Apocalypse Island (13 page)

“Are you sure about this, Frank?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why didn’t you say something before now?”

“What would have been the point? Jennifer Colvin wasn’t murdered, remember? She died of a heart attack. And there was absolutely no significance to it until the body of Janet Owen was found with a cross carved on her. And then Wolf became a person of interest, and well, you know the rest.”

“That certainly does put a different slant on things, doesn’t it?”

“Yep, it sure does.” Cavanaugh smiled with satisfaction. “What are you going to do now?”

Jennings shook his head frowning. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out. But I’ll bet they’re shitting in their knickers right now.”

“Who?”

“All of them, the feds, the chief, the archdiocese. They all thought it ended five years ago when they conspired to cover up the truth about the way that young woman died. Well, guess what? It just came back and bit them all on the ass. No way can they cover it up this time. That guy who took pictures of the last victim and posted them on the internet, well, he blew their dirty little secret right out of the water. You read the papers. The press is running with this, and now because of the internet it’s gone viral.”

“Yeah, but unless someone makes a connection between that case and these new ones no one will ever know the difference. Don’t forget, the press didn’t know anything about that murder.”

“Exactly,” Jennings said with a sly smile.

“Wait a minute. You’re not thinking...?”

“I just might be.”

“No, man, you can’t do that. You’ll put my ass in a sling.”

“I won’t mention any names. You can count on that, Frank. But I for one would love to see a few assholes crucified down in front of city hall.”

Chapter 27

That night, in the small rural community of Peaks Mills, Maine, Sister Agnes Beaulieu was sleeping peacefully.

Sister Agnes had come to the convent in Peaks Mills, which was sixty miles from Portland, along with her friend, Sister Mary-Catherine Summers almost three decades ago.

The convent was founded in the early part of the twentieth century by a small community of nuns, following the traditional orthodox monastic life of prayer and labor. They supported themselves by dipping pure beeswax candles, and sewing vestments, cassocks and other church articles. The community was so small and so isolated that it was nearly anonymous. And that was just fine by them.

Both nuns, veterans of a time and place best forgotten, had come here to put the past behind them. And although neither nun had forgotten what had happened all those years ago, they rarely spoke of it. Enough time had passed so they thought they were now safe from recrimination. That was a wrong assumption.

Sister Agnes woke with someone standing over her bed. It was dark in the room and the figure was just a vague outline. “Mary?” she said, but there was no answer. She reached out to pick her glasses up off the nightstand when someone pressed a hand tightly over her mouth. When she heard the person’s voice she knew that she and Sister Mary-Catherine had not run far enough.

“I’m going to release my hand,” said the intruder, “and if you scream you die. Do you understand?”

Agnes nodded earnestly beneath the intruder’s hand.

“Where is Sister Mary-Catherine?”

It was almost impossible not to scream. Her breath heaved her chest up and down in fast high-pitched gasps. “She’s not here,” Agnes lied. She saw the gun then and it looked so lethal, glinting wickedly in the moonlight through the window.

“One more lie and I’ll kill everyone in the house.
Everyone.
Do you understand, Sister Agnes?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Now, I’m going to ask you a question and you’re going to tell me the truth. Is that understood?”

Again Sister Agnes nodded in earnest.

“I want to know about the survivors.”

“Survivors?” Agnes said feigning confusion.

“I warned you,” the intruder said. He pointed the gun at Agnes’s head. “Now I’ll ask you once more. Did you and Sister Mary-Catherine rescue children from the orphanage?”

Tears were now coursing down Agnes’s cheeks. “Yes.”

“How many?”

“Nine.”

“There were no more?”

Agnes shook her head. “It was too late. The fire was too hot.”

“What happened to the survivors?”

“They went into foster care.”

“All local?”

“I believe so.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” the intruder said. “Now, where is Sister Mary-Catherine?”

When she heard a sound on the other side of the door, Agnes’s heart flip-flopped, first with a rush of hope but then dread. Someone had heard them and was coming.

