Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (23 page)

W
hile we’re in here, we really should get some shots of the pertinent locations,” said B.J. “Like exteriors of Pentimento, of Aurelia Patterson’s house, of your wrecked car, Eliza.”

Annabelle agreed. “And let’s get shots of that old accident site on West Lake Road and Nine Chimneys.”

“That will take too long,” said Eliza.

“No it won’t,” said B.J. “I’ll work fast, not only because I know you want to get to the hospital but because we aren’t supposed to be taking pictures to begin with. We don’t want to get caught.”

In just over half an hour, B.J. had gotten the video they wanted.

“On the way out, let’s make a quick stop at the police station,” said Eliza. “I want to see about getting my purse back.”

“I’ll go in with you,” said B.J. as he parked the car. The security guard pulled into the space behind theirs.

“Good,” said Annabelle. “I’m going to stay out here and work on my script.”

The officer staffing the front desk looked up and recognized Eliza immediately.

“Good to see you, ma’am. How are you doing?” he asked politely.

“I’m okay,” said Eliza. “But my friend isn’t. He was very badly hurt. We’re on our way to see him in the hospital now.”

The policeman nodded. “It’s a miracle that you walked away,” he said. “I’ve seen some accidents in my time, but that one was a doozy.”

“Oh, you saw the car?” asked Eliza.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I was out there this morning. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I left my purse and cell phone in the car, and I was wondering how I can get them back.”

“We have them here,” said the police officer. “If you wait a minute, I’ll go get them.”

“That’s a relief,” Eliza said to B.J. while they waited. “I hated the thought of having to replace all that stuff.”

As the officer returned and handed her the purse, he smiled. “May I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” said Eliza.

“Why do you carry so much change?”

“I’m sorry?”

“All those quarters,” said the policeman. “My partner and I were pretty sure you didn’t need them for a Laundromat.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Eliza.

“We found thirty quarters scattered over the area. Some on the roof, more on the ground.”

Eliza and B.J. looked at each another.

Thirty quarters, thirty pieces of silver.

“Oh, good. You got it,” said Annabelle when Eliza got back into the car with her recovered purse.

“We’ve got more than that,” said B.J., turning the key in the ignition.

They told Annabelle about the quarters.

“That was the sound I heard as I was hiding,” said Eliza. “Whoever tried to kill Mack and me threw quarters on the roof of the car.”

“I don’t get it,” said Annabelle. “What does that mean?”

“There were thirty quarters, Annabelle,” said B.J. “What does that make you think of?”

Annabelle thought. “Thirty quarters,” she said aloud.

“Thirty pieces of
silver,
” B.J. said impatiently.

“Like what Judas betrayed Jesus for?” asked Annabelle.

“Exactly,” said B.J.

“And think about it, Annabelle,” said Eliza excitedly. “Remember that Jesus was whipped with some kind of leather scourge on the way to Calvary, and the people who mocked him put a reed in his hand as a scepter because he claimed to be King of the Jews?”

“And that the soldiers who guarded him threw dice for his robes?” asked B.J.

“And a hammer was used to pound in the nails at the crucifixion?” added Eliza.

“My God,” said Annabelle. “Not only did we have a suicide by stigmata, now we have murders using the instruments of Christ’s death.”

A
s they drove out the front gate, they passed the news crews and satellite trucks stranded outside, unable to get into the park.

“God,” said B.J. “Can you imagine how frustrated those guys are?”

“We lucked out when I rented that carriage house,” said Eliza. B.J. drove slowly and carefully through the crowded area. Eliza looked out the window and saw a reporter pointing to their car. Suddenly a gaggle of camerapeople rushed forward, starved for video and determined to get a picture.

“Should I get out and say something?” Eliza wondered aloud.

“No way,” said Annabelle.

Riding to the hospital, Eliza checked the messages on her recovered phone. Range Bullock, Linus Nazareth, Harry Granger, and Paige Tintle had been trying to get in touch with her, unaware that she’d been without her cell. There was also a message from Susan Cohen saying that they would be back from Hershey with Janie at about 8:00
P.M.

“Now, you’re sure you don’t need me to record that track?” asked Eliza as Annabelle and B.J. dropped her off at the entrance.

“No, Bruce Harley came out with the truck. He’ll do the narration, and we’ll shoot a stand-up of him at the park gates or someplace more creative, if we can come up with one.”

“Maybe we should go into the Catholic church in Tuxedo and see if we can have Harley stand under a crucifix—the more graphic the depiction of Christ’s crucifixion, the better,” suggested B.J.

“You are a sick man,” said Annabelle. “Truly and deeply sick.” B.J. smirked. “Nowhere near as sick as our murderer.”

More newspeople were staked out in front of the hospital. Eliza forced her way through the crowd.

