Malevolent (5 page)

Tucking his T-shirt into his shorts, Tim took note of the beer logo adorning its front and questioned its propriety for a church visit.

Is that what he was doing? Visiting? The thought hadn’t taken form until just that moment. Until then, he’d simply moseyed from here to there. A late-morning bike ride, that’s all.

The three concrete steps to the front door weren’t actually attached to the building. He felt them quake slightly as he climbed them. He timidly knocked on a storm door that shook and rattled to wake the saints. But no one came in response. Wait a minute, he thought. You don’t knock on church doors. They either opened for you or they didn’t.

This one opened.

“Hello?” he called out. His voice sounded flat in the contained space.

He stood in a dimly lit foyer or vestibule that was longer than it was wide. The walls were covered in some sort of heavy brocade wallpaper faded with age, its pattern nearly hidden in the gloom. There were four interruptions to the walls—three closed doors and one wide, open doorway to his immediate left.

Tim moved another hesitant step into the heart of the building, letting the storm and wooden front door click shut behind him. He could feel himself being drawn into the air stream issuing from that much larger open space. His feet crackled on spider-cracked vinyl flooring that retained hints of its original color theme of checkered maroon and green. It felt bubbly underfoot.

“Hello?” Another timid greeting, and this time he got a response. He jumped, but the voice was his own, thrown back at him from the relative depth of that large and apparently empty room.

No, not empty.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes squinting to make sense of the hulking shadows lined up in there. As he grew accustomed to the feeble lighting, the objects identified themselves as rows of pews. He smelled the rich aroma of varnished wood. This room—the chapel—contained at least some of the grandeur so missing in the rest of the place.

He found seven or eight light switches on the wall by the large entrance and considered trying a few, but thought better of it. He might already have worn out his welcome by merely dropping in without invitation.

He cleared his throat, the sound coming right back at him in an echoed rumble. A few yellowing fliers and posters hung on the dingy wallpaper of the vestibule in which he still stood. One promoted the concept of regular church attendance. Another encouraged generous donations of time and money to the charities of one’s choice. In addition, a couple typed schedules of church services and activities had been thumbtacked in place.

Tim moved to the swinging door at the opposite end of the vestibule from the front entrance. He nudged it open. The room was a small and tidy kitchen, complete with an ancient-looking black gas range, twin steel sinks and a microwave. The counters and tiles were dingy with age, but immaculately scrubbed. Big, shiny pots and pans hung from hooks on the ceiling, partially blocking the light entering one small, lace-covered window. It was a cheerful room, with only the steel fire door under an
Exit
sign in the far wall lending it an institutional look.

Back in the vestibule, he again wondered why he was so alone. Couldn’t the congregation envision junkies waltzing in and grabbing the microwave and whatever else of even nominal value and mobility could be found?

He opened one of the two remaining doors off of the vestibule and found himself in front of chipped wooden stairs leading to what looked like an exceptionally dark and airy basement. He closed the door and moved across the floor again, subconsciously hushing his footfalls as much as possible on the crackling tile.

The chapel looked unchanged from moments ago, but what was he expecting? Now accustomed to the scant light, he found it hard to believe he’d once had difficulty making out the pews. The building’s cheap flooring ended at the chapel. The center aisle before him was composed of an oiled hardwood, varnished and buffed to a shine all the way up to, and including, the two steps leading to a raised altar. No crackling to
this
floor.

Tim lowered himself to a pew in the back. Narrower aisles ran down both sides of the room. The electric sconces lining the walls were eerily reminiscent of burning torches lighting the way into an ancient catacomb.

In the movies, a church was never truly empty. There was always at least one hunchbacked Irish scrub woman kneeling in front of a Virgin Mary icon to light a votive candle while a pipe organ offered ghostly accompaniment to her devotion.

No church lady here, folks.

It was as close to dead silence as the city would allow. Tim was half convinced he could hear the willow soughing overhead in the mild spring breeze—maybe just the blood rushing in his ears. It was seductively attractive, the silence.

The raised altar was modest in design, smaller than, but reminiscent of, some of the dance floors upon which he’d set up his sound equipment. Didn’t only Catholics have altars and crosses? He thought so, but was obviously misinformed.

This altar was quite simple, a white tablecloth stretched over a flat surface. It could have been a sheet of plywood over a pair of sawhorses going on under that bleached fabric, but it looked ceremonial enough to Tim’s untrained eye.

To the left of the altar stood a lectern and in the background a painting on a back wall. Tim tentatively identified the scene as Christ praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, before the steeply rising Mount of Olives, while three treacherously inattentive apostles slept. The Holy Spirit in white-dove guise hovered radiantly overhead.

Hell, even the painting would be worth something to a druggie with a fence.

Tim had been raised the youngest of three boys in a largely unobservant Episcopalian household. Religion consisted of a mumbled prayer before Thanksgiving dinner, and mandatory church attendance on Christmas and Easter. But while backpacking in Paris during one college break, he’d visited an ornate medieval cathedral to get in out of the rain. His attention had been gripped by the soaring painted ceiling, the blackened carved-wood trim and the ageless stained glass. He’d been held fascinated by the tour-plaque account, in a half dozen languages, of the artisans and craftsmen who’d devoted their lives to the construction of this one relatively minor edifice. If there really was such a thing as a God, Tim had told himself while staring up where the marble columns met the soaring, carved ceiling, surely he, she, it or they were at home here.

He had a twinge of that same belief while sitting alone in the tiny chapel of a tacky church on Utica Lane in Cleveland, Ohio. It was peace he felt here, maybe something disassociated altogether with religion, but more akin to serenity. From his varnished pew the world seemed to be working as it should, everything ticking along a little smoother than he’d previously noticed. Tim closed his eyes and breathed the good feeling deep into his lungs. Felt like the church itself was working its way inside of him, strengthening every cell, oxygenating his very blood.

