Make them Cry (11 page)

Maggie nodded over her coffee cup. “According to the newspapers. They found her in her bra and panties—with her hands tied behind her back. No sign of sexual assault—”

“She was in her underwear?”

Maggie nodded again. “Why? Is there any significance to that?”

Jack stared down at the tabletop. “He takes their outer clothes and uses them for something,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Maggie leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

“This waitress—Lucy—was she missing any fingers or toes?”

With a dazed look at him, Maggie slowly shook her head. “I have no idea. You mean like how Johnny lost a couple of toes?”

Jack nodded. “I was with Jonie in the ambulance. Three of her teeth were missing. All she had on were her bra and panties. It’s the same way with the others. Johnny was in his underpants, two toes missing. That other student who drowned three years ago, Julian Doyle, he was found naked, two fingers missing. There was also a suicide three years ago; a senior named Oliver Theron hanged himself in his underwear. They think his body was stolen from his grave. If there’s a pattern here, that’s it. He takes their clothes and some actual part of their bodies.”

Wincing, Maggie shook her head. “But why?”

“I wish I knew,” Jack replied glumly. “Listen, Maggie, could you help me track down the Seattle newspaper that carried the story about this waitress’s murder?”

“Of course,” Maggie answered. Something outside suddenly seemed to catch her eye. “Jack, look,” she said, nodding at the window.

He glanced back over his shoulder. A woman approached the hair salon. She was about twenty-five, Hispanic, and pretty in an exotic way, with her pierced nose and the magenta streak in her black, shoulder-length hair. She had a large piece of cardboard tucked under her arm and a roll of tape in her hand.

When Jack and Maggie emerged from the coffee shop next door, the young woman was already inside Curl Up and Dye. She’d left the door open while she posted the homemade sign in the shop’s window:

CLOSED TODAY
due to death in our family
we’ll miss you, jonie

Jack poked his head into the salon. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” the young woman said with a slightly annoyed look.

“I know,” Jack said. “Jonie came to me yesterday. We were supposed to get together. I wonder if you could help me out by answering a couple of questions….”

“Yeah, Jonie was really crazy for him,” the young woman said, sipping her cafe mocha out of a tall paper cup. “Johnny was so handsome and sweet. But it was almost like a maternal thing, because he was only eighteen, just a kid really.”

Jack and Maggie stood talking to the manager, Tina, at the same spot they’d first spoken with Jonie, outside Curl Up and Dye. The
CLOSED TODAY
sign was posted in the window.

“I met him once—at the store,” Tina went on. “Such a cutie. It was supposed to be this big secret that he was seeing Jonie. But she let that cat out of the bag early on.” Leaning against the building, Tina uttered a sad, wistful laugh. “You know, it’s weird, both of them dying within weeks of each other. I still can’t believe Jonie’s gone.”

“When Jonie came to me yesterday, she was very scared,” Jack said. “I think she was keeping some other kind of secret—maybe about Johnny or the way he died. Did she say anything to you about that?”

“No, not about Johnny,” Tina said. “To tell you the truth, it’s not like they had this great, big, passionate sexual thing going on. She was getting that from another guy.”

“She was seeing someone else?” Jack asked. “Are you sure?”

Stirring her café mocha, she nodded. “Oh, yeah. I remember this one time, Jonie let it slip. We were talking about Johnny being like a typical teenager and all that, and Jonie said it was okay, because she had herself a real man.”

“Do you have any idea who this other man might have been?” Jack asked. “Even a guess might help us.”

“Well, it would have to be somebody older,” Tina replied. “And he’d have to be a pretty ‘take-charge’ guy to get Jonie to keep quiet about them. I’m thinking it was a priest.”

“Why do you say that?” Maggie asked.

“Well, for one, this place is lousy with them. And two, a few months back, Jonie mentioned that she’d met this priest—a real hot number. I remember thinking at the time,
What is she getting herself into?
Talk about a dead end. Falling in love with a priest, it doesn’t get more pointless than that.”

Frowning a little, Maggie cleared her throat. “So—you think she had something going on with a priest at the same time she was seeing Johnny?”