KEY News president Range Bullock was sitting with Margo when Eliza walked into the waiting room. He stood up and hugged her.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he said.

“I’m fine,” said Eliza. “Sore, but fine.” She immediately turned to Margo. “How is Mack?” she asked.

“Stable, but still out of it,” said Margo. “The doctor was just in there a little while ago and checked him.”

“Thanks a million for staying here with him,” said Eliza. “You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”

“We’ve organized a chain, people who’ll take turns being here, at least until Mack gets out of intensive care,” said Range. “I’m taking the next shift. After you go in and visit him, Margo will give you a lift home.”

Eliza straightened. “Clearly you have it all planned.”

“We do,” said Range. “What sense does it make for you to wear yourself out waiting here round the clock?”

Eliza looked at Margo.

“Do you really think that your standing vigil at Mack’s bedside is going to make him wake up any sooner?” asked Margo.

If Janie hadn’t been coming home in a few hours, Eliza was certain she would have put up a bigger fight. But she longed to see Janie, hug her, talk to her. If Mack came to, Eliza could be back at the hospital in less than half an hour.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “We’re not sure when Mack will wake up, and I could use a night in my own bed before doing the show in the morning.”

Range looked surprised. “I just assumed that you’d take a day or two off,” he said.

Eliza shook her head. “When I let you in on what’s been happening with the Tuxedo Park murders, you’ll understand why I want to tell the
KTA
audience about it myself.”

T
he leather strap used to kill Zack Underwood represented the scourging Jesus received just before he was condemned by Pontius Pilate. And the reed scepter positioned in his hand was similar to the one given to Jesus as he was mocked by the Roman guards for claiming to be king of the Jews.

The hammer pounded into Aurelia’s skull symbolized the one that had fastened Christ to the cross. The pair of dice placed in her hand was a reminder of the soldiers gambling for Jesus’s robe.

It had all gone according to a hastily devised plan—a plan of which the very inventive Innis Wheelock himself would have been proud.

The one glitch had been Eliza Blake and Mack McBride. Trying to kill them with a car, instead of something from the ancient list, had been a mistake. Throwing the thirty quarters on the Volvo, while in keeping with the grisly symbolism, didn’t provide any real satisfaction—since they had both lived.

So far, all of it was done to make sure that the Pentimento puzzle would never be solved and that the threat of exposure would remain just that—a threat. So far, only the old accident on West Lake Road and a murky role for Nine Chimneys had been uncovered as a result of that damned puzzle, but none of the details of what had actually happened so long ago were apparent. Everything else was still a secret.

Only Father Gehry—because of the confessional—knew the whole story. And Eliza Blake was probably still determined to unravel the puzzle at all costs.

The next kill would stick to the original plan.

S
unday was always a long day for Father Gehry, and today was no different.

He’d said three of the four Masses in the morning, and while the twelve-fifteen Latin Mass was being celebrated by a visiting priest, he’d met with the parents of the First Communion class in the parish hall, answering questions about white dresses and blue suits and whether flashbulbs could be used during the ceremony. He skipped lunch because he’d promised to check in on the sister of the parish organist who was in a nursing home, and after praying with her he’d sped to the hospital to visit five of his parishioners. On the way home, he remembered to stop at a convenience store, buying a quart of milk for his coffee in the morning.

Pulling into the rectory driveway, Father Gehry knew he didn’t have time for that nap he’d promised himself. The entire month of October was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and the eleventh was the church’s old feast of the Divine Motherhood of Mary. Some parishioners would be praying their beads tonight.

With quiet resignation he walked over to the church, leaving the carton of milk on the front seat.

After slowly reciting fifty Hail Marys and giving a brief impromptu meditation on Mary’s virtue, Father Gehry said his farewells to the pious men and women as quickly as they let him. He then fetched the green velvet sack from the sacristy and walked back into the church to collect the candle money and empty the poor box of its meager contents.

Rehearsing in his head the list of everything he had to do the next day, he suddenly sensed someone behind him. He turned.

“Hello, Father.”

Father Gehry nodded. “Were you at the rosary tonight? I didn’t see you.”

“No, Father. I just got here.”

“Do you need something?”

“Yes, I do, Father. I’m sorry to bother you, but I really need to talk to you.”

His first impulse was to explain how long a day he’d had and suggest meeting tomorrow morning, but the priest thought better of it. “All right,” he said. “Why don’t we sit right over here?”

He chose one of the pews opposite the poor box.

“What is it you want to talk about?”

“I think you know, Father.”

“You’ll have to tell me what it is. Say it out loud. You’ll feel better for it, I promise you. It will be a relief to get it out in the open.”

“It can never be out in the open, Father. You know that. My life would be ruined.”

