The Darker Side (15 page)

I chew on the pen, thinking about this. I come to the same conclusion as I had earlier.

It’s not about sex for him.

This is rare. It’s almost always about sex.

Not this time.

Okay, then what’s it about? Victims are everything. What are the commonalities?

Both victims were women.

I scratch that out. Lisa Reid was not a woman. The distinction might be unfair to her, but it would have been significant to the killer. This is not a commonality.

Look for similarities in method then.

Both victims were killed in the same way. A sharp object was thrust into their right side and angled up and into the heart.

Both victims had a cross placed inside the resulting wound.

I consider the cross. After sex and general insanity, religious mania plays a big part in serial homicides. Only parents get hung with more blame than God. Satanic elements are a popular choice, but there are plenty of instances where the killer felt that he was saving his victims, that he was working for the man upstairs, not the one in the nether-basement.

Is that the deal here? Is he saving his victims from something?

I doodle on the pad:

What do you save someone from?

One answer:

The consequences of their actions.

From a religious standpoint, you save them from damnation.

Yeah.

What damns someone?

I rattle my brain, trying to jar loose old memories of catechism. Something about mortal sins, venial sins…

I take my notepad with me as I pad up the stairs and into my oft-used home office. I sit down in front of my computer and open the browser to a search engine.

In the search field I type:
mortal sin defined.

The first choice is
Mortal Sin—definition

“Ask and ye shall receive,” I mutter. I click the link.

The
American Heritage Dictionary
definition of mortal sin appears:

A sin, such as murder or blasphemy, that is so heinous it deprives the soul of sanctifying grace and causes damnation if unpardoned at the time of death.

There is a treatise farther down on the page that relates to Aquinas.

A mortal sin destroys the grace of God in the heart of the sinner. In order for a sin to be mortal, it must meet three conditions:

A. Sin must be of a grave matter.

B. Sin is committed with the full knowledge of the sinner.

C. Sin is committed with the full and deliberate consent of the sinner.

Thus a mortal sin cannot be committed by accident, as two of the qualifying components are knowledge and consent. In other words, the sinner knows what he or she is doing is an offense against God, but does so anyway, and with premeditation. The sinner is aware that he is rejecting God’s law and love.

In Galatians 5:19–21, St. Paul gives a list of grave sins: “Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these; adultery, fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, envyings, murders, drunkenness, revellings, and such like: of the which I tell you before, as I have also told you in time past, that they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God.”

And in 1 Corinthians 6:9–10: Paul also tells the Corinthians, “know you not that the unjust shall not possess the kingdom of God? Do not err: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor the effeminate, nor liers with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards nor railers, nor extortioners shall possess the kingdom of God.”

It continues in this vein. I go back and click some of the other links the search engine gave me. I’m not surprised to find that the specifics of what constitutes a mortal sin is a widely debated subject. The Catholic Church has views and definitions that are distinct from Protestants. Orthodox churches in places such as Eastern Europe have different views than those in the west. Strict traditionalists classify the so-called Seven Deadly Sins as mortal, while others dispute this.

There are definite points of agreement. Everyone allows that murder is pretty bad. Homosexuality is universally considered to be a quick ticket into hellfire.

“Sorry, James,” I murmur. “No one likes a godless sodomite.”

The most general consensus, from what I can see, is: you know it is a grave sin, you know it denies God’s love and law, and you do it anyway. If you don’t take responsibility for that mortal sin prior to death, you’re fucked. Get ready to burn like an indestructible marshmallow over an eternal campfire.

I lean back in the chair and consult my notepad again.

Okay, let’s roll with this. So…if he’s saving them from damnation then—what? He gets them to confess before he kills them?

The other and obvious possibility occurs to me.

Maybe he is not saving them. Maybe he is damning them.

If he’s aware of something they’ve done, something he considereda mortal sin, and he kills them before they have the opportunity to repent, then, within his paradigm, he’d be sending them straight to hell.

Why would he want to do that? I doubt it’s based on a personal connection with the victims, so direct revenge is out. It would have a broader base. Vengeance in absentia? Sending a message? Will of God?

“Are you saving them, or damning them? Do you care about their souls?” I toss the pad down on the desk in frustration. “Do I have any idea if I’m even on the right track?”

I think about this. Yeah, I do. It’s not something I can prove, it is something that I feel. This is the way it goes.

He is not killing them for sexual gratification. He is killing them because their deaths matter in a religious sense, and sin is the hub of the wheel on which all religion turns.

I grab the notepad back and return to the living room. I stare at it as I think and I begin to write again.

He asked us a question: “What do I collect? That’s the question, and that’s the key.”

I’m pretty sure I know the answer, or at least the answer for now, based on the information I have and what my gut is saying.

Sins. He collects sins. That’s the victimology. That’s the commonality. Not hair color or boob size or maybe even gender. His victims are sinners (or he thinks they are).

This feels right. It resonates. The tuning fork inside me quivers, telling me that I’ve hit the right note.

One question, though, remains.

Does he think he’s sending sinners to their just rewards, or the redeemed to sit at the hand of God?

The next question comes without my wanting it to, a return of the yammering I’ve been trying to quash.

What about your sin? Does it qualify as mortal?

Oh yeah. You bet. Good thing I don’t believe in heaven or hell.

Right?

Silence to that, blessed silence.

“Praise God,” I mutter, with all the sarcasm and bitterness I can muster.