Sipping her café mocha, Tina shrugged. “Well, who—other than a married guy or a priest—would be so on-her-ass to keep their relationship a secret? I mean, he must have had a lot of power over her.”

“Enough power that she was scared of him?” Jack asked.

Tina stirred her coffee drink some more. “Yeah,” she said finally. “And whoever he is, I don’t think we’ll see him at Jonie’s funeral.”

Tina had several calls to make—including one to Jonie’s long-estranged mother in Idaho. Jack and Maggie thanked her for her time. From the front stoop of the hair salon, they watched her duck into her car and drive away.

Maggie finally broke the silence. “You know how I told you about being in the restaurant that night the waitress was last seen alive?”

Jack nodded. “You said she handled your food order.”

“I overheard her talking to a coworker.” Maggie stared off in the direction in which Tina had driven. “Lucy had a secret boyfriend, too. Her waitress friend was teasing her about it. She said her ‘mystery man’ was probably this handsome priest who had been in the restaurant a couple of weeks before.”

“What did she say to that?” Jack asked.

“Nothing,” Maggie replied. “As far as I know, she took that secret to her grave—just like Jonie.”

Maggie was driving Jack to the library. They avoided the main campus roads. She knew how to look up the date of the newspaper story on Lucy Ballatore’s murder. It was the same day she’d first met Steve at that run-down beach house in West Seattle. She kept a notebook in her car, logging the automobile mileage for all work-related driving. The entry was at the top of a new page:

She hadn’t told Jack that she was seeing someone. It just didn’t seem relevant. It really wasn’t any of his business anyway. Besides, Father Murphy was more concerned about tracking down a
Seattle Times
or
Post-Intelligencer
from May 9th.

Maggie pulled over on a back road near the edge of campus. The library was only four blocks away. Jack said she needn’t bother to stick around. He would call her later. For now, they shouldn’t be seen together.

“You want to keep our relationship a secret, Father Murphy?” Maggie asked pointedly.

He hesitated before opening the car door. “What?”

“All this secrecy and sneaking around,” Maggie said. “Isn’t that what this killer-priest does with his victims? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re a perfect suspect, Jack.”

He squinted at her. “Maggie, I already explained to you why we can’t be seen together—”

“I know,” she said. “You made it very clear. Father Garcia laid down the law. Well, you might be required to follow his orders, but not me. Do you still have my cell phone number?”

He continued to eye her warily. “Yes, it’s in my wallet.”

“I’m sticking around, Jack. Call me when you’re done at the library. I’ll be close by.”

“Fine,” he muttered in resignation. Then he climbed out of the car and shut the door.

Maggie watched him head toward the campus. The Our Lady of Sorrows church tower loomed above the other buildings.

She parked her car, stuck the cell phone in her purse, and walked to the college library. Jack had entered through the same door just five minutes before her. She’d told him that she would be close by.

There was a seminarian on duty at the front desk. Maggie asked where they kept the old college yearbooks. He led her to a bookcase in the Grand Room. Grabbing the four most recent volumes, Maggie thanked him, then she sat down at one of the long study tables.

The head of administration, Father Tom Garcia, was listed in the index of last year’s yearbook, but not in any of the others before that. He wasn’t at Our Lady of Sorrows three years ago when that one boy had hanged himself and the other one had drowned.

Maggie had met Garcia a month ago, just after Johnny’s death. He’d certainly fit their killer-priest’s profile: full of charisma and a somewhat manipulative charm. Most suspicious of all was his determination to suppress any further inquiries into Johnny’s drowning. Besides, Garcia was the one who had forbidden Jack to see her, and that was another reason not to like him.

Maggie was almost disappointed that the yearbook listings exonerated him. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer, but Garcia had initiated a cover-up just the same. Why? What was he afraid they’d find?

As Maggie returned the yearbooks to the shelf, she caught a glimpse of Jack across the room. He was sifting through a stack of newspapers in a bookcase. He pulled two editions of the
Seattle Times
off the shelf, then carried them toward an arch-shaped alcove. He ducked inside the little nook, out of sight.

