Apocalypse Island (19 page)

“So I’m bait, huh?”

Jennings was silent for a long moment staring at Laura. “Yeah, I guess you are,” he said finally.

“Why did you ask me to do this, Rick? Why not one of your own people?”

“Couple of reasons. A lot of people in the downtown clubs know my officers, even the ones who work undercover. I want you to blend into the crowd. I don’t want to take any chances on you being fingered. The only ones who know about this are you and me, and I want to keep it that way.”

“You brought me in without consulting your superiors?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Some of those officers remember me, Rick. I know Robeson does. Christ, I’m Jack Higgins’s daughter.”

“You were in high school when your dad was killed and you and your mom moved away shortly after. You’re older. You look different. I know none of the newer people know who you are, and I seriously doubt any of the older guys would recognize you, and even if they did, it doesn’t matter. They don’t work the downtown scene.”

“Cops talk, Rick.”

“I don’t think you need to worry. If anyone sees us together we’re just old friends, okay? And it’s the truth.”

Laura nodded. “You said there were a couple of reasons.”

“Yeah, the second and biggest one is, I trust you.”

“Rick,” Laura said cautiously, “you don’t suspect one of Portland’s finest, do you?”

Jennings narrowed his eyes, his irritation at this particular inquiry evident. “I told you, these killings have got the entire city on edge. I just think we need some new blood. End of conversation.”

“So you do suspect one of your own.”

“Listen, Laura, I suspect everybody and anybody. I honestly don’t know what to think. I told you, I’m a little spooked. Let’s just leave it there for now, okay?”

Laura nodded.

“And Laura, be on the lookout for anything unusual.”

“Unusual, Rick?”

“You know, what we talked about a moment ago.”

“Ghosts?”

Jennings cleared his throat as his face began to redden.
“Anything
unusual.”

“Okay, cave beasts with horns.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Laura smiled. “Wouldn’t be the first time, Uncle Rick.”

“I want you to start tonight,” Jennings said. “Now I’ve already briefed you on where his band will be playing. Make sure you look the part. You know, dress up like a groupie.”

“You mean like one of those goth chicks?”

“No, no, do it a little classier. See if he’s interested in anything besides damaged goods. And, Laura?”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to come to my apartment an hour before you go out. You’re wearing a wire.”

Laura frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Not negotiable,” Jennings said.

Detective Laura Higgins agreed and left Jennings’ office.

Chapter 38

After Laura left, Jennings went upstairs and tapped on the chief’s door. Mostly he was curious if Robeson had seen Laura, and if so, what would be his reaction to her presence here.

Robeson’s desk was covered in photos of the dead women. He was frowning as he stared down at them, rearranging them, sorting through them. There were crime scene photos, autopsy photos, snapshots from every conceivable vantage and angle. Jennings wasn’t surprised to see that there were three separate victims.

James “Red” Robeson was a thin, youthful looking man of sixty who sported a thick head of unruly red hair and still had freckles on his cheeks and nose. He’d been chief since 91, hired from a long list of qualified out-of-town candidates when Hal Davies, Portland’s beloved chief of thirty-four years died suddenly from a massive heart attack. At the time, Jennings had been encouraged to apply for the job, assured that he was a shoe-in, the only local candidate with the credentials to occupy the coveted upstairs office.

But Jennings did not want to occupy the upstairs office. It was only two years since the tragedy of his wife’s death and he still hadn’t come to grips with his loss. He was having trouble occupying his own skin, drinking too much, roaming, restless. He wanted to move, to feel his legs beneath him as he ran from the terrible things in his head, thoughts that plagued him night and day.

Besides, he hated politics, and the chief’s job was mostly political.

