The Darker Side (35 page)

“THERE’S A PINHOLE CAMERA PLACED
near the end of the hedge line,” I say, walking back into the house. “She had no idea he was watching her.”

“How’d he know where to put it?” Alvarez asks.

“Not sure,” I lie.

Callie raises a single eyebrow but says nothing. Alan studies his fingernails.

“Let’s finish the clip,” I say, taking a seat again.

Callie had paused it when I went into the backyard. She hits play again now.

We watch as Valerie digs a hole with a gardening trowel. She removes the towel from around the dead cat. She holds the cat’s corpse up by the scruff of its neck, stares into its eyes for a moment, shrugs, and drops it into the hole. She fills it back in and takes care to feather the dirt and pat it flat. She folds the towel. We see her face once before she stands up to exit the hedgerow. She looks blissful and beautiful, untroubled and at peace.

The video holds for a minute, recording the cinder-block wall, the hedges, that slightly turned earth, before cutting back to the Preacher and his ever-present rosary beads.

“You see?” he says. “Evil can be ageless. If evil can be ageless, then so can the necessity for truth. Take note, parents. Young Valerie was an extreme example, but she serves as a warning. What are your children doing that you’d least expect?”

He shifts his hands again, laying them flat on the table.

“To the second part of this particular lesson—the fact that lack of contrition can make confession itself a lie.”

A still image appears. It’s from the video of Valerie strangling the cat. He’s plucked this image from the instant where her mask slipped the most. We see the wide eyes, the dark joy, the tip of her pink tongue in the corner of her mouth. It’s a moment of ecstasy.

The Preacher continues talking as a voice-over, keeping this image of Valerie on the screen. “Imagine this child confessing to this crime. Imagine her weeping crocodile tears as she sobbed about the dark thing inside her, about her battles against the temptations Satan had thrown her way. Can you see that? Now, look again at this picture, and ask yourself: Could the monster you see here ever be truly contrite?”

No, I think. She would have used her youth, those white teeth, that angelic face, would have used them to manipulate and hide. But she wouldn’t have felt sorry, not ever.

“Remember: truth alone is not enough, because truth is still a lie unless it is accompanied by regret and the desire to right the wrong.”

The clip ends abruptly.

“Jesus.” Alvarez whistles. “No pun intended. This is going to kill her parents. You ever seen anything like that? Like Valerie?”

“It happens,” I say. “Some psychopaths become what they are because of environment, while others appear to be born that way. They grow up in good homes, with no abuse, lots of love and opportunity, but still end up twisted. We don’t know why.”

“Gives me the creeps.”

I stand up and examine the downstairs area. The couch is a dark brown, the beige carpet and white walls continue. It’s all very clean, all unremarkable. Not the home of a child-monster. My eyes roam the walls until they find what I was looking for: a wooden crucifix.

There you are, I think. She hid behind you and all this beige. Catholicism, confession, this is the answer.

“We need to go,” I tell Alvarez.

“That’s it?” he asks, surprised.

“We know who killed her,” I say. “Now we need to find him.”

WE WALK THE GAUNTLET. CAMERAS
flash and newsmen and-women shout my name. I’ve been recognized; they smell blood.

“You’re a regular celebrity, honey-love,” Callie says.

We climb in the car and shut the door.

“Why’d you hold back on the Catholic angle with Alvarez?” Alan asks.

“Because it’s unconfirmed and it’s a bomb waiting to go off.”

“True,” Callie muses. “I suppose a lot of people will be upset to find that they’ve been on candid camera during their private confession.”

“Would she have gone to confession so young?” Alan asks.

“I did,” I reply. “It’s all about the ‘age of discretion.’ The point where the child starts to struggle with and consider right and wrong, good and evil. It’s a contentious issue. Some people feel that pushing a child into confession too early is tantamount to stealing their childhood; others feel that if you wait too long, you run the risk of letting them settle into bad moral habits. Seven or eight is generally considered an acceptable median age.”

Alan shakes his head. “Thank God I was raised Baptist. You Catholics have too many rules for me.”

I scowl at him. “‘You Catholics’? Bite your tongue. Let’s get back to the offices. James and Jezebel should be done questioning the victims’ families soon. If I’m right, and I’m almost certain I am now, we need to plan out just how to let the shit hit the fan.”

ALAN DRIVES. CALLIE FOLLOWS US
in her own car.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Alan asks.

“What?”

“We came to the Cavanaughs’ all ready to feel messed up about a little girl getting killed. Now? After what we saw her doing, I don’t know what to feel.”

I think about an older Valerie, beautiful, breathtaking and formidable, wrapping those fingers around a human throat, white teeth flashing as she peered into her victim’s eyes and grinned and grinned and grinned.

Good kitty,
she might whisper.
What a good, good kitty you are.

34

“WE’RE MISSING CONFIRMATION ON TWENTY-ONE,” JEZEBEL
says. “Either because we can’t reach the families, or there are no families to reach. Of those we have questioned, it’s confirmed. All practicing Catholics.”

I knew this already, at some level, but the full meaning only hits me now that it’s been confirmed. I sit down in a free chair near Alan’s desk and take a moment to stare at all those names on the dry-erase board.

“Wow,” I manage.

“I did a little research,” James says. “There’s never been a violation of the Catholic confessional on this scale.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I murmur.

I’m thinking about Father Yates pacing in the church last night and am transposing onto this action an image of the Pope.

I hate this case. It’s put me in direct contact with the Director of the FBI, in proximity to the President of the United States, and I’m sure something of this magnitude will, factually, reach the Pope’s ears.

I stand up and make sure I have everyone’s attention.