The intruder turned to her in the semi-dark and said, “Be silent.”

A moment later there was a soft knock. “Agnes?” It was Mary-Catherine’s voice and too much for Agnes to bear. “Run, Mary! Run!” she screamed. Instead the door flew open and for a moment Agnes saw the shapes of three of her fellow sisters shadowed against the light of the hall. There were three soft popping sounds, nothing like the sound of regular gunshots and all three sisters collapsed to the floor.

Now Agnes was screaming and couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to. The intruder turned the gun on her and she knew in that instant that they were going to kill everyone who knew anything.

And anyone else who got in the way.

But why had they waited so long?

Chapter 28

The next afternoon Danny Wolf called his psychiatrist’s office and asked if the doctor could see him. He was told yes and to be there at three.

“I’m glad you decided to come back,” Hardwick said.

Wolf stared. “Thanks for not telling the parole board,” he said. “I guess I was kind of pissed the last time I left here.”

“I think that’s an understatement,” Hardwick said. “You’ve now missed three weekly sessions. Actually I had given up hope that you were ever going to return and was planning on contacting your parole officer today. When Jane told me you had called, well, I decided to give you one more chance.” Hardwick sat behind his desk drumming his fingers on the desk pad. Now he raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Can you tell me why you were so upset?”

“It seemed you were accusing me of something.”

“I made no accusations, Danny. But you need to understand something. These sessions are court ordered, which means you are
required
to attend. I am the doctor, you are the patient. When we meet, I am in control. I alone decide what options to use in treating my patients. If the approach I use sometimes seems peculiar or wasteful, or even...brutal, well, it’s for a reason, and it’s not for you to decide. Understand me, if it happens again I
will
notify your parole officer and you will more than likely be sent back to prison. Is that what you want?”

Wolf shook his head.

“We’re clear then?”

Wolf nodded.

“All right, now that we have that out of the way, I’d like to change the direction of our sessions. Up till now we’ve been talking about your dreams, your nightmares, your fears, setting the stage, so to speak, for the next chapter.”

“Which is?”

“I’d like to delve into your early childhood,” said Hardwick.

“How early?”

“Before the age of eight or nine.”

“Good luck with that,” Wolf said.

“You’re not going to be difficult, are you, Danny?”

Wolf shook his head. “Not at all. I just don’t remember much about my early childhood. I was told that I spent time in a Catholic orphanage, but I don’t have any real grasp of the events of those years. My first, cognizant memories began as a foster child at about the age of eight. It’s as if my life didn’t start until then. Strange but true.”

“Yes, quite strange,” the psychiatrist replied. “Which makes me believe there’s a reason for the memory lapse.”

“Really,” Wolf said. “Tell me, why do you care about all that anyway? What difference can it possibly make?”

“Sometimes we repress things that cause us pain,” Hardwick cleared his throat. “I just think we need to explore your entire life if we’re going to get to the bottom of your condition. Now, there must be
some
recollections from those years.”

Wolf was silent for a long moment in thought. “All right, I remember a priest telling me that I had to be good. I have a vague memory of the nuns that took care of me, of going to school, of attending mass. But it’s all jumbled up like dream fragments. There’s nothing clear.”

“I see,” said Hardwick. “Well, what about the orphanage itself? Do you have any memories of the place?”

Wolf shook his head.

“Do you know where the orphanage was?”

Again Wolf shook his head.

“You’re serious?”

“No one ever told me and I never asked. I didn’t really give a shit. I still don’t. To me it was always just ‘the orphanage.’ I don’t know anything about the place.”

“I see,” said Hardwick. “Well, what about the foster homes you lived in? Do you remember any of them?”

“Sure, some. Most of it was awful. The first one was okay. My foster mother was nice as I remember. But she died when I was barely nine and I had to move. After that I got bounced around a lot. I wasn’t one of those kids lucky enough to find a loving home.”