Maggie wandered past several study tables until she could see him again. He sat alone with his newspapers at a small desk. Bent forward, he read intently. Behind him, a saint depicted in the stained-glass window seemed to be peering over his shoulder. With a sword lifted toward the heavens, the saint wore a coat of armor and a bright yellow halo.

Jack glanced up from the newspaper. He locked eyes with Maggie and gave her a sour frown.

Maggie stepped into his semiprivate study area. “Relax,” she whispered. “No one has seen us together. I’m keeping an eye out. I just came in to look up Father Garcia in some old yearbooks. I figured if anyone’s a likely suspect, it’s him. But he wasn’t at Our Lady of Sorrows three years ago when those other boys died.”

“He was in the archdiocese,” Jack whispered. “He could have taken a few day trips up here. I wish there were a way of looking that up, but he’s a tough one to investigate. He must have ears and eyes all over this place. He seems to know my every move.”

“So, Garcia could have come up here before he started on last year?”

Jack nodded. “Officially or unofficially. He’s in with the bishop. He probably asked to be sent here. If that’s true, he’d have scouted the place out first.” Jack shook his head. “No, we shouldn’t eliminate good old Tom as a suspect just yet.”

She nodded at the newspapers. “Have you found anything helpful in there? Anything at all?”

Leaning back in his chair, Jack sighed and shook his head. “Not much beyond what you already told me. The one detail that keeps gnawing at me is the way this woman died. She was stabbed in the throat. The newspapers didn’t say her throat had been slashed or cut. They said ‘stabbed.’ It’s a little unusual.”

“No kidding,” Maggie said, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“In Roman times—two or three hundred years A.D.—that was a common form of execution: a sword-thrust in the throat.”

“Sweet,” Maggie muttered.

“A lot of the saints were martyred that way,” Jack added.

Maggie sighed. She glanced up at the stained-glass window. “Speaking of saints, who is that?”

Jack peeked back over his shoulder. “Joan of Arc. Don’t you recognize her in the armor?”

“With the short hair, I thought it was a man. Now, if they’d shown her being burned at the stake, I’d have figured out who she was.”

Jack stared at the window for another moment, then he slowly turned toward her. “Jonie was burned,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Jonie Sorretto was burned—like Joan of Arc.” The chair made a scraping noise against the tiled floor as Jack got to his feet. “My God, I think I know what’s happening. They’re all martyrs.”

“I don’t understand,” Maggie murmured.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Baffled, Maggie watched Jack hurry toward the front desk. He spoke briefly with the seminarian on duty, who pointed him toward a room on his right. Jack took off in that direction, disappearing around the corner.

At that same moment, Father Garcia strolled into the library. Wide-eyed, Maggie held her breath and watched him. Garcia nodded at the seminarian behind the front desk, then he started into the Grand Room.

Maggie stepped back farther into the niche, hiding in the shadows of the alcove. After a few seconds, she craned her neck and saw Father Garcia heading down the center of the room—between the two rows of long study tables. He glanced in her direction.

Maggie braced herself against the wall. She told herself that Garcia had no authority over her. She shouldn’t be hiding from him. Yet she didn’t want to ruin things for Jack. The two of them couldn’t be seen together.

She spied on Garcia as he walked up to a younger priest, who was immersed in a textbook at one of the tables. The younger man stood and shook Garcia’s hand. They talked quietly. Maggie couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jack returning to the Grand Room. At a brisk clip, he headed toward the alcove, waving a book at her. Maggie gave her head a little shake, then ducked deeper into the alcove.

Jack stopped abruptly. All at once, he seemed to notice that Garcia was there, only a few table rows away. He quickly sat down at one of the desks and opened the book. By now, Garcia was watching him. Jack hunched over the study table, his nose in the reading material.

Maggie stayed pressed against the alcove wall.

Garcia and his friend strolled toward Jack, who looked up from his book very nonchalantly. He gave Garcia a reserved smile, and the head of administration acknowledged him with a nod. Then Garcia and his friend kept walking toward the library exit.

Jack waited another minute. He glanced back over his shoulder, then looked toward her. Maggie emerged from the shadows. Jack gave her one of those smiles that comes after a close call. He got to his feet and brought the book with him to their secluded alcove. He set it down on the table in front of her. The smile had left his face.

