All the Dead Fathers (9 page)

It wasn't fair.
She hadn't
wanted
to kill him, even when he lunged at her. That was his nature, his instinct. It was easy now to think of more humane solutions, but all she could think of then was that someone would hear and come to investigate before she could finish her work with the miserable Father Immel. But the priest's cute little dog—braver than the pervert himself—just wouldn't stop barking. She'd had to do a bad thing.

She consoled herself that out of every bad thing, even sadness and guilt, God drew something good. Always. She had run away in fear and abandoned her brother, Carlo, and God was using her flight to make her available to love Carlo back into wholeness. As a child she had been violated, over and over, and God was using her rage to make her into Lizzie Borden multiplied, taking the axe not to one, but to seven abusive fathers. Treating each of them according to His holy will.

“You must treat each priest according to God's holy will.” That's what Sister Clare had said, that day way back in sixth grade when the other kids were complaining about the new priest, Father Lasorda, who was mean and sarcastic and smelled like ladies' soap. But Debra, the only one who knew just how evil this priest really was, said nothing. She knew Sister Clare would never believe such a terrible thing.
No one
would believe her. Not her classmates, because her family was so rich and so powerful, and she was so pretty and so smart, and they were all terribly jealous and hated her. Not her mother, because … well … she just wouldn't. And her father? He knew already, and he let it happen. So Debra had sat at her desk, wanting to scream out the truth but not able to.

“I understand, dear children,” Sister Clare said when the children complained. “But remember, every priest bears the mark of the most holy priesthood, placed by God upon his soul. This is why you must treat each priest—including Father Lasorda—according to God's holy will.”

A difficult teaching then for Debra, a child always waiting, always wondering whether this night she must lie again, speechless, breathless, under those whisper-soft strokes—tantalizing, terrifying strokes—from the man her parents embraced and called “Father.” But a teaching that made perfect sense to her now. “Treat each priest according to God's holy will.”

Perfect sense. And so she finally slept.

15.

Kirsten went to both stores, one after the other. If either night manager—first at Triple X Book & Video and then at Cupid's Den—thought it strange that she showed up after one
A.M
, he didn't say so, but both said they were too busy to talk to her. She put on her best cop face and, though her ID was private, they both gave in when she said she was assisting Sergeant Wardell. If that got back to Wardell and he objected, she'd just have to deal with it.

Both managers had other clerks assisting them, and had only a few customers poking around. She showed them Kanowski's photo and said it was a routine follow-up, and both insisted that Wardell's people had already followed up once, and that no, nothing more had occurred to them. Neither had known Kanowski's name, but each recognized him and said he'd been in the night he was killed, and they'd seen no one paying any attention to him. Even though she didn't ask, each manager said he couldn't reveal to anyone—not even police officers—what any customer bought. But both were quick to add that Kanowski never asked for kiddie porn, which of course they didn't stock. Never had, never would.

By the time she left Cupid's Den she was angry at the managers for pandering to weaknesses, angry at Dugan for not even
trying
to understand her uncle, angry at herself for not being able to share her deepest sorrow with Dugan, and angry at a goddamn world where people sliced the skin off fellow human beings. She was getting nowhere, proving nothing.

She was tired and frustrated and, she had to admit, still anxious about some silent, unseen presence watching her, even now, when she knew that wasn't possible. That's what a stalker can do to a person.

*   *   *

Bunko's was on the access road along the west side of I-90, easily half a mile from its neighbors on either side and backed up to what looked in the dark to Kirsten like farmland. A squat, concrete-block building with bay doors that were no longer in use, it must once have been a gas station or an auto repair shop. There were easily two dozen vehicles—about half of them pickups or SUVs—pulled up tight around the tavern like cowboys around a campfire. There was one dim streetlight on the road, and the only other illumination came from beer signs shining out through barred windows and a very tall highway sign about a half block away, visible from both directions. It said
BUNKO'S
in huge red-neon letters, and below that, half as large,
TAVERN, NEXT EXIT
.

The rain had stopped and she parked far apart from the other cars and picked her way among the puddles on the wet, uneven gravel. At the door she took a deep breath and stepped inside. Forty or fifty people were crammed into a smoky, smelly barroom that was too hot and too humid, with stools and chairs enough for only about half of them. They were 90 percent male, most of them shouting and banging on tables. A few wailed along with some country and western guy who mourned from a jukebox that there weren't no jobs no more for us folks who are “all-American, born and bred.” The bar ran along the left side of the room and she headed that way, her eyes filling with tears from the smoke—and maybe, too, from her own weariness, anger, and frustration.

The highway sign must have delivered some customers to Bunko's probably earlier in the evening, but right now the place had the feel of a neighborhood bar—and not a great neighborhood to hang out in. Some of these men probably worked hard when the auto plants were going full tilt and construction was booming. Right now, though, they were mostly drunk and seemed well accustomed to it, and not likely to be up and showered and on their way to work in the morning. Despite the ceaseless whoops of laughter, there was restless hostility in the air and the catchphrase of the moment had to do with “kickin' some goddamn Arab ass.”

She was thinking how she'd been in dozens of loud, dingy places like this, mostly on police business, when she spotted two young women—girls, really, eighteen or nineteen and looking way out of their element in tight jeans and short jackets—come out through an open doorway under a sign that said
RESTROOMS
. They hurried straight toward Kirsten, and she realized she was blocking the exit. As she stepped aside, a large man with an ugly grin grabbed one girl's arms and said something to her. She pulled away and spat something back at him, and the two girls went on past Kirsten and out the door. They looked scared.

The man started forward, clearly meaning to go after them, but Kirsten stepped back to the door and blocked his way. “Sorry,” she said, “but they don't want to be bothered with you.”

