They Never Die Quietly (2010) (25 page)

You're such a pathetic fool.

"Please don't taunt me, Mother."

You are so weak, my son.

"I have done everything you've asked."

Ah, but this one troubles you.

"It doesn't feel the same."

The longer you wait, the more difficult it will become.

"I don't know what to do."

Do it now, my son, before Satan's grip on your soul forces you to defy God's will. Redeem yourself, Simon.

In less than twenty minutes Al reached the Alpine exit on the freeway, but not without first scaring a few years off the lives of at least six motorists. Slowing down, approaching a stop sign at the exit ramp, Al spotted a convenient store half a block south. Rather than waste valuable time flipping the
Thomas Guide
every which way trying to find the quickest route to Clearwater Road, it made more sense to ask a local for directions. Al left the motor running while he jogged inside the store. Behind the counter stood an emaciated teenage girl, a modern-day Twiggy wearing more makeup than a circus clown. Her strawberry-colored hair was overdosed with gel, and she looked like a poster girl for anorexia nervosa.

One look at her and Al prepared himself for the defiant attitude so prevalent in teenagers today. Despite her appearance, she cheerfully obliged. In fact, with articulate prose and a friendly demeanor she tried her hardest to elicit a conversation with Al, but he dashed out the door with a quick wave. Perhaps, Al thought, he should reconsider his snap judgments based on appearance only. But then he remembered the punk in the post office.

Clearwater Road--the teenage girl had said--was less than a ten-minute drive. He glanced at the directions she'd written, took a deep breath, and headed south.

After driving five miles, Al saw the street sign for Clearwater Road on the left. When he turned onto the road he drove slowly so he could read the address on the first mailbox. Twenty-one-twelve. Simon lived at eighty-seven-fifty-one. Al didn't expect the sequence of numbers in a rural area to increase gradually like they did in heavily populated urban areas. The houses were separated by acres of land. He guessed that addresses would ascend by hundreds rather than tens. Sure enough, the next mailbox he passed had twenty-eight-twenty printed in bold box letters. Next to the mailbox he observed a man wearing brown overalls and a badly soiled John Deere baseball cap, sorting through a fistful of mail. The man robustly waved to Al as if they were dear friends. If Al were driving past a home in the city, gawking in the same fashion, the only wave he'd get would be a raised middle finger.

Al continued driving just fast enough to read the addresses on the passing mailboxes. In less than five minutes, he saw Simon's house. Just looking at the home sent chills through his body. He didn't stop the car. Instead, he drove slowly past while absorbing as much as he could. The unremarkable home looked much like the other century-old structures in the area, most of which hadn't seen fresh paint or a face-lift in decades. The original clapboard siding was severely weathered and the paint peeling. The windows were trimmed with sun-bleached black shutters, and the front door, painted red, was badly faded. There were mature shade trees scattered around the property. Cedars. Cypresses. Elms.

The lawn was overrun with weeds and dandelions, their yellow flowers standing tall.

In the gravel-covered driveway, Al spotted a white Explorer without license plates. He could see the temporary registration scotch-taped to the rear window. He didn't need to compare the vehicle identification number to the one he'd gotten from the DMV to be certain the vehicle belonged to Simon.

This was no doubt the house.

Al continued driving for another half mile. He made a U-turn and parked on the shoulder of the road. What now? How would he get in? Was Sami even inside?

The moment Sami heard the key turn in the dead bolt lock, she charged over to Angelina, grabbed her hand, and almost yanked the little girl to her feet.

"Ready to play hide-and-seek, honey?" She was almost panting.

Angelina didn't take her eyes off the television. "Not now, Mommy. Babe is gonna fight with the bad dog." Angelina had watched
Babe: Pig in the City
a dozen times but never grew bored with the movie.

"You can finish watching it later. You don't want Simon to find you, do you?" Her plea was desperate.

Sami heard pounding on the door.

Angelina shook her head. "No, Mommy. Then I would be
it!
I don't wanna be
it
."

"Then you better hide."

Without further protest, Angelina crawled into the broom closet and sat as far back as possible.

"Remember what I told you, honey. No matter how much yelling or noise you hear, don't come out of the closet. Okay?"

The pounding got louder and Sami could hear Simon screaming, but she could not make out his words. With trembling hands she picked up the makeshift weapon and assumed her position beside the door.

Totally dumbstruck, Simon stood in front of the steel door shaking his head. That the naive detective believed she could save herself by barricading the door insulted him beyond words! He leaned against the door with his shoulder and shoved for the third time, but the door opened only slightly. He held his face close to the crack so Sami could hear his warning. "If you don't open this door right now, Sami, I promise you, Angelina will feel my wrath."

No answer.

Simon picked up the longer of the two four-by-fours he would use to build the crucifix, held it like a harpoon and rammed it into the center of the door. With an echoing thud, the steel buckled slightly and the painted surface cracked and split. But the door yielded only an inch. His rage was so intense that his eyes were out of focus. Again he used the lumber like a pile driver and slammed it into the door.

It opened another inch.