The book was titled
The Lives and Deaths of the Saints
. Jack opened it and started flipping through the pages. “They’re all in here,” he said. “Let me find you the section about St. Lucy….”

After a moment, Jack handed her the book, opened to a particular page. Maggie stared at a detailed etching with the caption:
The death of St. Lucy (c. 304), virgin martyr
. The stilted, old-fashioned graphic was of a young woman on her knees, in prayer. A Roman soldier stood above her, his sword poised at the base of her throat.

“Remember the other boy who drowned?” Jack said. “His name was Julian Doyle. Turn to the synopsis on St. Julian of Antioch.”

Maggie flipped back a couple of pages until she found it:

A chill passed through Maggie. She stared at the page and shook her head.

“St. Oliver,” she heard Jack say.

Automatically, she turned several pages until she found the listing:

“Can you see what’s happening?” Jack whispered.

Dumbfounded, Maggie just nodded.

“After he supposedly hanged himself from his parents’ roof, Oliver Theron was buried in the family plot. But someone stole the body two days later.”

“To disembowel and quarter it?” Maggie murmured.

“Maybe,” Jack said.

She set the book down on the table. Her hand trembled as she pushed it away. She didn’t want to read any more. “And Johnny?”

Jack picked up the book again. Maggie sat down at the desk. She could hear him in back of her, turning the pages. “There are several St. Johns listed. Here’s the one. ‘
St. John of Nepomuk
,’” Jack read soberly. “‘
Feast day, June twelve. Born 1345, died
—’”

“Please, don’t read it to me,” she cut in. “Just tell me.”

“He was a priest from Prague. He fell out of favor with the king. So he was thrown—bound and gagged—into the River Vltava.”

“Where he drowned,” Maggie said, closing her eyes.

Jack set the book back down on the desk. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Can we get out of here, please?” she murmured.

“I don’t think you’ll get very tan,” Peter said. “Looks like it’s going to rain.” He gazed up at the gray clouds drifting across the sky. The wind had a kick to it this morning, especially six stories high on the roof of St. Clement Hall.

“You can really burn when it’s overcast,” Anton said. He was lying faceup on his beach towel. He wore sunglasses and his black Speedos. He’d come prepared—with a backpack, boom box and Evian water. He pulled a bottle of suntan lotion from the backpack, then tossed it at Peter. “Take off your shirt and put some of this on,” he said. “When I turn over in a few minutes, could you do my back?”

“Sure, yeah, no sweat,” Peter said nervously. He was admiring Anton’s powerful physique. The hair on his muscular arms and chest was matted down with the suntan oil. Peter felt so white and skinny as he removed his shirt. He kicked off his sneakers and set them on top of the shirt so it wouldn’t blow away.

“Anybody see you coming up here?” Anton asked.

“No, the dorm is dead,” Peter answered, sitting next to Anton’s blanket. “It’s the same way over at St. Bart’s. I think most everyone went home for Memorial Day weekend.”

“So, are you still sore at me about last night? That prank in the forest?”

Peter forced a smile. “Naw, it’s okay,” he said. He really couldn’t stay mad at him. Anton was the only friend he had.

“Last night, you said you couldn’t trust me anymore.”

“Did I?” Peter asked. “I don’t remember. I was pretty pissed off. But I’m okay now. So, who’s this suspect you were telling me about?”

“Well, I’m not sure we should even discuss it,” Anton said. “Are you going to believe me? I mean, if you don’t trust me—”

Peter let out an awkward laugh. “No, I—I trust you, Anton.”

He sat up. “Prove it.”

“How? You want me to open a vein and write it in blood?”

“No, I want you to take a trust test.” Anton removed his sunglasses. “Stand up.”

Peter grimaced. “Geez, Anton, can’t you just tell me about this guy? Do I really have to go through some stupid test?”

Anton got to his feet. With the sky behind him, he stared down at Peter and shook his head. “I was right. You’ve lost your faith in me. Y’know, Pete, friendship is about trust. If that’s gone, you might as well pull the plug—”