Loonies (36 page)

Then he was thrust into darkness.

It was as if someone had turned out a light. He was enveloped in sudden blackness. It was suffocating.

A pillowcase had been pulled over his head!

He thrashed, his arms flailing as panic set in. Oh god, he thought. Not me. No. This can’t be happening. Where was Noah? What had happened to the police chief?

Fingers gripped his throat, encircling it.

So this was how it happened to the others, death in darkness, not even able to see who was behind it.

Brian fought. He pounded his arms at the hands gripping him. His back was against the hallway wall, and he kicked with his legs, trying to get some leverage. The air was being squeezed out of him and he struggled.

Not like this, he thought. Please.

Brian thought of Darcie, and how disappointed she was going to be in him. And he thought about their unborn baby.

He dug his nails into the arms holding him against the wall. He sucked air in, feeling the cloth of the pillowcase press against his lips. He pushed it away with his breath. The fingers clamped tighter around his neck, choking the life out of him.

I won’t let this happen, he thought.

He gripped the wrists of the arms holding him, trying to pry them away. They were strong, but he was determined.

He felt the fingers loosen.

Yes, he thought.
Let go of me.

Air seeped into his throat.
I can breathe!

The arms on him weakened.

He brought his knee up, connecting with something solid, and the grip released. His first instinct was to pull the pillowcase off his head. He had to see who was doing this to him. A pale face was before him, crooked nose and drooping skin.

Sister Bernice.

Her powerful arms pushed him back against the hallway wall. He reached up to the headpiece of her habit, grabbing hold of it. She pushed off of him and pulled away. The headpiece came off, and Brian found himself looking at a bald man.

Brian was frozen in fear, gasping for breath. The bald man fled down the hallway toward the stairs. Brian couldn’t move. He had the headpiece in his hand and looked at it.

Sister Bernice is a man. It was a nightmare.

Outside the church bells kept ringing.

The footsteps pounding down the staircase echoed in the hallway.

He heard a groan from the room in front of him. Treece lay on the floor. Brian went to his side, helping the chief to his knees. Noah was rubbing the back of his head.

“What the hell hit me?”

Brian groped around the floor, trying to find the flashlight. His hand touched a long, hard object, and he grasped it. It wasn’t the flashlight. He held it in front of him. There was enough moonlight in the room for him to see what he was holding.

A human rib.

A light flicked on. Noah had found the flashlight.

When the beam illuminated the bone in his hand, Brian let go, and it clattered to the floor.

“What the hell?” the chief said, still rubbing his head.

“Look,” Brian said, pointing to a corner of the room now illuminated by the flashlight beam.

Noah turned and trained his light on the corner. It shone on the ceramic pot of bones that had once belonged to Hester Pigott.

“Who hit me?” Noah said, looking back at Brian.

“It was Sister Bernice. But she’s not a she.”

“What?”

“She’s a he.” He helped the chief to his feet. “And he’s getting away. We’ve got to catch her. Him.”

The two raced down the hallway and down the staircase. Outside they found the tunic of the nun’s habit. Noah picked it up and threw it back on the ground in disgust. The church bells were still ringing.

The two of them looked beyond the parking lot for movement. Brian thought he heard footsteps on pavement, but the sound was overtaken by the ringing.

“Why are those damn bells ringing?” Brian yelled.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Noah said. “I thought that was just ringing in my head. Come on.”

They ran toward the church. When they opened the door and entered, they saw why the bells were ringing.

Father Scrimsher hung by the neck from the bell tower rope, a chair tipped on its side near his dangling feet and a rosary on the floor.

Someone ran through the shadows.

Brian had turned from the twisting body of Father Scrimsher, hanging from the bell-tower rope, and seen a dark figure running down Main Street.

“There he is,” he said, turning to see Treece staring at the body of the man who was his father. “He’s getting away!” Brian grabbed Noah’s arm. The chief spun around and looked at him.

“I’ve got to call this in,” Noah said, dazed.