A curtain of blackness fell in front of Simon's eyes; an event more frequent of late. He moved only by instinct, as if he were a machine programmed by a mad professor. He did not think about God or his mother or the Bible or his sacred mission. All he could think about was pounding his fists against Sami's face. He urgently wanted to teach her a lesson.

Bonnie Jean Oliver.

He spoke into the slightly open door. "This is your last chance, wench. If you don't open this fucking door right now, I'm going to cut out your daughter's heart and stuff it down your throat!"

Sami held her ground and remained quiet. All she could hope for was a clean shot the moment he burst through the door. Her barricade had worked well, but soon he'd break through. One shot to the base of his skull. That's all she needed. No second chance if her aim wasn't perfect. To knock him out, the impact had to be pinpointed with near precision and the force extreme. The blow could kill him. But Sami had to thrust forward and focus all her weight against the weapon. The time had come to abandon second thoughts or regret.

From the sound of his wild voice, she felt certain Simon boiled with anger. Good. That's what she'd hoped for. Sami knew that if he lost control and all sense of reason, her plan might work. One instant of disorientation, a split second of hesitation is all she needed. But Sami had other concerns. How could she stop her hands from shaking? What if Angelina wandered out of the closet? Suppose Simon didn't give her a clean shot?

Al thought it through carefully, considered every possible scenario, then, reluctantly, he decided to knock on Simon's front door. Any other less-direct approach would most certainly raise suspicions. If Simon spotted him poking around outside of the house, he would surely conclude that Al was either a cop or thief. Either way, the perp would be spooked and take precautionary measures. If Al simply knocked on the door, he could be anyone: a man soliciting magazine subscriptions, taking a survey, or selling Girl Scout cookies for his daughter. Maybe, just maybe, Simon would be foolish enough to open the door. If not, Al would have no choice but to break in and hope for the best.

Another issue perplexed Al, one he had thought about earlier. He couldn't know for certain that Simon held Sami and Angelina captive in this house. Having his Explorer parked in the driveway was a good sign, but still, Simon might own another vehicle and Sami and Angelina could be hidden away in some remote cabin miles from here. Al tried not to think about this disheartening twist but could not deny that it was a viable possibility.

He parked behind the Explorer, quickly checked his weapon one last time, and briskly walked toward the front door. He heard a dog barking and it sounded like the yelps were coming from behind the closed garage door. Almost to the front steps, Al noticed small windows built into the cinder block foundation. He knew little about construction but recognized that the windows meant the house had a basement, or at least a crawl space below ground level. It made sense for Simon to keep his victims in a basement. Perhaps in a soundproof room? Considering that only a handful of homes in Southern California even had basements--most were built on concrete slabs--it seemed appropriate that a murderer who kidnapped his victims and held them hostage before crucifying them would buy a home with a basement.

Al lifted the heavy brass knocker and tapped it against the door three times.

After repeated blows to the center of the steel door, it yielded enough for Simon to stick his head through the open space. He twisted it from side to side but could not see Sami or Angelina. The furniture piled against the door obstructed part of his view.

"Angelina is dead meat, Sami. You just signed her death sentence."

Frantic, Sami could not steady her hands. Suddenly, she realized that her plan was ridiculous. Not only would Simon murder her, but now she had placed Angelina's life in jeopardy. But at this point, it was too late to abort or alter her plan.

Two more thrusts with the butt end of the four-by-four, and the steel door opened nearly wide enough for Simon to squeeze through.

Al knocked more aggressively this time, pounding the door knocker repeatedly.

Sami caught a glimpse of Simon's face as he tried to wedge his body through the small opening. She held her weapon in its ready position. Two more steps.

The front door was solid wood, so Al could not force it open without making a great deal of noise. But if he chose to enter the house by crawling through a window, Simon might see him and take retaliatory measures. Al would be vulnerable. He had no choice but to burst through the front door. The element of surprise was always an advantage. The compelling question: Who would surprise whom? He removed his Glock 9mm from its holster and clicked off the safety. Standing back about three feet, he raised his right foot and kicked the door just below the doorknob.

Simon couldn't quite fit his body through the opened door, so he leaned against it one last time and pushed with his shoulder. As he stumbled into the room, his eyes scanned from left to right looking for Sami and Angelina.

Sami was unable to get a clean shot to the base of Simon's skull, so her only option was to drive the weapon hard into the side of his head. She planted her feet, took aim, and with all her might thrust forward.

Something flickered in Simon's peripheral vision. He turned his head quickly and felt something smash into his face.

Sami aimed for his temple, hoping a severe blow would knock him unconscious. When the wood smashed into his lips, his forehead snapped forward and his chin lay against his chest. Blood immediately spurted from his mouth, and his arms flailed like a giant eagle unable to fly. Simon's eyes rolled back as his body wobbled. During this harried moment, Sami, realizing that one blow wasn't enough, cocked her weapon, and prepared to strike him again.

