this.
“What on earth did he do?” Mom whispered. It was a brutal sight, even six days later in a sterilized room. Margaret stopped her work to come and stare as well. Mom looked up at me, eyebrows raised in a silent question.
“Holy…,” said Margaret, touching the body gingerly. “Did they talk about this on the news?”
“Not a word,” I said. “I don’t remember hearing about it from the other Handyman killings either.”
“It looks like he stabbed him thirty times,” said Margaret. “Maybe forty.”
“What does it mean?” Mom demanded, still looking at me.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“You’re the expert, right?” Her voice was hard to read—angry and curious and desperate all at once. I couldn’t tell who the anger was aimed at. “You’re the one who studies this kind of stuff. What does it mean?”
I looked back at the body. “The first thing it means is that the police are keeping it quiet—partly to avoid freaking people out, but mostly it’s a marker. It’s like a … a signature, that nobody knows but the killer, so they can always tell which is a real Handyman killing and which is a copycat. It can also help identify any letters that come in to the police or to the media—if the letter mentions the stuff the police haven’t revealed yet, they know it’s a real letter from the real killer.”
“Does that happen a lot?” asked Margaret.
“More often than you’d think,” I said. “A lot of serial killers like to involve themselves in their own investigations.”
“But what does it mean about the killer?” asked Mom. She was still watching me, her eyes sharp and penetrating. “What does this say about the … person who did this?”
I looked back at her for moment, then down at the body. Is she asking about the demon?
“It means that she’s angry about something,” I said.
“She?” asked Margaret.
“Or he,” I said quickly. “He or she premeditates everything, and she’s very meticulous about everything she does. But then after it’s dead, and after she’s done whatever else she needs to do, she just goes crazy on it.” I touched the back again. “This is pure rage. Whatever else the killer wants, whatever other needs her killing serves, the base of the whole thing is anger.”
“At what?”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Pastors? Men? Us?”
“Us?” asked Mom.
I looked at her. Is this what she wanted to know? If the demon is really on a vendetta? I chose my words carefully.
“Whoever did this came halfway across the country to do it. He or she is very driven, and very careful, and very angry. Without more evidence, all it really tells us is … we’re going to be getting more evidence soon. Probably very soon.”
We looked back at the body, watching half-congealed blood shine darkly in the harsh light. Now I had more pieces of the puzzle, and a better idea of how this demon was killing, and that was good. It was very good. But even as I learned more about the “how,” I was starting to doubt that I knew the real “why.”
And that wasn’t good at all.
4
It was Sunday and I was going to church.
I’m not a religious person, in any real sense, though I don’t consider myself an antireligious person either. The truth is I just don’t really think about it that much. I didn’t go to church because my parents never went to church. When I chose the word “demon” to describe the monsters I’d seen, I honestly didn’t even realize it was religious in origin—I used it because David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam, used it in a letter to the cops. Just because “demon” was a cool word didn’t mean the Handyman was a fallen angel or anything goofy like that.
So no, I wasn’t going to church in the sense that I was going to attend a meeting and sing and pray or whatever. I was going to a church building because that is where pastors hang out, and I was doing it on Sunday because that is the best day (I assumed) to find one. Specifically, I was going to the Saint Mary’s Catholic Church to talk to Father Erikson, who all the news programs claimed was Pastor Olsen’s best friend. Saint Mary’s Catholic Church and the Throne of God Presbyterian Church were always working together on something or other, like soup kitchens and service projects, so I guess that made sense. A victim’s friend was the best lead I’d had in two months, and I figured it was time to ask the priest some questions.
The parking lot was full, so I parked on the far side of the street and sat in the car until people started to file out: girls in floral dresses and men in white shirts and ties. There were more than I expected, but I sat quietly as they wandered to their cars, watching their faces intently. They talked and laughed. They smiled and scowled. They blinked in the light and stared at the world in somber reflection. What were they guilty of? How far would they go if you pushed them?
Everyone was a suspect in my eyes, from the oldest man to the youngest child. Any one of them could be the demon.
They got in their cars and drove away. I climbed out of my seat and walked across the street and up into the church, ignoring the smiles of a group of old ladies who passed me in the foyer. Father Erikson was in the chapel, walking up and down the pews and straightening a bunch of little red songbooks.
“Hello,” he said, seeing me and smiling. “Can I help you?”
“I…” I’d never done this before, and I wasn’t sure what to say. It’s not like I could just flash a badge and start asking questions. “Do you have a minute?”
