All the Dead Fathers (11 page)

“Not quite true. All of them are
alleged
to have engaged in some sort of sexual misconduct with
minors,
and someone has decided the allegations are credible. Actual proof is another—” She gave up. “We've been through all this before.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You didn't have to come along, you know.”

“I came along to be with
you,
” he said, “not to make friends with your clients.”

“Who said anything about making friends? Anyway, you can wait in the car. Or go for a walk.” It was a beautiful fall evening. Cool and crisp.

“Are you kidding? Nothing but trees in every direction, and the sun going down any minute. God knows what's creeping around out here in these woods.”

“I know,” she said. “That's what Michael and the others are afraid of, too.”

“Yeah, well, that's different. They brought it on themselves.” He was making her regret bringing him along, after all. “I mean, they deserve—”

“They deserve what? To be tortured and murdered?”

“Anyway,” he said, “I'm coming in.”

*   *   *

They followed Michael down a corridor on the ground floor of the building to his room, and Kirsten was surprised to find so many people there. Eight men—nine, including Michael—all in sport shirts and black pants, standing around chatting with each other. As they became aware of her presence, they turned her way and conversation gradually died out. Most of the men held glasses in their hands. It was six o'clock, cocktail hour.

It was hardly Bunko's, but the room did smell of perspiration and alcohol; too many frightened men in too small a space. Luckily, there wasn't much furniture: a chest of drawers—the top now a makeshift bar with bottles and glasses, and a foam plastic cooler—a desk and two chairs, and, in an alcove to her left, a narrow bed. No TV, no audio system.

Beyond the alcove were two doors: one closed, probably a closet; and one open just enough to show a tile floor—a bathroom. Floral drapes were wide open on two windows in the wall opposite her. They were huge old double-hung windows, with their sills just a couple of feet above the floor, looking out on evergreen bushes, then lawn, then woods. The view was to the west, and the evening sun sent plenty of gold-tinted light into the room.

A stack of metal folding chairs leaned against one wall, and a chalkboard was set up on the desktop. The eighteen names from the newspaper list were printed on the board in two columns headed
VSG
and
OUT
. The
VSG
column had ten names, Michael's among them; the
OUT
column had eight. Both lists were in alphabetical order, with the names of the three murder victims—Immel, Kanowski, and Regan—crossed out.

Michael introduced her as his niece, the private investigator he'd told them about, and made a half-hearted joke about nepotism. He suggested they all sit down and the men milled around, replenishing drinks and setting up chairs. Finally, after they were all seated, Kirsten asked Dugan, who'd been leaning against the doorjamb, to open a window. He went across, unlocked one window, and tried to raise it, but he couldn't get it open more than a few inches.

“I could never get the bottom parts of either window open at all,” Michael said. “But try the top half. It's a little easier.”

Dugan ignored him and Kirsten smiled as he struggled with the window, knowing he'd tear every muscle in his back and shoulders before he'd take advice from any of these guys. He got it open another inch or two before he gave up, then he went and sat on the edge of the desk beside the chalkboard.

“Oh,” Michael said, “I forgot to introduce Dugan. He's Kirsten's—”

“He's one of my operatives,” Kirsten said.

Michael nodded and sat down with the others, but she stayed standing—near the door so she could see out the windows—and they all adjusted their chairs to face her. The room was hushed now, and she felt a strange awkwardness in the air. Maybe because these priests, men who lived apart from women, found themselves suddenly this close to one, asking for help. Or maybe because they were outcasts who aroused nothing but disgust and hatred in just about everyone, and wondered why they should trust this woman to be any different.

Four of them seemed Michael's age, sixty-something; the others in their fifties or late forties. Mostly gray-haired or balding. There was one light-skinned African-American and the rest were obviously of European ancestry. They were a bespectacled, bookish-looking group and, except for Michael and two others, they were overweight—one of them quite obese.

She gave them a rundown of her background and qualifications, and then gestured toward the chalkboard. “I take it,” she said, “that the people listed under
VSG
all live here.”

“Yes,” Michael said. “Five of the ten of us have decided for sure we want to hire you, and we'll pay. One of that five is in the hospital in Waukegan with a kidney stone, but he wants to be a part of it. Three are undecided, and two aren't interested. But—”

“Not interested in
paying,
I guess,” Dugan cut in, “but they're here with the rest of you.”

“Some of us don't have any money!” That came from the heaviest of the men, his voice high and shrill. “And we don't even know yet what you're promising.” That brought a sudden chorus of discussion and disagreement, mostly about how much it would cost.

“Hold it!” Kirsten glared at Dugan, who she wished would keep his damn mouth shut, and then at the priests. “I'm not here to sell myself, for God's sake. My uncle says you all know my rate, and tells me he has commitments enough to meet the cost.” Which wasn't really true. “So I'm on the case already, until I decide differently. It's not my problem how much comes from any individual, or whether everybody pays. Someone wants a free ride, or thinks I'm not worth it, that's up to him. So forget all the cost bull— All the cost stuff. Okay?”

“The thing is, we don't really know you.” It was the fat guy with the shrill voice again. “You might make things worse and … well…” He paused, then said, “But you know what? We don't have a lot of choices here. There's a madman out there with our names on his mind. I mean … we have to trust
someone.
So, I guess, count me in.”

“Fine,” Kirsten said. “First, we're assuming the three murders so far are connected, since all the victims were on the same list you're on. Second, we're assuming the killer isn't finished.” No one said a thing, and she went on. “So far, he's only gone after men that don't live here at Villa St. George. That
could
be because he knows the seminary has a security force.”