He struggled a few moments for a way to respond. “Then let’s pray together,” said Father Gehry. “St. Raymond is the patron saint of secrets, so let’s ask for his special intercession.” He knelt down and bowed his head. “We come before you, St. Raymond, with many secrets locked in our hearts. So many innocent people have been hurt. We humbly beg for the assistance of your prayers from heaven. Watch over us, we pray, and keep us safe. Through Christ our Lord.”

While Father Gehry had his head still bowed, waiting silently for an “Amen” that didn’t come, a knife was shoved deep into the left side of his chest.

On the right wall of the sanctuary was the ambry and, inside, three bottles filled with the church’s holy oils.

It was too late for the Oil of the Sick. And what the hell was the Oil of Catechumens?

The third bottle, with the words
SACRED CHRISM
etched into its surface, was filled with a thick liquid, a warm yellow instead of the cool olive green in the other two.

This is it.

Sacred chrism, which had been rubbed into Father Gehry’s palms on the day of his ordination, was poured over the dead priest’s head, just as Jesus had been anointed with fragrant myrrh before he was wrapped in a shroud and laid in the tomb.

H
earing noise coming from the other twin bed, Unity rolled over and switched on the light. She squinted as she read the numbers on the clock.

“It’s after midnight, Fitz,” she said. “Why are you still awake?”

“Don’t worry about me, Unity. Go back to sleep.”

“Are you crying?” she asked incredulously. She took her glasses from the bedside table, put them on, and leaned closer to see his face. “You are. You’re crying. What’s
wrong
?”

He ran his fingers through his white hair. “I don’t know how long before it’s going to be exposed—before
I’m
going to be exposed,” Fitzroy answered, his voice cracking.

Unity closed her eyes as she decided how to respond. “Let me tell you something, Fitz,” she finally answered. “There isn’t anyone around here who doesn’t know that you burned down Nine Chimneys for the insurance money. I’ve never asked you about it, and you’ve never told me, but believe me, everybody knows. I never mention it you, they never mention it to us, but everybody
knows.
So don’t worry about being exposed now.”

“That’s not it,” said Fitzroy.

“What then? What else could it be that has you so upset?”

His words came pouring out. “After Nine Chimneys burned, several years after, after the insurance company completed its investigation without proving any wrongdoing, I did something wrong, much worse than setting fire to a house.” His shoulders shook as he began to sob.

Unity threw back the blanket and got out of bed. She joined Fitzroy on his bed and sat next to him. “What?” she asked softly. “What did you do?”

“I’ve got to get it out, Unity. I’ve got to tell somebody about it.” Tears ran down his cheeks. Unity couldn’t ever remember seeing such a tortured expression on her husband’s face.

“All right. Tell me, then,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.

“I set fire to a man,” he blurted.

She stiffened. “I don’t understand.”

“I set fire to a human being, Unity.”

“You set fire to him while he was alive?” Unity asked with horror.

“No, he was dead. I set fire to his body so he couldn’t be identified. And later we buried what was left of him at Nine Chimneys.”

“Who was it, Fitz? And why?” Questions flowed from Unity. “And who are the ‘we’ who buried him?”

“Marty O’Shaughnessy,” answered Fitzroy. “It was Marty O’Shaughnessy I burned.”

Unity’s eyes widened. “You were involved in all that back then? The car accident, his disappearance?”

Fitzroy hung his head.

“But then you knew he didn’t run off and go to Ireland or somewhere,” said Unity. “You knew he was dead?”

Fitzroy nodded and rubbed his eyes with his pajama sleeve.

“Why didn’t you go to the police?” asked Unity.

“Believe me, the police knew,” Fitzroy said sarcastically. “Clay Vitalli knew all about it.”

“Clay was in on it?”

“Absolutely,” said Fitzroy. “And so was Peter Nordstrut. We were all in on it, to protect Valentina and Innis. The three of us were incredibly devoted to them. We were the ones they could trust to do anything that needed doing. We were determined to win that gubernatorial campaign.”

“I don’t understand,” said Unity. “Protect them from what?”

Fitzroy shook his head. “No. I’ve already said too much. It’s just that I’m trying to rack my brain for ways to make sure that the whole truth doesn’t come out. Yet I think part of me would actually be relieved to finally have everything out in the open. It’s been horrible to have all this on my conscience for so long and to live in fear of it all coming to light.”

Unity digested the information. “Well, how in God’s name is anyone going to find about all that now? It happened so long ago.”

“As I said, Unity, I’ve told you too much. I don’t want to get you involved in all this and make you some sort of accessory or something.”

Unity stood up and went back to her own bed. As they lay in the dark, trying to fall asleep, she had a thought. “Fitzroy, you could talk to Father Gehry about this, you know. He might be able to help you, make you feel better. You could unburden yourself.”

Fitzroy rolled over and pulled the blanket close to his chin. “Forget it, Unity,” he said. “That’s not an option.”