He cocked his head to the side, looking at me, then set down the songbook in his hand. “Of course,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?” He walked toward me, and I could see he was frowning slightly, his brow furrowed but his eyes wide. That was an “I’m concerned about you” face.
I shook my head. “No, no, it’s not like that,” I said. “I’m not religiously troubled or anything, I just…” I really hadn’t thought this through. Why would he answer some strange kid’s questions about a dead priest? I needed a story and I needed it quickly. He had almost reached me.
“Hi,” I said, “I’m interning with the newspaper, and…” I looked him directly in the eyes. The question slipped out before I could stop myself. “Do you believe in demons?”
He stopped short, smiling in surprise. “Demons?”
“Like, real demons,” I said. “That’s a Catholic thing, right?”
“Well, yes,” he said slowly. “The Bible does talk about demons and evil spirits, but it’s not an especially big part of our faith. We teach people how to lead good lives and do good things, and if we’re lucky we never have to worry about demons at all.”
“And if we’re not lucky?”
He studied my face, looking different than before; concerned now in a worried rather than a caring way. “Why do you ask?”
He smiled again and gestured to a pew. “Let me ask you something,” he said, sitting down. I sat as well, just across the aisle. “You’re not from my congregation, correct?”
“I’m not.”
“Do you belong to any of the other churches in town?”
“Not really.”
“There are a small handful of verses that talk about demons,” he said, “and tens of thousands that talk about God. So if God is real, and he can really help people and stuff, like he does in the Bible, shouldn’t that be an even bigger deal than demons?”
I raised my eyebrows. “This is why people don’t like talking to priests.”
“Ouch,” said the priest, laughing. “I’ll admit that I came on a little strong there, but still—ouch.”
“Does the Bible say anything about what a demon looks like?” I asked.
“So you really just want to talk about demons,” he said, nodding. “Okay. Demons. Well, the Bible teaches that demons are fallen angels who were cast out of heaven with Satan. So presumably a demon would look exactly like us—they’re just regular people who made really, really, really bad choices.”
“So no horns or pitchforks or stuff like that?”
He chuckled. “Not as far as I know.”
“I wanted to…” I paused. Now that the ice was broken I wanted to ask about Pastor Olsen, to see if there was anything he knew that could help me find the demon. But there was something wrong with the things he was saying—something that bugged me. I had to ask him.
“How can you believe in something like demons and not worry about them?” I asked. “It’s like knowing there’s a wolf outside that wants to kill you, and you don’t care. That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“It’s because I also believe in God, and I believe that God is stronger.”
“God didn’t protect Pastor Olsen,” I said.
He paused, watching me closely.
“Bad things happen every day,” he said slowly. “Every hour, every minute. I had two hundred people in my congregation today, and I know that bad things are going to happen to each and every one of them. Statistics say that one of those two hundred will get into a car accident this month. Five of them will be unemployed by the end of the year, maybe more if the mill keeps losing business. Half of them will have cancer sometime in their lives. But even knowing all of that, I still gave them a sermon of hope this morning, and I still let them walk out that door to face the world.”
“But how could that possibly help?” I asked. “You want to talk statistics, we’ve had three serial killers in town over the last year. At the rate they’re killing, someone in your congregation is almost guaranteed to be killed by one—almost guaranteed. What’s his family going to say? ‘The priest could have saved him, but instead he yakked about hope for a while. Thank goodness.’”
“I’m a priest, not a policeman,” he said. “We all have different jobs, and we all help where we can. Now, I don’t know the first thing about serial killers, or tracking down criminals, or anything like that. I don’t even know first aid, if I were to find a victim on the street. But I’m a very good teacher, and a very good leader, and I can serve this community best by staying in that role.” He shifted, leaning forward. “Do you have any idea how much our church attendance has increased over the last year? How many more people are donating to the poor, or volunteering for service projects? Trials bring people together. The killers come and go but the community will always be here, and people will always need to eat, and they’ll always need homes and jobs and someone to rely on. There is a wolf out there, like you said, but some of us are hunters and some of us are shepherds. Working together is the only way to keep the sheep safe.”
He leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m going to guess that you’re a hunter.”
I stared back, suddenly nervous.
“That’s fine,” he continued, “we need hunters. We need protectors. But we need everyone else, too. No one can do it all on his own.”
We sat in silence a minute. I had no idea what to say next. I was thrown off, completely lost. I struggled for words.
“I’m hunting him right now,” I said, “for an article in the paper, like I told you before, and I need your help. You were a friend of Pastor Olsen’s. Can you tell me anything that might help catch his killer? Anything at all?”