Red Robeson had been the ideal candidate. He was from New York, had worked in a variety of police agencies, and he had connections in Washington. He was friendly, but as far as Jennings knew, wasn’t a true friend to anyone on the force. He had a penchant for telling jokes and setting minds at ease with his wide smile and easygoing nature, but it was a ruse. Robeson had a way of keeping even the closest people to him at arm’s length. He’d lost his wife to cancer nearly ten years ago and had seemed to pick himself up by his bootstraps without missing a beat.

“I wondered if you were going to look at all three of these,” Jennings said.

Robeson was chewing on his lower lip in concentration, his fingers splayed across the photos. “This really complicates things,” he said, his eyes never leaving the desktop.

“I imagine it does,” Jennings replied.

“I was talking about you, Rick. Cavanaugh tells me you’re making waves.”

For a long moment it was quiet in the room, neither man speaking. Outside rain swept against the window.

“It’s the same killer, Red.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not up to me.”

“You kept those photos for a reason.”

“Insurance.”

Jennings nodded. “The part I could never get was the big guy they were chasing. What was so important about him that a murder had to be covered up?”

“These are things no one is supposed to talk about, ever.”

“But you kept insurance.”

Robeson was now looking Jennings directly in the eye. “Don’t go there, Rick. Just do your job and find us a killer. Okay?”

“What if I do, Red? What if I find us a killer and he turns out to be the one you
don’t
want?”

“I’ll deal with that if and when the time comes.”

On the way out of the office Jennings tried to keep an empty place in the center of his mind and not think the thoughts he was thinking.

Chapter 39

The killer entered the apartment building through the front entrance. It was broad daylight, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t need to push anyone here. It was okay if they saw him. Better actually if someone did. He went upstairs to the second floor, marched down the corridor and knocked on the door to apartment number seven. When the door opened a crack the hunched elderly man on the other side stared at him with circumspect eyes.

“What do you want?” he said.

“I want to apologize,” said the killer.

“For what?”

“For last night.”

“You have some serious problems, young man.”

“I’m working on it. Can I come in?”

“You can apologize from out there,” said the elderly man, squinting suspiciously at him.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” said the killer, “but I have a gift for you.”

“What is it?”

“I need to show you.”

“So show me.”

“Only if you let me in.”

“Oh, all right,” said the elderly man. He was lonely and gullible and rarely did anyone offer him friendship, let alone gifts. The door closed and the killer heard the sound of a chain lock being slid along its track. In a moment the door opened and the old man stepped aside. The killer entered the apartment and closed the door behind him, staring at the old man. “Well, what it is it?” the old man asked impatiently. “Come on, get on with it.”

The killer wore blue jeans and a long-tailed chamois shirt over a baggy-fitting t-shirt. The old man squinted his eyes at the killer thinking there was something odd about the way he looked, but he could not quite grasp what it was. Something just didn’t seem right.

The killer reached behind him and extracted a knife from beneath the Chamois shirt. The old man was a Korean War veteran, and although it had been many decades since he’d been in the war, he immediately recognized the knife. It was a Ka-Bar, the standard military issue combat knife. He let out a squawk, turned and tried to make it to his bedroom door, but wasn’t nearly fast enough. The killer caught him in two lunging steps, the knife thrust forward catching the old man in the back just below the right ribcage. Carried by the killer’s forward momentum, the knife went all the way in to the hilt. The old man tried to scream but only managed a small whimper. The killer extracted the knife and plunged it in again, and again, and again, so fast that it was just a blur. By the time the old man hit the floor he was dead and he’d been stabbed seven times. Only then did blood begin to flow out of his wounds.

The killer walked slowly to the bathroom and washed the knife clean in the sink, all the while looking at himself in the mirror, admiring himself, primping, preening, marveling at how handsome he was, how extraordinarily good he looked considering the circumstances. He was thinking about all those he had killed, and all those that still deserved to die.
One at a time,
he thought.
And anyone else who gets in the way.
When the knife was clean and he was through admiring himself, he went out and carefully opened the apartment door, checking to see that the coast was clear. When he was certain it was safe, he stepped out, closed the door, making sure it was locked behind him, and as he strolled down the hallway he  cheerfully sang a beautiful song inside his head.