God does not reply, as is His wont.

A wave of exhaustion hits me like a truck, so fast and heavy that my eyelids close of their own accord. I let the notepad slip from my fingers and curl up on the couch as sleep drags me down into darkness.

15

THE PHONE WAKES ME UP AND I WAKE UP HARD. I FEEL
hungover, though it’s not a result of last night’s alcohol. This is about my age. In my early twenties I could pull an all-nighter or two, sleep for one night and wake up refreshed. Now it can take me days to bounce back. The crick in my neck tells me that sleeping on the couch hadn’t helped.

I pull myself to a sitting position and groan. Last night I was lonely. Right now I’m just glad that no one is here to witness this. I push away the fog through sheer force of will and answer.

“Barrett,” I croak.

“You sound chipper, honey-love.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty A.M.”

“What? Dammit.”

I stand up and rush to the kitchen while I hold the phone against my ear. I forgot to set the timer for the coffee last night, so I hit the button now and wait for the blessed brown nectar to start flowing. I have the patience of a junkie when it comes to getting my first cup of coffee in the morning. Bonnie always wakes up before me and knows this; she starts pouring a cup for me the moment she hears my feet hit the stairs.

“Lazy, lazy,” Callie teases. “Up too late having various forms of acrobatic sex?”

She means well, but the question brings back memories of last night.

“No.”

The terseness of my answer makes her pause.

“Hmmmm…is that bark of a no due to a lack of caffeine or problems on the home front?”

“Both, but I don’t want to talk about it right now. What’s up? Where are you?”

“Nearer than you think.”

A knock at my front door.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in.”

I groan again. I don’t feel like dealing with Callie—or anyone else—this morning.

“Hang on.” I sigh.

WE ARE SEATED AT MY
dining table. I’m about halfway through my coffee and life seems a little more hopeful.

Callie sits across from me enjoying her own cup. I study her and marvel, as always, at her ability to look good in any situation. I’m the one who got some sleep last night and I’m sitting here in rumpled clothes and hurricane hair. Callie looks like she just came from a day at the spa.

She reaches into her jacket pocket and pops a pain pill. This brings me back to reality. I sip at my coffee and examine her eyes. It’s well hidden, but the exhaustion is there, swimming in the shallows, visible in just the right light.

“Is grumpy-bunny feeling better?” Callie asks.

“A little. When did you get in?”

“Damien and I arrived about two hours ago. We’ll be using the lab facilities at the Bureau to examine our little treasure trove of evidence.” She raises her cup in a mock toast. “And I’ll be able to get my wedding back on the rails.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is it off them?”

“Nothing disastrous, but it’s possible that Kirby needs a little more…oversight.”

“What happened?” I have a vision of Callie’s florist waking to Kirby sitting in a chair next to his bed, twirling a stiletto.

“There were some problems with the cake. Kirby lobbied on my behalf a little too enthusiastically. She didn’t actually
do
anything, but she showed too much of her true face.”

“Ah,” I say.

Kirby’s true face is terrifying. She’s all happy-go-lucky and charming until she decides to let the humanity drain away from her eyes. Then you feel like you’re in a staring contest with a very hungry leopard.

“They were going to return my deposit, but Sam charmed them again. The point being, when the cat’s away, the assassin will play.” She puts the cup down and leans forward. “Now, tell me what happened with Tommy.”

I consider telling Callie to mind her own business but realize this would be futile. Laughable, really.

“He told me he loved me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Callie leans back in her chair. Her mood is introspective.

“Well,” she says, after a moment. “I can see why that would be difficult for you.”

This is the other face of Callie and one of the reasons she is my friend. She is quick with the quip and irreverent as hell, but she also knows when it’s time to be serious.

“The thing is, I don’t know why it’s so difficult. But it is.”

This is only a partial lie.

“Is it about Matt? Because you know, Smoky, Matt would have zero difficulty with you and Tommy.”

Callie knew Matt and loved him. She would invite herself to dinner a lot. She couldn’t get enough of Matt’s tacos.

“I know. That’s the thing, I really do know that. I’m in a good place when it comes to Matt and Alexa, as good as I’ll ever get. I remember them now and I’m glad to. It doesn’t kill me anymore.”

Her voice is gentle. “It’s time to move on, Smoky.”

I examine my friend. Callie has been there with me through everything. She doesn’t know the one secret, the one I’ve kept for myself, but she knows all the rest.

“Can I ask you something, Callie?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you getting married? I mean, I know why people get married—but what changed? You’ve always been a lone wolf.”

She runs a burgundy-painted fingernail around the rim of her coffee cup.

“A lonely wolf, not a lone wolf. There is a difference. And I needed to be sure, very, very sure. Wolves mate for life, you know.”

“And are you? Sure?”

Her gaze at me is almost wary. Callie is one of the most private people I know. If there is anyone that she trusts with her inner self—other than Sam—it is me, but she doesn’t often throw caution to the wind, even so.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

Then she smiles and it catches me by surprise. I realize that for Callie, this—being
sure
—has made her happy. Callie was never what I would call depressed, but there is a difference between contentment and joy. This is joy.

“Feels good, huh?”

“Yes it does.”

She puts the smile away and retreats back behind that familiar wall of mischievous irony.

“Now,” she says. “You and I will never be
Sex and the City
girls, so let’s change the subject and get to work.”

I tip my cup to her. “I’ll drink to that.”