“But only one man on patrol between midnight and eight
A.M
.,” somebody said, “and as far as I—”

“It
could
be the presence of security,” Kirsten went on, “or it
could
be that there's some pattern, some system dictating the order the killer's following, and that you've just been lucky so far.”

“Plus, we all go
off
the grounds on occasion,” Michael said, “some more than others. So we're all vulnerable until they identify and catch whoever it is.”

“The police are working on that,” she said. “But just as important, until he's caught, is for each of you to take whatever measures you can to avoid being the next victim.”

She went on to tell them there was safety in numbers, not to leave the building alone if possible, to be careful when they left the seminary grounds altogether, and to be especially cautious at night, wherever they were. “To the extent possible, you ought to stay right in this building at night. I understand your rooms are all on ground level, along this side of the building.”

They agreed and pointed out that they had an eleven o'clock curfew they were supposed to keep, and it struck her that even though they weren't locked in, it
was
a little like being in jail. They said other groups used the facility during the day for retreats and conferences, so people came and went, and that made everyone feel safer. But nights were a different story. Even though some of the retreatants stayed overnight, they were housed in a separate wing of the building.

“Our corridor can be kept locked from the inside,” Michael explained, “but there are several entrances, and people are sometimes careless. Plus, we're on the first floor and there are windows like these in all our rooms.” He gestured toward the window Dugan had struggled with.

“I understand, and I make no guarantees,” Kirsten said. “But I'll tell you this, if I were you I'd feel very safe from sunset to sunrise inside this building.”

“I'm sorry, Kirsten,” Michael said, “but none of
us
feels that way.”

“It's true, though. Starting, actually, last night.” That got their attention, but she ignored their comments. She made a point of looking out the window. “I'd say it's about sundown now, wouldn't you, Michael?”

Along with all the others, Michael twisted around toward the windows. “Yes,” he said, “just about.” The sun had dropped below the trees, and it was getting pretty dark outside—and in the room, too.

Kirsten flipped up the wall switch beside her and a bright overhead fixture lit up, and all heads turned back to her. “I've arranged for additional security for this building at night. Did anyone notice anything last night?” They all said no, and she said, “Good. My man prefers it that way. But he was there.”

“If there
was
someone out there,” Michael said, “wouldn't he be more effective in keeping someone away if he's open and obvious?”

“Except,” Kirsten said, “there are
two
things I want to do here. One is to keep you safe. The other is to
catch
this maniac if he shows up. My people will stay hidden.”

“But how do we know anyone's really out there?” someone asked. “You could just be—”

“Turn and look,” she said, and switched off the light again.

They all turned and of course saw nothing at first, until, rising up outside the slightly open window, the head of a man slowly appeared. As he stood up it was obvious he was a very large man. He put one black-gloved hand under the edge of the window to lift it higher and, like Dugan, ran into resistance.

“That's as far as it'll go,” Dugan called.

The man let out a sharp sound—Kirsten was sure it was “fuck,” but as though barked by a huge dog— and with both hands he raised the window all the way up. Then he stuck one huge, black-booted foot in over the sill, and came into the room with a smooth quickness that surprised even Kirsten.

19.

It was just about sundown when Debra parked on the street a couple of blocks away from the building and walked back. It had been a long day, and there was more to come. At least there was if God was with her.

She went inside, through the lobby, and on toward the elevators. She walked as one with a purpose in mind, not stopping at the desk for a pass. There were people everywhere, but no one challenged her or paid much attention to her at all. She wore a business suit and carried a leather attaché case under her arm, and she had a smile for anyone whose eye she couldn't avoid.

This was her third visit. The first had been on Monday, two days ago, when she'd been following the pervert Regan and he had led her here. Then earlier today she'd come back for another look and to locate the stairwells and the exits. Riding up on the elevator, she kept her smile in place. She could feel her heart beating. So many people around. This was the sort of risk she hadn't taken until now. But if she was to complete her work, and in the order Divine Wisdom itself had revealed, she might not get a better opportunity for a long time—time she couldn't afford.

The elevator stopped, and she got off and headed down the corridor. Not so crowded here, of course, though people were still coming and going. She knew well that courage and foolishness were not the same thing, but if there was any realistic opening she would seize it. She hoped to take him with her—something she hadn't considered with Father Kanowski—and carry out the job where she could do it properly. And if she could do that, she would leave behind a sign that she had taken him, so that the order she was following in these purgings would be ascertainable. That was crucial.

His name was in the slot on the door. She pushed it open and went inside. There was no one there. Disappointing, but God's will—not hers—be done. She turned and went out into the corridor again, and started back toward—

“Excuse me, ma'am.” It was a woman. “Can I help you?”

Debra desperately wanted to keep going, to pretend she hadn't heard. But that had its own risks. She stopped and, fixing her smile wider than ever, turned around.

*   *   *

Five minutes later, riding down on the crowded elevator, Debra was tempted to exit at the lobby and head straight for her car. The woman had seen her! Looked right into her face. Still … she was an old woman, and obviously not very bright. She had no idea who Debra was and couldn't possibly identify her unless she'd already been caught … and then she would have failed anyway. She'd taken a huge chance by telling the old woman who she was looking for, but God rewarded bold courage.

Everyone else got out at the lobby and Debra rode down to “LL1.” She found the snack bar where the old woman said she would: past the main dining area, around a corner, and halfway down to the next corner. It was a small room, with a wall of plate glass separating it from the corridor. There were several round tables, and vending machines for soda, coffee, snacks, and sandwiches. And there he was, her reward for not losing her nerve.