Chapter 40

Later that afternoon Rosemary came in and dropped a sheet of paper in front of Jennings. “Thought you might like to see this,” she said.

Jennings perused the paper. It was a telex from the state police. Four nuns had been shot execution-style late last night at a convent in the small community of Peaks Mills, Maine. So far there were no suspects and the state police were trying to keep as tight a lid on it as possible. Even so, the story had already leaked to the press.

Jennings whistled. “Jesus,” he said.

“Jesus is right.”

“I think it’s a professional hit,” Rosemary said.

“Yeah, it does appear that way,” Jennings said looking thoughtfully back at the release. “But why would anyone want to assassinate nuns?”

“Don’t know, but if I were to speculate I’d say to keep them silent about something.”

Jennings looked sharply at Rosemary. “You dug something up, didn’t you?”

Rosemary tried not to smile.

Jennings waited. Rosemary had been his assistant for more than twenty years. She was an efficient and loyal friend with what seemed to be an almost supernatural intuition about the way Jennings’s mind worked.

“Two of the dead nuns, Sister Mary-Catherine Summers and Sister Agnes Beaulieu were on the staff of Saint Francis Orphanage on Apocalypse Island thirty years ago when it was destroyed by fire,” Rosemary told him.

Jennings whistled again. “How did you find that out?”

“A little bird told me.”

Jennings made a face. “Okay, any details beyond that?”

“Nope. They went from there to the convent at Peaks Mills and pretty much dropped out of sight. They’ve been living a monastic life of labor and anonymity ever since. Until last night.”

“Why now?” Jennings asked rhetorically.

“Something has changed,” Rosemary replied.

“But what?” Jennings said.

Rosemary shrugged. “You’re the detective, Rick.”

“Did this little bird happen to give you any more names?”

Rosemary handed him another sheet of paper.

Jennings quickly scanned down through the list. He saw clergy members as well as some locals. Some of the names surprised him. “What about government people?”

“Those are a little harder. All classified.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jennings said. “So who’s the little bird?”

“Your buddy over at the Examiner. Persephone Wilder. She asked me to deliver the info directly to you. Supposedly there’s something coming out in the late edition.”

“Christ, how did she...?”

“Who knows,” Rosemary replied. This time her smile was impish. “From what I hear she’s
very
congenial. Maybe she’s got a buddy in the State Police too.”

“Now wait a minute,” Jennings said. “We’re not
that
friendly. We just like each other is all.”

“Yeah, sure, Rick.”

“I’m serious. She’d never go for a guy like me.”

“Meaning?”

Jennings cleared his throat, as he felt a flush cover his face.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Rosemary said. “You’re not a bad looking guy.”

“No?”

“Could use a little gym time, but other than that...” Rosemary’s voice trailed off.

Jennings frowned, not sure if what he’d just heard was compliment or something else entirely. “Gee thanks.”

“Always willing to help,” Rosemary said and turned to leave. “She wants you to call her.”

“You mean Wilder?”

“Who else have we been talking about? Her cell phone number’s there on the desk pad in front of you.”

Jennings picked up the phone. “By the way, thanks for the heads up, and for keeping this just between you and me.”

Rosemary stopped and turned back around. “What’s the deal with the young female police detective from Hartford?”

“She’s an old friend.”

“I know who she is. I just don’t know why she’s here.”

“Let’s just say the world works in mysterious ways.”

Rosemary glared at him. “Your brain works in mysterious ways.”

“Glad you recognize that,” Jennings said.

“Just be careful, Rick, okay? I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jennings said. “By the way, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“That’s two of us,” Rosemary said and left the room.

Chapter 41

Persephone Wilder picked up on the first ring. “You know I can’t reveal my sources,” she said when Jennings pressed her about how she’d gotten the news of the dead nuns so quickly.