Vigilare (8 page)

“Now, I don’t know who the man is. Confessionals are confidential. No names, no faces. I am unable to identify anyone,” he speaks nervously.

“You’ve done everything you can do, Father. More than enough. Now it’s up to us to put the pieces together,” Gina councils.

Tony hangs up the phone.

“But there’s more.” Father Trahern takes a deep breath. “He said the revolution is coming. That he’s not the only one who feels this way.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Then again, I’m not sure he’s even mentally stable. He talked of unreal things...a
Vigilare
, I believe was the word,” Father Trahern sifts through his memory bank. “And a green sparkling light...”

“Sparkling emerald green light,” Tony and Gina mouth the words together. The explanation Aubrey Raines gave them in the wee hours of the morning.

“Here Sarge,” Officer Marks interrupts, flopping a file down in front of Tony. He eyes the priest. “Interrogating men of the cloth now, DeLuca?” He smiles, nudging Tony. “Don’t mess with this one. She’s tough as nails, boss.” He winks at Gina, to which she responds in kind, as he walks off.

“Well, if that’s all, I must be going,” Father Trahern asks before standing from the desk.

Tony and Gina quickly follow his lead, rising to their feet, extending their hands once again. “Thank you, Father,” they speak in unison.

He ducks his head somewhere between a nod and a bow. “You kids come see me sometime, won’t you?”

Gina and Tony glance to one another, knowing full well they cannot fib to a priest. “We don’t get down to your area of town much,” Tony replies.

“But, if we do, we’ll stop in,” Gina adds politely. Tony elbows her in the side.

Father Trahern smiles and walks away.

“What’d you say that for?” Tony mutters.

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

“That’s just great, DeLuca. Now we have to.” He picks up the file from her desk.

“Like it would kill either one of us.”

“Obviously you’ve never been to confession.”

“Maybe not. Or maybe I’m not as bad as you.” She smiles.

“Now where’s the lightning going to strike?” He sidesteps her, purposefully giving her a wide berth, as he heads toward the exit.

“Where are you going?” she calls after him.

He spins around, holding the file against his chest. “Turns out William Truly’s an ex-Navy Seal. The training he must have,” Tony responds determinedly.

“Let him have this one, DeLuca,” she coaches herself, resisting the urge to accompany him, compete with him, rather. She sits down at her desk, her hands laced behind her neck, eyes on the ceiling, contemplating the hectic events of the day, wondering just exactly how it all ties together...if it ties together at all.

The sound of women’s heels clicking on the tiled floor interrupts her thoughts. A purposeful, flawless cadence,
click-click-click-click. Oh great
, she mumbles internally, while presenting a smile to Dr. Patricia Ryan who stands before her in a perfectly tailored designer pantsuit, accessorized with commanding four-inch heels. Her poise flawless. Gina refuses to speak first, causing Dr. Ryan to do the honors.

“May I?” she asks, gesturing toward the chair across from Gina.

Gina nods, her body stiffening from its previously relaxed state. She sits upright. “Help yourself.”

“Looks like this case has you covered up, Detective,” she refers to the mounds of files and paperwork on Gina’s desk.

Gina props her arms up on the bulky pile. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Dr. Ryan scopes out her black eye. “Isn’t helping your beauty regimen, either.”

“What do you want, Dr. Ryan?”

“So much for pleasantries.” She smirks, meeting Gina’s ante, propping her arms up on the desk, her body language leaned forward and intense. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Do tell.” Gina leans into her further, looking around, and continues with a sarcastic whisper, “That way I’ll know too.”

“You and your
boy
. The department is coming down on you for answers. You need a fall guy for this case. Who better than the psychologist? ‘A bitter woman who is subjected to the vile scum that is a rapist. Poor lady, has to sit day in and day out listening to the truths of those pigs hearts, until she can’t take it anymore. Until she is forced to take justice into her own hands.’ Is that the way it’s going down? Does that about sum it up,
Detective
DeLuca?”

Gina crosses her hands one into the other. “Ya know,
Dr
. Ryan, sounds as though you could use some psychological counseling yourself. Does the word delusional mean anything to you?”

“You want to play word games? Okay. Incompetent. Buffoon. Washed-Up. Mean anything to you?”