“We’ve got to get him,” Brian said. “We don’t even know who he is.”

Noah turned and looked at the body. He looked at the priest’s face, the eyes bulging, the tongue extended out of his mouth. “I can’t leave this,” he said. “I’ll call Steem.”

“It might be too late,” Brian said, his heart pulsing with urgency. They were so close, they couldn’t stop now. Who knew where Steem and Wickwire were and how long it would take them to get here. Already the murderer’s footsteps were fading into the quiet night.

“Wait,” Noah said, dialing his phone while still staring at the corpse.

But Brian was already gone.

He ran down Main Street, past empty storefronts, till he got to the intersection with Hemlock Avenue, where the newspaper office was. His eyes scanned the area, looking for movement. No one was about, except a solitary figure on the opposite side of the street, staggering along on the sidewalk. He was tall and thin, not at all like the man Brian was chasing.

It was the Somnambulist.

Had the murderer taken a side street? Where had he disappeared to? Damn! What had happened to him?

Brian crossed the street, looking through the windows of the storefronts, either vacant buildings or businesses long closed at this hour. The glass eyes in the taxidermist’s shop window watched him. Too bad he couldn’t ask them what they had seen. The faceless mannequin heads in Wigland seemed to turn and follow him down the sidewalk. They wouldn’t be much help either. He tried the doors to a couple of businesses, but they were all locked.

Sherman Thurk shuffled down the sidewalk toward him. The Somnambulist didn’t keep his usual steady course. He weaved, like a drunk coming out of the pub. Brian thought he might trip on his own feet and fall face first on the pavement. When he got closer, Brian grabbed the tall man by his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Brian asked.

There was no recognition behind his eyes.

“Do you hear me?” Brian said. “Are you awake?”

The Somnambulist looked down at Brian. At least he saw him.

“Are you asleep?” Brian asked. He couldn’t tell. “Did you see anyone come this way?”

The Somnambulist seemed dazed. “Someone ran into me.”

“Did you see who?”

The Somnambulist shook his head. “A big man. He knocked me down. He didn’t even say ‘excuse me.’ No one has any manners these days.”

“Which way did he go?” Brian shook the man’s shoulders. He still wasn’t sure if Thurk was awake or asleep, but he wanted the man to focus. “Did you see which way he went?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was knocked to the sidewalk. He didn’t even help me up.”

“But where did he go?” Brian was frustrated. He was so close.

“I’m not sure. I saw him go through a door.”

“A door?” Brian questioned. “Which door? Did you see which door he went into?” Brian glanced down Main Street. There were too many damn doors. He couldn’t try them all.

The Somnambulist shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t recall.”

Brian let go of the man, and the Somnambulist continued down the sidewalk. Brian watched his slow shuffle. Then an idea popped into his head.

“Wait!” he yelled.

The Somnambulist didn’t stop. He continued slowly down the sidewalk. Brian sprinted toward him and got in front of him, putting his hands to the man’s chest to interrupt his movement.

“Let me check your pockets,” Brian said, not waiting for permission. He shoved his hand into the Thurk’s right front pocket. Nothing. Then he tried the left front pocket and felt something solid. He pulled it out.

A black plastic letter “Y.”

It was one of the letters from the movie theater marquee. It must have finally fallen.

Brian looked up at the vacant eyes of the Somnambulist.

“Thank you,” he said, letting the man go. Thurk shuffled down the sidewalk.

Brian tossed the letter aside and ran to the theater, stopping before its entrance. The door was ajar a crack. This was the second open door he had encountered tonight. He could hear muffled voices inside, and something else. Music?

He opened the door and entered.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness of the theater lobby before him. He wished he had Noah’s flashlight. As he waited, the shapes of empty candy counters and a deserted popcorn machine formed before his eyes. He saw the doorway to the theater and went through it. A beam of light projected above him toward the screen. The noise of the movie playing bombarded his ears.

Why was a movie playing? The theater was closed.