He tried praying. He started to whisper rusty phrases from a few Sunday school appearances, and then stopped himself with a wry chuckle that no longer sounded out of place.

He didn’t need prayer here. This little church gave him strength and asked him for nothing in return.

Religion as it should be. No strings attached.

Chapter Eight

At least seven pairs of eyes tracked her entrance, but only two betrayed any sign of human intelligence. That was unsettling, for there were three adults facing her in the stuffy house, along with at least four cats.

Detective Melinda Dillon said, “Ms. Marberry, how are you getting along?” Even at a low murmur, her voice sounded too loud in the cramped, quiet home.

After fourteen years of police work, Melinda was accustomed to the hooded glances and stony silences of even the innocent. As politically incorrect as it sounded even to her ears, most of those touched by crime had complicated relationships with the law, to say the least. In certain neighborhoods, everyone had a lover, a brother, an uncle or a child who’d been dragged downtown at one time or another. That seemed to be even truer when she’d taken the overnight shift. By now, she’d more or less bought into the widespread police assumption that anyone out at 4 a.m. was up to no good.

The comparable attitude on the streets was that a cop knocking at your door in the wee hours is going to bust your balls one way or another.

That’s why she’d saved her visit to the Marberry household until nearing the end of her midnight-to-eight shift.

It was always hard to gauge the mood of a sex crime victim. She’d seen everything from hysteria to rage to denial, but she was still unprepared for the icy reception she got from the inhabitants—human and otherwise—at this house on Natchez Drive.

Even on a street with the houses too close together and thirsty for paint, the Marberry bungalow stood out for its peeling trim, weed-choked yard and unruly shrubs.

“Ms. Marberry,” she said again, “are you all right?”

The small rotating fan on the floor stirred only enough air to wobble the newspapers scattered about the floor. Both living room windows were shut and each sill contained a long-haired cat perching where it seemed to remember cool air emanating in the past. They looked like they were trying to get out and Melinda couldn’t blame them. Her nose tickled and her throat tightened against the mingled, faint odors of urine and wet fur.

Melinda’s eyes were grainy with exhaustion. She was off the timecard now, and the serenity of her West Park apartment, free of rapes and domestic squalor, was a strong siren call. Out here, all she had was troubling thoughts that just wouldn’t leave her alone.

Now she counted five cats. They watched her with an intensity she found unnerving as she stood framed in the open doorway, awaiting—yet dreading—an invitation to sit. In addition to the long-hairs on the sills, she saw an overfed yellow tabby with smoldering green eyes. It studied her from dead center of the worn living room carpet, looking like it hadn’t chased down a mouse since the first Bush administration. Then a slinky kitten that reminded her more of a ferret meowed silently from the room’s only unoccupied chair, a rocker.

Was that the fifth cat, or had she miscounted?

A pregnant calico dragged its low belly and swollen teats across the floor, hissing distractedly at the stranger.

Cat seven? Eight, maybe.

“Nice kitty,” Melinda murmured, feeling ridiculous. Greeting the “babies” of adoring pet owners often opened them up, but the trick didn’t seem to be working this time.

Not really caring to touch the green-eyed tabby staring at her from the floor, but feeling the need to establish some kind of connection with the strange women in the room, Melinda slowly extended the tip of a foot. The cat shifted its gaze and then swiped at her foot, its heavy paw thudding against the side of her shoe. The cat’s eyes glittered with momentary interest when it thought she might put up a fight, then it blinked and forgot her when Melinda reeled her foot back in.

“Wow,” she said, chuckling to make light of it.

One of the women tittered, the first human response she’d received since ringing the doorbell. This, Melinda recalled from the victim’s brief mention during last night’s interview, was Germaine’s younger sister. The girl-woman’s face
almost
reflected the intelligence level of the house cats. Her vacant eyes had been nearly swallowed by the fleshy skin around them. Her mouth hung open, lips thick and bubbly. She was in her early thirties, Melinda supposed, with a body that was inconsistently bloated. For instance, while her neck, thighs and fingers were immense, her breasts were nearly undeveloped and ankles almost delicate. Her head was huge and cheeks jowly.

The crime victim’s mother, on the other hand, was as thin and leathery as a cigarillo.

Now, as if suddenly conscious that she was in Melinda’s thoughts, the old woman said, “Who are you and what do you want from us?” She spat the words in a sudden hiss that could have come from one of her sullen cats.

Melinda shuddered as the rotating fan directed a whiff of soiled litter box her way. She’d have to end this call fast. She quickly introduced herself to the old woman before clearing her throat and meeting the gaze of the elder of the two sisters.

Mother and older daughter sat on mismatched velour recliners with threadbare arms. The retarded girl-woman sprawled on the bottom three staircase steps. All watched Melinda with varying degrees of interest.

Yes, this was going to be difficult. Still posed awkwardly in the front entryway and not knowing what to do with her hands, Melinda said, “Miss Marberry, I wonder if we can go somewhere and discuss what happened last night.” The title
Miss
seemed too girlish for the middle-aged and taciturn woman, but
Ms.
didn’t seem to fit her any better.

“She already tole you everything,” the old lady snapped. Her slashes of eyebrow lent a sharpness to her otherwise fine features and frail bone structure. “I don’t think you’re really with the cops at all,” she added, inspecting Melinda from head to foot. The last two words came out
uh tall.

“She really is a police, Mama,” said Germaine, speaking for the first time.

In her mother’s presence, the alleged rape victim’s voice was soft, almost timid. Not at all the harsh yet whiny tones she’d adopted at the hospital while she was being examined. “She talked to me the other night. She’s not one of the demons. She’s for real.”