“What?” He stopped and took a step back and stared at her. He had small eyes and a greasy baseball cap turned backward, and he smelled like sweat and alcohol. She didn't move, and when he started forward again she raised her left hand, palm toward him.

He stopped. “Look here, bitch, you—”

But another big man—one of his buddies, she thought—pulled him aside and back into the crowd. The entire incident didn't take fifteen seconds, and that was the end of it.

She looked for some opportunity to get close to the bar without having to squeeze too tightly against some other body. No one spoke to her or even looked straight at her, but she sensed that most of them were aware of her.
Some broad. Not from around here.
Finally a skinny guy jerked away from his spot at the bar, one hand clasped over his mouth, and bolted toward the doorway to the restrooms, and she stepped into his spot. There were two men and a woman dealing drinks. All three were thirtysomething, and all husky and solid enough to stop most fights. All three ignored her.

Maybe she didn't look like a customer. Maybe she looked like a cop. She waved her ID at the guy who seemed to be in charge and finally got him to come over and say, “We just quit serving. We close at two.”

“Good,” she said. She showed him Kanowski's picture and gave him the “assisting Sergeant Wardell” line.

“I talked to them guys twice already. What I know, they know.”

“Yes, but sometimes people later remember—”

“Not me.”

She put two tens on the bar, laid her right hand on one, and slid the other over to his side.

He stared at the bill, but didn't pick it up. “That was a slow night,” he said. “This guy…” He tapped a finger on the photo. “I didn't know his name, just he came in once or twice a week and sat alone. Drank too much.” Which Kirsten thought was exactly the point of this dive, but didn't say so. “Anyway, yeah, he was here that night. I don't know when he left, but it mighta been when we closed.”

“And you didn't see anyone with him? Or anyone watching him or—”

“Uh-uh. Wasn't hardly anyone here that night I didn't recognize. I gave the sheriff all the names I knew.” He looked at his watch, and then at the ten under Kirsten's right hand. “I gotta get going.”

“Not quite,” she said. “Who else was here?”

“What?”

“You said there was
hardly
anyone you didn't recognize. So who didn't you recognize?”

“I don't … well … there were some college kids that I carded. Had a few beers and shots and left.”

“Anyone else?”

“No. Oh, there was this woman said she was on her way up to Madison. Came in for coffee—which people do when they're on the road and it's late. Didn't stay long. Ten minutes, maybe.”

“Was she here when Kanowski was here?”

“I don't know. Yeah, she musta been. But she didn't sit with him or anything. Just some woman. I couldn't even describe her. Glasses, under forty. Smiled a lot. I don't know.” He paused. “That's all I remember. Okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.” She lifted her hand and he put both tens in his shirt pocket and walked off.

She turned away from the bar and discovered that the other two bartenders, male and female, were emptying the place out—like sheepdogs herding the restless, noisy crowd toward the door. Trading curse for curse, insult for insult, smiling all the while, never touching anyone. And not giving an inch, but moving the whole flock out the door.

16.

Kirsten left Bunko's feeling like a stranger in a group of raucous, unruly friends. She'd had enough for one day, and she couldn't think of anything of real substance she'd accomplished. She wanted to go back to the Holiday Inn, and be left alone.

With the tall highway sign turned off the parking lot was darker, but there was still the dim streetlight out on the road, and headlights were going on as engines roared to life. Cars and pickups lurched backward, skidded, then spun around and splashed through potholes toward the road. They sprayed up gravel and fishtailed, then squealed as their tires hit wet pavement and caught hold.

Her Celica was where she'd left it, some twenty yards out. But no longer isolated. A Chevy pickup—perched high on oversized tires—was drawn up right in front of it, nose to nose. The truck's tailgate was dropped, and three guys were sitting on it, feet swinging, facing her across the wet gravel. They chugged from their cans and laughed at each other's comments, things she couldn't hear. But she could see they were waiting for her. The one in the middle was the punk she'd kept from following those two girls, and one of the others was the guy who'd pulled him aside.

She was one … and a woman. They were three … and men. Their collective judgment—to the extent they had any at all—was clouded by alcohol and who knew what else. Pretty soon this place would be deserted and they'd have her to themselves. Maybe just to degrade and humiliate her, verbally. But possibly something far beyond that. Whatever they
wanted,
that was the point. Or at least, she thought, that was the belief they shared.

Facing them, she felt a surprising sense of ease. This was no silent shadow, creeping in close to leave sly, disturbing messages and then melt away. Nor was this an unknown killer stalking men she wasn't sure she could help … or wanted to. No, this threat was simple, up-front, in-your-face. Of course it wasn't fair to take advantage of a drunk, or even three of them. But this had been a long, frustrating day, and here was a situation she could actually do something about—if she had to. She stood and stared at them.

Most of the cars were gone by now, but one of them stopped momentarily, its headlights catching both her and the punks on the tailgate. All three were large, maybe high school football players five or ten years ago. They'd put on a lot of soft fat since then, though, and gotten that much uglier—inside and out—and more convinced that somebody owed them something, for reasons they couldn't quite put their finger on.

The stopped car sped away and left her alone with them. They were still clowning around, screwing their baseball caps this way and that on their heads, until finally the one in the middle called to her. “Check this out, bitch!” Grabbing his crotch. “I know you want it.”

This called forth whoops of laughter from his buddies. She started walking again—slowly, but without hesitation—and as she drew closer they all fell suddenly silent.

She stopped ten feet from them. “Get in your truck,” she said, her voice strong and even, “and drive away.”

They looked at each other and then laughed again, but she knew she was making them nervous. She waited. Finally the crotch grabber tossed his beer can away and eased his butt off the tailgate. “Fuck you, cunt,” he said, as though remembering who was
the man
here. “We got plans for you.”