The door stood strong. It took Al five hefty kicks before the door jamb ruptured and the oak door swung open. Holding his weapon with his arms extended in front of him, gripping it tightly with two hands, he slowly moved into the living room, careful of blind corners, resting his index finger on the trigger. He listened for signs that the house was occupied but heard nothing but the muffled sound of the barking dog. He crept from room to room until he reached a closed door. Carefully, he twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door.

What Al saw when the door swung open sucked the air from his lungs. In the center of the room stood a six-foot-tall statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, mounted atop a marble pedestal. Lit candles--a dozen or so, three inches in diameter and more than a foot tall--surrounded the base of the statue. In front of the statue was a small crescent-shaped table covered with a red velvet cloth. On the table were three large glass jars that looked like pickle or mayonnaise containers.

Al walked toward the table to get a better look. Inside each jar an irregularly shaped object floated in some kind of clear liquid, but Al couldn't quite make out what they were. Six steps into the room, Al stood stone still.

Inside the three jars, floating in formaldehyde, were the perfectly preserved hearts of Jessica Connelly, Linda Cassidy, and Molly Singer. The hearts Simon had cut from their chests and offered to Jesus as tokens of his good deeds.

Al charged out of the room, stunned beyond anything he could imagine.

Drenched with sweat, Al tiptoed into the kitchen and discovered an open door with steps leading to the basement. Before easing down the stairs, he listened carefully and heard something, but did not know what. Musty air enveloped his face. The old stairs creaked with each step down and Al grimaced with anxiety. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he stopped and tuned his ears toward the sound.

Simon blinked the tears from his eyes and saw Sami standing a few feet away, holding a long piece of wood. All he could think about was charging toward her and tearing her throat out with his bare hands. Rage gushed through his body, yet he still maintained control. His mouth filled with warm blood that dripped off his chin and soaked the front of his white shirt. He fixed his eyes on Sami's face and moved toward her.

Sami vaulted forward with her weapon and tried to jam the butt end square into Simon's nose. But Simon, more agile than she thought, and not nearly as incapacitated, reacted swiftly. With a quick Bruce Lee-like defensive action, he blocked the blow with his forearm, hitting the side of the makeshift weapon with a circular motion, then snatched it with his hand. Sami tried to tighten her grip, but Simon yanked it out of her hands.

Simon grinned broadly and his teeth were as red as V-8 juice. He took a step toward her.

"Where's Angelina?"

Sami backed against the wall.

"I'll find her, Sami. And when I do, you can watch me tear her rib cage open and cut her little fucking heart out."

With the grace and speed of a big cat, Simon leaped toward Sami and drove the wooden weapon into her stomach. With the wind knocked out of her, she doubled over and fell on the floor, unable to breathe.

"Ange-leena. Come out, come out wherever you are." Simon inched toward the kitchen.

Al heard a man's voice coming from the other side of the basement. He rushed across the concrete floor and found the partially opened door. He held his head near the opening and listened.

"Ange-leena, it's time to come out. Your mommy has a present for you."

For a moment, Al froze. He pressed his palm against the center of the door and gave it a slight push. Something prevented it from opening further. He could squeeze through the opening but not without a little effort and a slight delay. If Simon had a gun, he could easily pump a few rounds in Al's face before he could even begin to defend himself. He listened for Sami's voice but heard nothing.

Sami couldn't move. Gulps of air came sporadically. Simon had not merely knocked the wind out of her, he had further injured her back. She felt almost paralyzed lying on the floor. Pain shot from her lower back, across her buttocks, and settled behind her right thigh. Her toes tingled. The makeshift back brace offered no relief. Simon approached the kitchen, dangerously close to where Angelina hid. Sami prayed that Angelina stayed put until she could figure out what to do. But what could she do? With every ounce of strength left in her beaten body, Sami tried to get up. On one knee, as if she were genuflecting, she planted her foot and attempted to stand, but her legs went numb and she fell to the floor.

"Simon, I beg you, please don't hurt my daughter!"

With wild eyes and a demonic grin, he laughed out loud.

Al didn't know exactly what was happening on the other side of the door but knew he had no choice but to squeeze through the small opening and take his chances. He took two quick breaths, exhaled to make his body as lean as possible, and eased through the door. He saw Simon walking away, his back facing Al. Sami lay on the floor to Al's right. He knew she'd been injured, but to what extent he wasn't sure. That she lay on the floor alive filled him with a wave of relief.

Their eyes met, and Al could see Sami's painful grimace erased by a thankful smile.

Closing one eye and aiming his weapon at Simon, Al shouted, "Put your hands over your head and freeze!"

With grace and a fluid motion, Simon pivoted and fixed his stare on Al. "Congratulations, detective."

Al waved the pistol. "You've got five seconds to lock your fingers together and put your hands behind your head."

Simon grinned hideously, blood still seeping from the corner of his mouth.

From out of nowhere, Angelina appeared. She looked at Al, glanced at her mother--now sitting on the floor--and froze. She stood inches from Simon, partially hidden behind him. Al took his eyes off Simon for a split second and Simon took full advantage. He crouched down and with one quick motion grabbed Angelina's arm and yanked her in front of him. He locked his arms around her waist and stood. Simon's face and torso were now strategically shielded by Angelina.