He thought about Rolfe Krimmer. He must have come tonight to watch the leftover movie. He surely had no idea a killer was on the loose.

Brian went to the right aisle, looking down the rows of empty seats. He saw no movement. The image on the screen was dark but lighted enough of the seats for him to survey the area. He walked down the aisle, turning his head right to left, scanning the padded seats on either side of him.

On the screen, a man walked up a staircase.

Brian stopped, listening, but the soundtrack prevented him from hearing much else. He continued down the aisle. A loud crash of violins made him to jump. He looked up at a bloody scene on the screen.

Something moved behind him, and Brian started to turn.

A large dark shape rose from behind a row of seats.

Arms wrapped around him, and he had no time to scream, not that there was anyone to hear him over the cacophony on the movie screen. An arm tightened around his neck, and for the second time tonight he found his breath cut off.

No! he thought. Not again.

The arms were powerful, and he pulled at the one wrapped around his neck. It was like a vise. Hot breath breathed onto the back of his neck. He dug his nails into the arm, trying to pry it loose. It was no good.

He began to feel lightheaded and gasped for breath. The arm dug into his neck, crushing against his esophagus. Fluid filled his throat as he struggled to breathe. The muscles in his neck strained, and he felt as if they were about to collapse. He could no longer see what was on the screen. Its flickering light seemed to come through a long black tunnel.

Is this what dying felt like?

He had come so close, he thought. Now he was going to die without solving the mystery.

Blackness started to descend over his vision, like someone drawing a shade on a window. He felt like giving in.

He heard a loud crack, like someone snapping a branch over their knee.

Air flowed into his lungs, and the dots of light he had been seeing winked out. He dropped to his knees, dizzy but able to breath, taking huge gulps of air as his head cleared. An arm grabbed him, helping him to his feet.

A bright light flared from behind.

“Don’t anybody move!” came a loud voice.

Brian looked up and saw Sgt. Wickwire standing in the aisle, both hands on the gun pointed toward him. Capt. Steem’s bald head could be seen behind him.

Brian stared at the floor and the unconscious body of the man who had been Sister Bernice.

Then he looked at the man who held his arm—Rolfe Krimmer, holding his Boston Post Cane in his other hand, the crack in its middle visible in the light.

The following day, Brian found himself in Treece’s office at the police station along with Steem and Wickwire. The detectives had been filled in on everything Brian and Noah had discovered about the connection between the church group-home and the Wymbs Institute. Noah had said nothing about his true identity, and Brian kept quiet, figuring he’d get a chance to talk to his friend about it. There would be time later for that.

“He’s confessed to everything,” Steem said.

“All the murders?” Brian asked.

“No, not Leo Wibbels’ murder. We’re still sure that was Eldon Winch. He must have been worried about Wibbels coming forward about their arrangement with Dr. Wymbs and the patients from the institute. Winch probably figured the death would be blamed on whoever was responsible for the string of slayings.”

Brian looked at the captain. “Except he didn’t know about the pillowcases.”

“Exactly,” Steem said, pointing at him. “And that’s why it was important to keep certain crime-scene details out of the press.”

“You’re welcome,” Brian said. “So who is he?”

Wickwire opened a file folder he had in his hand. “His name is Matthias Letch. Originally from Pennsylvania. Former patient at the Wymbs Institute when he was a teenager. Spent a few years there before being released and going home to his parents.”

“What was he there for?” Brian asked.

“He was a brilliant student but apparently had a thing for killing small animals. Dr. Wymbs treated him and then he went home. But it appears the treatment wasn’t very successful.”

Not surprising, Brian thought, considering some of the other patients released from the Mustard House.

“His parents decided to send him back to the institute,” Wickwire continued. He closed the file. “They put him on a train for Smokey Hollow and he never showed up. Disappeared. The family hasn’t heard from him since.”

“So how did he end up as Sister Bernice? And what happened to the babies?”

Steem looked at Treece and nodded. The chief turned to Brian. “We’ve got a treat for you.”