“I’d love to sit here and exchange civilities, but I’m afraid I have to highly recommend you leave.” Gina’s tone has turned icy, her jaw twitches. She files some paperwork, slamming the drawer to her desk shut. “Now.”

Dr. Ryan smiles. “Well, Detective DeLuca, seems you have quite the temper. Tell me, how do you feel about rapists?”

Gina ignores her goading.

Dr. Ryan eyes her thoroughly, focusing on her neck. Her hand subconsciously following her train of thought, she reaches out pulling at the mock collar of Gina’s black fatigue sweater, revealing what appears to be rope burn. “Where were you last night?” she provokes.

With catlike swiftness, Gina places her hand over Dr. Ryan’s, pinpointing localized pressure to a reflex area, causing it to open unwillingly. Dr. Ryan winces, a smile forming on her lips. Gina loosens her grip. Dr. Ryan pulls her hand to her lap, massaging it briefly.

“Bodies coming up dead. No solid evidence. Guess work and speculation. Resorting to blaming your own. I feel a panic coming on, Detective DeLuca. Something tells me this city’s on the brink of a witch hunt.” Dr. Ryan stands, pushing her chair in. “Unless you have an affinity for fire, you may want to take care of that neck.” She winks furtively before turning to walk away.

Chapter 5

LATE NIGHT. ONE seedy apartment complex after another. This side of town is dark and dreary, even on the most luminous of days. Randall Barnes wears a hooded, bulky winter coat, his hands tucked deeply in the pockets of his ill-fitting jeans. He carries himself cautiously, his posture stooped, eyeing every corner and alleyway for what may be lurking there. He enters his apartment building, taking an old-school freight elevator to his unit. He holds his finger over the UP button. The elevator takes off, making it to the tenth floor before coming to a screeching halt.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, jamming the palm of his hand against the UP button.

“I see you, Randall.”

His head cranks upward in the direction of a muffled, distorted voice. Glaring fluorescent lights cloud his vision. He shades his frantic face, holding his arm above his forehead, searching for someone, anyone. “Who’s there?” He turns circles.

“How does it feel?” the voice echoes out of the speaker box in the elevator ceiling.

“What...what are you talking about? Who’s there!” The whites of his eyes protruding, his chest heaves up and down.

The voice laughs lightly. “Do you remember Rudy Sangino?”

Recognition displays itself in Randall’s expression. He says nothing.

“What’s the matter, Randall? Cat got your tongue?”

He panics, pushing and punching the UP button until it breaks loose. His breath heavy with adrenaline, his mouth is dry as cotton from the massive endorphins released by his sympathetic nervous system...fight or flight. He bangs on the door of the elevator.

“Five years ago, you dated Rudy’s mother. She trusted you with her little boy. Dark black hair, big brown eyes, sweet smile...infectious laugh. Remember him?”

He backs up in the corner away from the speaker box, his arms clutching the walls of the elevator. “What do you want from me!”

“‘The one who sows to please his sinful nature, from that nature will reap destruction,’” the voice quotes from the Bible, Galatians 6:8. “It’s your turn to reap the fruits of your harvest, Randall.”

The elevator lights flicker as it begins to drop. Randall slides down the wall in the corner, hiding his head between his knees. With a hard jolt, the square box stops midair, clanking and clacking. The pulley above creaks, as it rocks back and forth.

Randall jumps up, raging and punching at the walls of the elevator and at the vent above him. “Let me out of here!” he screams, frightened to the point of tears.

“Not so fun, is it, Randall? Being caged up like an animal against your will. How do you think Rudy felt? Every time you picked him up from school and took him home to his mother’s apartment. Telling him the elevator was the
Buddy Box
. A secret place, only for you and him. How many times did he ask you to stop? When you touched him, made him touch you. Did you? Did you stop, Randall? You had no mercy for him. I have no mercy for you.”

“That was a long time ago. I’m a different person now. I swear I am. Please!” he cries, his hands pressed together in prayer formation. “Let me go!” He sobs.

Laughter purrs out of the speaker. “A leopard never changes its spots, Randall. You have a new girlfriend. With a fifteen-year-old daughter. You think I don’t know what you’re thinking every time you look at her? You swear you’re a different person. Let’s test psychological theory. Does rehabilitation work on the mind of a pedophile? A rapist? I’m not gambling with those odds.”

