Comes a Horseman (23 page)

“Things?”

“Maybe they float above their corpse or—what these books all address—they head for heaven.”

“Weird.”

“A lot of people believe in the reality of near-death experiences.” He glanced around at the papers and photos that represented the Pelletier victims. “Apparently, these people did.”

He recited each victim's NDE-related books. Even William Bell—the plumber's assistant whose entire library consisted of five books, including
A Decade of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Photography
—owned
The Complete Idiot's Guide to Near-Death Experiences
by P. M. H. Atwater and
Only Visiting: Glimpses of the Afterlife
by Duncan McAfee.

“That guy keeps popping up,” she noted.

“Duncan McAfee. He's the only author owned by at least four vics.”

“I think we have a connection.”

He let out a big breath. “Now I want to know why these people were interested in NDEs.”

“That's what phones are for,” she said. “You take three murder books and give me two. We'll call relatives, and I'll also track down Duncan McAfee. I'll use my cell phone so you can use the hotel line.”

ALICIA WAS on the Internet when Brady hung up from his final call. It had taken a little more than two hours.

He said, “I'm starving.”

She scooped up the desk phone. “How about room service? What do you want?”

After she ordered for both of them, she said, “Well, Cynthia Loeb's wonderful ex said her heart stopped during a hysterectomy four years ago. First she said it was horrible. Then she stopped talking about it, but she got obsessed with all things afterlife—heaven, hell, angels, demons. He insisted they'd still be together if she hadn't gone loony tunes on him, his words.”

She flipped a page. “I couldn't track down any of William Bell's relatives. His boss said he had some kind of accident a few years ago. Crashed an ATV or JetSki, he couldn't remember. He was in the hospital for a month, but he never talked about it. In fact, he went from being gregarious before the accident to almost reclusive afterward.” She shrugged. “Oh, and I found out Duncan McAfee is a Catholic priest in Manhattan.”

“A priest?”

“Yep. I got his number too.”

“All right. I had two busts. Daniel Fears's ex hung up on me when I asked about his medical history. His mother said he had a ‘bad experience' last year when his appendix burst, then
she
hung up on me. Ditto when I spoke to three of Joseph Johnson's relatives. You'd think I was a reporter for the
National Enquirer
asking about their late loved one's transvestite tendencies. Jessica Hampton's husband said she definitely had a near-death experience when her heart stopped during a complicated childbirth. When she first was revived, she was terrified, screaming about demons and hell. In recovery, she told him she'd been taken to hell by demons, who tried to hold on to her when she was getting pulled back to her body. The next day she said she didn't want to talk about it, and she never again did, even though he was supportive and encouraged her to open up. She became very religious and attended Presbyterian services three times a week and a Bible study twice a week.”

He had been sitting cross-legged on the bed. Now he stretched his arms and legs and clambered off.

“I'm going to go wash up and then call Zach before room service comes,” he said. He left, promising to return in fifteen minutes. Alicia flipped open her cell phone and dialed Father McAfee's number.

On the eighth ring a man's voice said, “Hello?”

Either she'd awakened him or he had been drinking.

“Fr. Duncan McAfee?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“I'm Special Agent Alicia Wagner with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“FBI? About my files?”

“Uh . . . what files, sir?”

“You're not calling about my files? What do you want, then?”

“What happened to your files?”

“They were stolen!” he yelled.

Alicia moved the handset away from her ear. “When was this?”

“Three weeks ago! I filed a report!”

“What were these files?”

“My life's work. All my work.”

“I'm sorry. Maybe there's something I can—”

“Oh, stop jerking my chain! You people aren't going to do anything. The police aren't doing anything.”

“Did your files have to do with your books, your near-death experience books?”

“What else would they have to do with?”

“Sir, I'm calling because we found your books at the scenes of several crimes. I wanted to ask—”

“Am I a suspect now? For crying out loud!”

“No, it's just that—”

“Then stop bothering me!”

Click.

“Hello? Father McAfee?”

Whoa.

FATHER MCAFEE cradled the phone and closed his eyes.

What now, dear Lord?
Father Randall's visit three weeks ago had begun a time of restless nights and torment. The old man had not stirred old guilt or fears; McAfee knew how to handle psychological demons. For fifty-nine of his sixty-eight years, prayer alone had driven them from his mind. No, another sort of demon—perhaps even a manifest one, McAfee grudgingly conceded—had haunted the church grounds. Unexplainable shadows, echoing footsteps in empty halls, hideous laughter in the rectory, lasting just long enough to wake him up and let him know it was real, not dream sounds—that's how it started.