He mumbled, tripping over his words. “I … I’m not sure.…”
“Anything you know will help,” I said quickly. “What was he doing that day? Why was he in his church that night? Had he ever had any threatening phone calls or visits? The Handyman comes from Georgia—did Pastor Olsen have any ties there? There’s got to be something we can use to find the one who did this.”
“I didn’t mean for you to become a hunter literally,” said Erikson. “I meant that you’re obviously concerned and eager to help, and that’s great, honestly, but … you’re just a kid. Don’t do anything dangerous.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said, feeling a lie spring easily to life. “This is just a journalism thing—I get school credit. Anything you tell me will go straight back to the paper, and they’re the one’s who’ll follow up on it.”
He watched me, saying nothing.
“I swear,” I said. “I’m not going to do anything dangerous.”
“Give me your number,” he said at last. “If I think of anything I’ll call you.”
* * *
Marci Jensen lived in an old, yellow house in downtown Clayton, just a block off of Main Street. This was the oldest neighborhood in town, and everything was tall—the houses bore high, gabled roofs, and the ancient trees stretched their branches even higher than that. The sidewalks were dark and cracked and buckled in erratic peaks where the tree roots crept under and shoved them up. A police car sat alongside the curb. I leaned my bike against the low, wrought-iron fence and walked to Marci’s door, passing narrow strips of overgrown garden and rugged, yellow grass that probably never saw much sun. It felt like a cottage in the woods, a place where life crept in and on and around until it was a part of everything else.
The porch was old and weathered, and the front door was open behind a loosely latched screen. I knocked.
Footsteps pounded inside and a scruffy-looking kid, maybe twelve years old, emerged into the hall from a side room. The noise of a TV wafted from the back of the house. I opened my mouth to say something, but instead he turned and shouted, “Marci! Someone’s here for you!” Before he’d even finished yelling he was gone, back into recesses of the house.
There was an answering yell from upstairs, indistinct and feminine, and a vague clatter of doors and stairs. A pair of younger children, a boy and a girl who looked like twins, peeked out at me from another side door. I guessed they were four or five.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” said the girl. The boy picked his nose.
“I’m here to see Marci,” I said, by way of explanation.
“You’re not the guy that was here Saturday,” said the boy.
“Of course not,” said the girl. “Marci has lots of boyfriends. She has more boyfriends than me, and I have five.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Five boyfriends?”
“Tyson and Logan and Ethan and another boy from the bus who I don’t know.”
“That’s four,” I said, smiling.
“I’m four,” said the boy quickly, holding up four fingers.
“And Daddy,” said the girl. “That’s my other boyfriend. And Sheriff Meier. Is that five?”
“Close enough,” I said, nodding.
Footsteps crashed down the stairs and Marci came into the hall. She was wearing denim shorts, the really short kind that Mom called Daisy Dukes, and a short-sleeved flannel shirt. Her l
ong, black hair was tied up in a ponytail that bounced just slightly as she walked. She smiled, walking toward me with her thumbs hooked into her pockets, and suddenly the house that just seconds ago had been dark and old was now “comfortable” and “rustic.” It was something in the way she moved, and the way she carried herself. She made everything around her look better.
“Wow,” I said.
“You like it?” she asked, spreading her arms and looking down at her outfit. “I got these shorts online. Guess how much.”
“I’m the world’s worst judge of clothing value,” I said, shaking my head. “There’s really no point in guessing.”
“Just give it a shot,” she said, opening the door and stepping onto the porch.
“Somewhere between five and five hundred dollars.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I think maybe we scratch clothing value off the list of potential conversation topics.”
“I’m only bad with monetary value, though,” I said. “I can still appreciate the look.”
“But the price is the whole point,” she said, walking around to the driveway and standing up a bike that leaned against the house. “Anyone can buy nice clothes, but I was the one who found them for an unbelievable deal. Well…” She stopped, sticking out her hip and posing. “I also make them look fabulous. You ready to go?”
“Yeah,” I said. “My bike’s out here. We’re going to the lake?”
“I hope that’s okay,” said Marci, walking her bike out to the street. “I know we found a body there and everything, but the weather’s great, and I want to get as much bike-riding done as I can before school starts again. And apparently all the dead bodies are at churches these days, so we should be fine.”
Wow, I thought, she’s a lot more casual about the deaths than I expected. Must be the cop in the family. “Fine with me.” I hopped up on my bike and let her lead the way, coasting out into the road. I pedaled a bit to catch up. “I didn’t know you were into riding.”