“He needs me.”
Time was short, and I knew it. “I don’t think Bernard killed for several years after he attacked you. He claimed to have joined the Marines, but he admitted before his death that he went to New York City instead.”
“And you think that’s where he learned to kill?”
“Yes.” I swallowed. Hard. “Or maybe where he perfected it.”
“Look for ritual crimes,” she said with a nearly casual air. “Ritual murder, do you understand? Once he embraced evil, rituals would’ve been important—everything he did, every act he committed would have had purpose. His murders wouldn’t be simple killings. They’d be sacrifices. I’ve spent years studying these things, reading everything I can get my hands on, trying to make sense of something that makes no sense, trying to protect myself from something most people will tell you doesn’t even exist.” She nervously nibbled at one of her fingers. “I may be crazy, Alan, but I know what I’m talking about.”
Adrian called from the bedroom again.
“What about the time between his coming home from New York City and the last couple of years?” I asked quickly. “Could he have stopped for several years and then started again just before he took his life?”
“No, I don’t believe he would’ve stopped.”
“But—”
“Look, all I know is what happened that day—and I’m sorry if it’s not the answer you want. I didn’t see devils with yellow eyes and red horns prancing, or cheesy monsters or some Hollywood version of evil in the woods that day—I told you—you feel it. You feel them, because they’re everywhere, and nowhere at all. Never there, but always with us.”
“Who, exactly?” I asked.
“Demons.”
“Demons,” I said, tossing the word back at her.
“You experience evil but… you can’t describe it. Describe wind,” she said defiantly. “Tell me what it looks like.”
“I understand.”
“You understand nothing.” An odd smile grew along her face. “But you will.”
CHAPTER 17
Once outside I realized late afternoon was bordering on early evening, and though the sun had shifted a bit, darkness was still a few hours off. Just the same, I felt a strong need to get off the street and out of Julie’s neighborhood well before nightfall. I walked to my car quickly, then hesitated and looked around. The group that had been on the corner when I’d arrived was gone, leaving the street empty and jarringly quiet. Yet I felt anything but alone.
Maybe Julie Henderson was right. Maybe we were never really alone. Maybe demons watched from everywhere, and nowhere at all.
By the time I got back to town and pulled up to Donald’s cottage, the beginnings of dusk had settled in. On the drive back I’d replayed my conversation with Julie at least a dozen times in my mind, but still wasn’t certain I’d be able to relay any of it in anything even approaching a coherent manner. As I sat in the car gathering my thoughts for a moment, I noticed Rick’s Jeep Cherokee parked on the street. I hadn’t expected him to be there but was glad he was.
Donald answered the door with his usual bleak look. “We were getting worried about you,” he said as I stepped into the living room. “I gave Rick a call, told him you were coming over. I thought it might be a good idea if we were all together for this.”
Rick was standing in front of the television watching a baseball game with a level of intensity most people reserve for serious news footage. He jerked a thumb at the screen. “Fucking Red Sox. Season’s only a few weeks old and they already suck.”
Donald flashed me an unexpected grin and held up a glass of vodka. “Drink?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
He went to the kitchen and a moment later I heard ice slap glass. He returned with Jack Daniels on the rocks. I thanked him and he slid over to the coffee table, snatched the remote and switched off the television.
Rick turned from the set. “OK, it’s not like I was watching that or anything.”
“What are you, a fucking clown?” I said. “Who gives a shit about baseball at a time like this?”
He leveled a severe look at me. “Who are you talking to, Alan?”
I sipped my drink. “I’m talking to you.”
Before he could respond Donald thrust a folded section of newspaper into my free hand. “Have you seen tonight’s paper?” A black and white photograph of a young woman stared back at me, beneath the headline: MURDER VICTIM REMEMBERED.
“No,” I said quietly, “I knew they’d identified her by name but I—I hadn’t seen this.”
Before that moment she’d been a single mother from New Bedford, a name, a vague casualty—like anyone you heard or read about but had never met, or even seen—but the photograph transformed her into a real person; a young, vibrant woman smiling from beyond the grave. I looked into her eyes, studied her features and tried to imagine what she had been thinking about when the photo had been snapped. She looked so happy and carefree. I wondered what her voice sounded like, what her laugh was like, if she was a good mother, a nice person. I tried to read the article but couldn’t tear my eyes from the photograph. I tossed it onto the coffee table and this time took a gulp of whiskey.
“You know Jimmy McCarty,” Rick said suddenly, all apparently forgiven.
“Yeah,” I said. Jimmy was a cop, a townie we had gone to school with and known since we were kids. While none of us were particularly close to him, he had played high school football with Rick, and over the years they had retained a friendship of sorts, albeit a casual one. “What about him?”
“I was telling Donny before you got here. I ran into him downtown today, and we got talking. He said the state cops are all over this one and the guys on the local force are pissed, but there isn’t much they can do. They’re in over their heads and they know it. Anyway, we got talking, you know, off the record, and he said there was a lot of shit they weren’t telling the press. Shit only the killer knows.”
“That’s standard procedure, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” Rick shrugged. “He couldn’t go into it but he said they found some crazy shit. That chick was tortured bad before whoever did her killed her. He said it’s not your usual homicide, jealous boyfriend or whatever. He said whoever did this was a major league psycho. His exact words were: We got a for real fucking nutcase on our hands.”
Donald rolled his eyes. “Such the wordsmith, that Jimmy.”
“Did he say anything about the murder having a religious or spiritual angle?” I asked.
“We didn’t talk about religion.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Rick held his hands out at his sides in an exaggerated motion. “Jesus, man, what the hell is your problem tonight?”
“Just answer the question. Did he—”
“No, he didn’t. I just told you what he fucking said.”
“Enough. Both of you just calm down.” Donald stepped between us and put a hand on my shoulder. “What happened today?”
I walked away and sat on the couch. “You first. What’d you find out?”
Donald disappeared into his bedroom, where his computer was set up, and came back carrying a small manila folder. He sat next to me on the couch and flipped it open to reveal several sheets of paper he’d printed out earlier. “I did some searches for homicides in New York City in 1982, like you suggested. Most of the web sites I was able to find didn’t have information that went back that far. Remember, 1982 is almost twenty years ago now. The ones that still list ’82 provided general statistical information but virtually no specific case-by-case detail.” He slowly ran a finger down the center of one sheet until he found what he was looking for. “For example, in 1982 there were a total of sixteen hundred and sixty-eight murders in New York City. Now, I found a couple sites that list the neighborhoods where they were committed and some other details of no use to us, but that’s about it.”