“We’ve worked high-profile cases before, but this is a whole new playing field. This goes nowhere. Nowhere. No pillow talk with spouses or partners, don’t tell your dog if you have one. Got it?”

They all nod. No one shows any signs of disagreement. Maybe the sober truth has hit them too.

“James, I want you to sit down with Callie, Alan, and Jezebel and I want you to start going through that database you made. Look for and list the most probable churches each victim would have visited.”

“Where are you going, honey-love?” Callie asks.

“I’m going to see AD Jones to give him the bad news.”

“YOU SURE ABOUT THIS?” AD
Jones asks.

“Yes, sir. We have corroborating data now. We know from the Cavanaugh scene that he likes to use covert surveillance. We have confirmation on the Catholic connection with the victims’ families we’ve been able to reach. How else could he have known what he knew about these people? Besides, he led us there.”

“How’s that?”

“That note in Lisa Reid’s journal.
What do I collect? That’s the question and that’s the key.
And then in those first video clips, he tells us that everything we need to know to catch him is right there in the clips. Plus, the affect of most of the victims fits; they seemed shocked to find out that he already knew what their secrets were and there was no evidence of recognition.”

I’d missed this before, and I kick myself for it now. They’d all thought their secrets were still secret. Why hadn’t I seen that?

Was it because I was still too blinded by my own?

AD Jones doesn’t say anything for a little while. He laces his hands behind his head and stares off, thinking.

“This is a political nightmare, Smoky. Not something I usually care about, but in this case it’ll probably hamper catching this guy. If we go to the Catholic Church and we go in heavy they’re likely to tell us to fuck off and close ranks.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Priests touching boys? Bad, bad, bad. Bugs in the confessionals? Wow. I think we need to show them we’ll play ball. Make them allies, not enemies.”

He frowns. “How do you propose to do that?”

“This doesn’t affect the entirety of the United States, as far as we know. We clamp down on this locally, keep it confined to my team and you and the Director. No one else. The Director gets hold of someone in the church who has some juice and briefs them. He gets them to arrange access for us and we agree to keep the whole thing quiet. We don’t even need to let the local priests in on it if they don’t want us to.”

“What about Father Yates?”

“He has no interest in this getting out, believe me. He’s loyal to his church, and I imagine they know that.”

“It could work,” he allows.

“It will work. I doubt the Catholic Church is different from any other bureaucracy when it comes to some things. People guard their territories and their budgets and work hard to keep shit from rolling uphill. I’ll bet even money that they won’t want to let the Pope know if they don’t have to.”

“You make them sound like us,” he says, only half joking.

“It’s survival of the species taken to the level of the group organism, that’s all.”

“True enough.”

“I like this approach better anyway. The Preacher’s whole deal is shaking things up. He thinks he’s a prophet, preaching about the truth, getting people to think and talk and wonder about God. The less chaos we allow him to create, the better I’ll feel.”

“Agreed. I’ll call the Director now.”

“YOU’RE ON THE NEWS,” JEZEBEL
tells me when I walk back into the office.

“Good thing there’s no TV in here.”

She smiles. “Not to worry, I can access a feed right here on the computer.” She points to Alan’s monitor. “May I?”

“Sure.”

She taps a few keys and enters a password. A moment later a different desktop appears on the screen.

“This is actually my computer we’re looking at. I’m controlling it remotely.” She opens a program and a video player fills the screen. The video begins to play.

The newswoman looks familiar.

“She was at the Cavanaugh home,” I say, placing her. “The smart one.”

The one who’d noticed us pulling up and who had directed her cameraman to point his lens our way.

I watch as we climb out of the car and the newswoman begins her voice-over.

“This morning a young girl was found dead in her own bedroom, in this quiet suburb of Burbank. It didn’t take long for a large police presence to develop, which is not, in and of itself, surprising. What
is
surprising is the arrival on scene of this woman: FBI Special Agent Smoky Barrett.”

“Hey, what about me?” Alan jokes.

“Special Agent Barrett became known to most Californians and many Americans almost three years ago. She herself became the victim of a home invasion. Joseph Sands, a serial killer Agent Barrett was hunting, turned the tables on his pursuer. He entered her home at night, murdered her husband and ten-year-old daughter, and raped and disfigured Agent Barrett herself.”

A photograph of me, scars and all, appears on-screen.

“Agent Barrett recovered and continued her job with the FBI, a move debated by many at first. The debate seems to have died down; results tend to do that. Agent Barrett has continued to do her job and do it well. Which brings us to the burning question: why is the lead serial murder investigator in Southern California at the Cavanaugh home? The only conclusion this reporter can come to is that the death of ten-year-old Valerie Cavanaugh is tied to the man who calls himself the Preacher.”

A recap of the Preacher’s exploits follows, along with his promise to kill a child if we didn’t catch him first.

“Stroke of luck,” Callie observes. “They haven’t seen Valerie’s clip.”

I consider the Preacher’s promise that he’d find a way to promulgate the truth in spite of us.
I wouldn’t count on that luck lasting.

“How much coverage has the Preacher been getting?” I ask Jezebel.

“A lot. Worldwide. There’s plenty of dialogue about truth, religion, the topics he soapboxed about. He’s got a surprising number of supporters.”

“Supporters?” Alan says. “What the fuck is there to support? He’s a murderer.”

“It’s not so shocking,” James says. “There’s plenty of precedence, and it’s not confined to Catholicism. He’s preaching a totalitarianism of faith, an all or nothing ‘giving of self to God.’ That’ll always have support among the faithful. Extremism and fanaticism go hand in hand with religion. They always have.”

“The connection’s also been made between you and the Reids,” Jezebel says. “Someone was nice enough to let a reporter know that you and your team were in Virginia.”