A week ago, the harassment had escalated. He'd come into the chapel to find the statues of the saints knocked over, beheaded and delimbed, defiled with what McAfee had thought was blood but turned out to be red paint. Bad enough. Frightening enough. The police had essentially shrugged. Kids, they said. But McAfee knew better. The culprit, he was sure, was whoever, whatever was haunting him and his church—left, seemingly, by Father Randall.

He heard the scuff of shoes on the stone floor behind him and spun. A shadow drifted by on the wall in the hall outside the open door of his office.

“Who is it?” he called. He felt foolish, like someone in denial.

The shadow was gone, but the now-familiar laugh—a cackle, really—floated back to him. As it died, something crashed; glass shattered.

“Go away!” McAfee yelled. “Be gone from here in the name of Jesus Christ!” He crossed himself.

He received no reply, but a few moments later the shadow slid into view again, and stayed. Whoever was casting it must have been just out of sight in the hall. McAfee's heart thumped faster. He closed his eyes, mumbling a prayer. When he opened them again, the shadow was gone.

ALICIA ANSWERED Brady's knock with her cell phone wedged between her cheek and shoulder. She waved him in.

“John, listen to me,” she said into the phone. “No, it's not perfect, but almost.”

She listened.

He went to the table where the room service food was laid out and found his cheeseburger on a plate under a metal cover. He started eating it standing up.

“We've already made headway. We've discovered the linkage . . .”

She sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, okay. Thanks . . .” She flipped the phone closed and added, “For nothing.”

Around a mouthful of burger, he asked, “Gilbreath?”

She nodded. “They got positive matches on fingerprints and animal hairs from Ogden and Ft. Collins. Same dogs, same perp, different states . . . the Bureau's got jurisdiction.”

He nodded and took another big bite.

“The investigative team is flying in tomorrow,” she said. “And we're flying out.”

She stood, tossed the phone onto the bed, and found her Reuben sandwich. She popped a French fry into her mouth. “These fries are awful.”

He reached down and grabbed a handful.

She picked up the Reuben and set it down again. “Don't you want to stay? Don't you want to help close this case?”

He shook his head and swallowed. “I'm cool with what we do, Alicia. I don't like being away from home for long stretches. We contribute. That's fine with me.”

She made an exasperated sound. “Always being on the outside is driving me crazy. I want to be in the thick of things. I want to bust bad guys.”

“The work you're doing will help put away more bad guys than you could in a lifetime of field investigations.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“What if Edmond Locard had felt that way? Can you imagine crime investigation without the benefit of fingerprints?”

She lifted the sandwich, took a bite. “I spoke to McAfee,” she said.

“And?”

“And something's there. His files were stolen
three weeks ago
.”

“His NDE files? This is going to be open-and-shut.”

“See? But can
we
close it? No, we have to go home and tinker with gadgets.”

She rattled on, alternately taking bites and bemoaning her lot at the Bureau.

He watched her and smiled. She had no idea how cute she was.

31

P
ain. Excruciating pain, both sharp and throbbing. It was Pip's first sensation as he drifted up from dark, swirling dreams that instantly evaporated from his memory like morning mist. His face and ribs ached. His head felt crushed, pinned by an unbearable weight. His eyes fluttered open, then closed. The darkness again, the mist. He forced his eyes open. He was in a bedroom, decorated with touches of pink and white lace, white-painted furniture, dolls on top of a dresser. The only illumination was a soft glow coming from a lamp he could not see, off to his right.

On tendons like barbed wire, he rotated his head and wanted to scream in agony. He drew in an audible breath. A woman sat in a wooden chair beside the bed. She looked up from a book.

Where am I?
he tried to say, but only a groan came out.

The woman stood and leaned over him. She was in her fifties, sporting short gray hair and compassionate eyes.

“Shhh,” she said, and continued speaking in Hebrew. Pip did not understand a word, but his head refused to signal incomprehension. He began moving his lips.

She held up a hand and tried again, this time in passable English. “Do not speak. You were in a bad accident.”

He managed a word: “How . . . ?”

“When you crashed, my husband ran to help. You pleaded for him to hide you. You said men were after you. A few neighbors pulled you out and into the building just before soldiers arrived.” She made a disagreeable face. “Not Israeli soldiers.”

“No,” he agreed.

“We don't know what you have done, but we will not turn you over to them.”

“I have . . .” He grimaced and reached up to his head. Bandages covered his scalp. “I have to . . .”

“You cannot move right now,” she said kindly but firmly. “Whatever you have to do, do it in bed.”

“No . . . I must . . . get something. I need to get . . .”

He raised himself off the pillow, watched the room fade to gray, and fell back down. He tried once more. He made it no farther. He looked at the woman pleadingly. “Important,” he said.