“Somebody help me!” He bangs frantically on the elevator door.

The flickering lights in the elevator go to black, complete darkness. Randall screams, pleading and begging for help.

“You guys make me sick. You push, and you prod, and you threaten...little kids, women...rob them of their lives, their sanity. But when pushed back, you scream and cry and flail about. Pathetic mother-fuckers.”

The sound of the pulley screeches, giving way. The elevator drops furiously, its destination the concrete below. The shimmying causes Randall to fall into the corner. He is rolled up in the fetal position. The sound of the pulley zinging off the rope rings through his ears, as he covers them with his hands.

“‘Yea, tho I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...’” he recites.

The elevator stops a floor from the concrete, lurching from the momentum, creaking and clacking. The lights flicker, finally burning full and bright.

And again a soft, delightful laugh flows out of the speakers. “Now you’re a Christian? Love that about you guys. You always seem to find God after you have taken so much from Him in the souls and spirits of His flesh. Get up!”

His rapid breathing the only thing audible, he scurries from the floor, facing the elevator door, hopeful.

“Death is inevitable for you, Randall Barnes. It’s a matter of when and where. I will be lurking in the shadows. Hell, maybe I’ll even check in on you from time to time as you sleep. Creepy, huh? That’s how Rudy felt. Knowing it was coming...you were coming, again and again...simply uncertain of when. Now, you will know the same fear.”

The elevator dings. The buttons light up. Randall throws himself in front of the doors as they begin to open. Grasping at the edges with his unsteady hands, he pries with all his might, fleeing from the large metal box.

“Be seeing you, Randall,” the voice echoes behind him.

DETECTIVE DELUCA’S HOUSE, midnight. She traipses to the door, assembling a black silk housecoat to cover the black silk nighty she wears underneath, having been disturbed from a perfectly wonderful sleep by her pesky partner, Detective Gronkowski. He knocks impatiently. She expects him this time, as he has been
blowing up
her phone for the past two hours.

“Why did I give him my number?” she scolds, shaking her head. “I’m coming.”

He knocks again for good measure.

She whips the door back. “It’s twelve o’clock in the freaking morning,” she whispers with an underlying roar. “You trying to get me thrown out of the neighborhood?” She motions him in hurriedly. “You ever dealt with the Homeowners Association? We’re talking more powerful than the mob.” She locks the door behind him.

“William Truly,” he says, with his one-track mind, proceeding to the archway between her kitchen and her living room. He rests his arms above his head, gripping the sturdy pull-up bar Gina has rigged to the archway. “Nothing on the guy. I got nothing, Gina. Except wasted hours.” He peers up at the pull-up bar. “You use this thing?”

“Nope. Just there for decoration.” She rolls her eyes, making her way into the living room.

Tony follows, his senses instantly bombarded with heat, wood scent, and flickering light dancing on the tops of several large pillar candles. An instant feeling of comfort, and desire, pummels his system as he sees a pile of faux fur blankets and pillows lying in front of the fireplace. Gina stokes the fire, feeding its vibrant flames with a few more pieces of wood.

“You got company?” Tony asks, suddenly wondering if he is out of place.

“Yeah.” Gina giggles. “He’s waiting in the closet until you leave.”

Tony grins. “Just looks like you were expecting someone.”

“Maybe I am,” she says, looking at him momentarily as if he is the last piece of Godiva left in the box. Quickly recovering, she changes the subject. “Nothing. No records on an ex-Navy Seal. We both know what that means.” She shivers, kneeling in front of the fireplace for warmth.

Tony watches her, instinctively wanting to warm her up. He idles in position, safely across the room. “Black Ops. Confirms the guy was some kind of badass.”

“They work outside the spectrum of the law...all the time. That’s why there’s no records of their existence. No records. No existence. Deniability. But think about it, Tony. Doesn’t make sense. Why would he wait three years to kill the guy who raped his daughter?”

“Why not?” He removes his coat, his body warming intensely, and not simply from the fireplace. “Perfect timing. All the other murders happening. This one fits right in, looks like it’s one of ours. He gets away with it.”