“Tell me, how did she die?”

“Someone broke into our house and murdered her.

Chapter 29

“I see,” Hardwick said. “Were you home at the time?”

“Yes, I believe I was. They told me I was anyway. I don’t remember the incident. They said I hid.”

“Do you know why or how she was murdered?”

Wolf shook his head. “I was young. I remember being sad but not much else.”

“Did they ever catch the person responsible?”

“I don’t think so.”

Hardwick scratched an ear. “Tell me your most memorable foster care experience.”

“When I was ten or eleven this couple took me in along with several other boys. The guy was a market farmer over in Cumberland and he was looking for slave labor. He found it with us. We lived in a bunk house and didn’t take our meals with the rest of the family. In the winter it was cold and I thought I’d freeze to death. The state didn’t care how we were treated as long as they didn’t have to deal with us.”

“So you were treated badly?”

“We weren’t beaten, if that’s what you mean. There was some verbal abuse. Our lives were simple. We worked, went to school, slept, got up and did it all over again. I found an old guitar and learned to play it. It was my only real sanity during those times. I was determined to get away and be successful.”

“Do you know who your real parents were?”

“Nope. And I never had any interest in finding out.”

“You were never curious?”

Wolf shook his head. “I don’t have any memory of them. What possible good could it do to dredge all that up?”

“Perhaps it would help to figure out why things are the way they are in your life.”

“Things are just fine in my life, thank you very much.”

Hardwick stared. “I don’t think you believe that, Danny.”

Wolf said nothing and looked toward the window.

“Okay,” said the doctor, “we’ll leave it there for now. But I might want to talk about this again at a later time.”

“Suit yourself,” Wolf said offering a casual shrug. “But I won’t be able to give you any more than I already have.”

“There are other ways to extract information,” Hardwick said.

Wolf glared suspiciously at the doctor. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, hypnosis for instance. It has its benefits.”

Wolf felt an odd wave of despair rise in him as his breath quickened. “I don’t like the idea of it,” he said.

“Oh? Why not?”

“I just don’t, that’s all. It makes me feel short of breath and panicky. I don’t like losing control.”

“Could it be that there are things inside you that you’re subconsciously afraid to bring to the surface?”

Wolf stood up and went to the window, looked out through the open louvered blinds. From Hardwick’s office on the fourth floor he could see the harbor with its moored watercraft and many islands in the distance. On one of the closer islands sat Fort Gorges, looking stolid and impenetrable, an eighteenth century stone structure designed to protect Portland from its enemies. Far out at sea and toward the east his gaze fell upon the vagueness of a misty island on the horizon. Wolf was somewhat familiar with the place. He’d gone there recently to pose for band photographs. They’d chosen the ruins of an old brick and stone structure as their backdrop. Somebody had painted a large cross on it with red paint. He hadn’t liked the way he’d felt there. It depressed him, made him feel sick and uneasy. He’d been glad when the ferry brought them back to the mainland.

He’d been hearing stories about Apocalypse Island for years, of course. Its sordid history was the stuff of local legend. When Wolf was growing up he’d heard that strange creatures lived there in caves and fed on human flesh, roamed the woods and rocky crags looking for victims. It was all crap, Wolf decided, stuff kids liked to talk about. Just the same, he’d always been intrigued by the stories. But going there had not been a pleasant experience.

Do you remember Apocalypse Island?
The priest had asked him on the day he’d gone into the church. The memory was like an electric shock and it jolted Wolf back to the present.

He turned away from the window and leveled his gaze at the psychiatrist. “I don’t know, doc, maybe.”

“All right,” Hardwick said after a long moment of silence. “We won’t get into that now. I can see that it makes you uncomfortable. But if nothing else works then I’d like to at least keep hypnosis open as an option. How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t like it,” Wolf said again. “But I’ll give it some thought.”

“Good. I’m confident that we can come to some sort of resolution. Right now I think you just need to talk.”

“About what?”