SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) (2 page)

The plane started to roll, but with an awkward lurch Naulls was able to hit the autopilot and it straightened out. Panicking, he tried to reach for his microphone but discovered that he couldn’t move his arm. A moment later, he couldn’t move anything at all and he was having trouble breathing.

With a top speed of 129 miles per hour and a range of 541 miles, the Cessna flew on for just under four hours before running out of fuel. It began losing altitude in a slow glide but with it’s autopilot now useless soon tilted on one wing and stalled at 12,000 feet.  Nose heavy, it began a steep dive and smashed into the frigid waters of the North Pacific approximately one minute later.

It was a much longer plunge, resulting in an exponentially greater impact than experienced by a spider monkey falling in a rain forest. But, as with the monkey, it made no difference to Rev. Naulls.

He was already dead.

***

Because his intended destination was so close to the Alaskan border, the United States Coast Guard joined their Canadian counterparts in the search for Rev. Naulls, who, according to radar plots, had inexplicably flown almost 500 miles straight out over the Pacific until his plane presumably ran out of fuel.

The recovery effort was called off after three days, amid steadily deteriorating weather. A Canadian Coast Guard officer told Mary it was unlikely that either the plane or her father’s body would ever be found. As an islander, Mary knew that the Coast Guard took great pride in bringing closure to the relatives of those missing at sea. She wound up consoling the officer, who couldn’t know how really comforted she was by the news that her father’s body was lost.

There was, of course, a large memorial service that Mary found almost unbearable for reasons that would have shocked those attending. But she managed to convey a passable look of bereavement and a stoicism that impressed many and masked her disdain for words of praise she found hypocritical.

The next day, she informed LexGen, the company she was scheduled to start work for, that she now needed time to settle her father’s estate, for which she was the sole heir. Her new employers were very understanding. As one of the world’s leading experts in biological toxins, thanks to her work in South America, Dr. Mary Naulls was a valuable commodity to the startup pharmaceutical research laboratory.

A month later, flush with the proceeds from the sale of everything her father owned, plus a quick but generous settlement from an aircraft insurance company anxious to avoid litigation and publicity over the mysterious death of a well-known pastor, Mary Naulls moved to Ontario to start her new life.   

CHAPTER 1 – NO GOOD DEED

Cashman, Ontario - 2008

In the five years she lived and worked in Cashman, a small town an hour north of Toronto, Mary Naulls flourished, both professionally and sexually. She made a small fortune from her work at LexGen, became a respected member of her community and church – and accumulated three secret lovers, all married men in their early 60’s. It was no mystery to Mary, who accepted the fact that she was a damaged personality, why she slept with men who were roughly her father’s age when he abused her. They provided the two things that she psychologically craved: pleasure and revenge.

The lovers lasted an average of 18 months. All died of apparently natural causes. None of them knew each other. Their wives may have suspected that their husbands cheated on them, but Mary Naulls, respected scientist and lay Eucharistic Minister at Holy Rosary Roman Catholic Church, was never considered. The men took her identity with them to the grave.

***

It was ironic that killing a man she didn’t have sex with forced Mary Naulls to leave Canada.

Not that Father Michael Richter didn’t like sex. Indeed, that was the problem. But his tastes ran to prepubescent children. Mary found out about her pastor’s predilections after inadvertently catching him with his hands down the Mallory boy’s trousers one day in the sacristy after Sunday mass. She decided on the spot to add the bastard to her string.

After the poor altar boy ran off, a blubbering Richter begged Mary to forget what she’d seen. He actually got on his knees in front of her.

“I’ll go for counseling, Mary. It’s like a wave coming over me. I can’t control it. I love these children. Perhaps too much. Please don’t destroy all the good I have done.”

“Oh, Father,” she said, looking down at the pathetic wretch, “I know you are a good man at heart. It was a momentary lapse. Maybe we could pray together. Promise me this won’t happen again.”

“Never. I swear.”

That’s wonderful, she gushed, and made him also promise to come over to her house for dinner the following Saturday.

***

She tried to put him at ease, but he was nervous and at first hardly touched the roast beef dinner she prepared. But he readily drank the wine she served. Richter was a sad sight. Almost 60, with the belly and red-veined cheeks of a man who liked his booze, he had been disappointed when she said there was no hard liquor in her house.

Predictably, he talked about his terrible childhood, his cloying mother and abusive father. How he was always been awkward around girls. She clucked sympathetically and poured more wine.

“Mary, you are a fine, upstanding woman. You wouldn’t understand this compulsion I have. I fight it every day of my life. Now, thanks to you, I think I can turn the page. I will devote myself to my calling, to my priesthood. You don’t have to worry.”

Mary Naulls knew all about compulsion. I could write a book on it, she reflected. She also knew all about bullshit. This bag of crap would break his word and resume preying on children just as soon as he thought he could get away with it. His next utterance validated her point.

“It’s not like the children ….” He thought better of finishing the thought. “I wonder if you could open another bottle of wine, Mary.”

“Of course, Father. But I do wish you would eat more.”

“Yes, I think I will. It all looks so delicious.”

She left him at the table spooning massive amounts of meat and mashed potatoes onto his plate. With his good humor and appetite restored, she knew there would be few leftovers. Father Richter didn’t need much padding when he played Santa Claus every year at the parish’s family Christmas party. Mary smiled grimly as she thought about all the children who sat on his lap. When she emerged from the kitchen holding a bottle of Pinot Noir, he was pouring gravy all over the mountain of food in front of him.

“You’d better save room for my apple pie, Father,” she said as she filled his glass.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Mary. I’ve heard about your pies.” He gave her a friendly smile. “Aren’t you going to have more wine?”

“I’ve had my limit, Father.”

“I understand.” He drank half his glass. “But, too bad. This is really excellent. If I may say, it’s even better than the first bottle. Don’t you remember your Gospels?”

“I’m sorry.”

Richter laughed, fully at ease now.

“The Wedding Feast at Cana. You are supposed to serve the good wine first, because nobody notices what kind of wine they get later.”

Oh, I think you’ll notice, Mary thought.

“Speaking of weddings, Mary, don’t you think that it’s about time you considered dating again?” He paused and gave her his most understanding, priestly look. “I know you are devoted to your late husband, whom I never had the privilege of meeting, but you are still a very attractive, educated woman and would make some other man a fine wife.” Richter chuckled. “I certainly can attest to your cooking.”

Mary, who passed herself off as a widow, smiled ruefully.

“I’m not sure I’m ready yet. And there really aren’t many eligible men in these parts.”

Besides, she reflected, I prefer married men. The men she’d had affairs with were pillars of the community, with prim wives they dutifully bedded once or twice a month. At their age, even that must have been a trial for the men, since she herself was screwing their brains out two and three times a week before their apparent heart attacks killed them.

“But I appreciate your concern, Father.”

Mary was fascinated: This pederast priest who preyed on little boys giving her marital advice! And telling her how attractive she was! I’m making the right decision, she thought. I could have gone to the Bishop. But then the rotten apple would just be transferred to another parish barrel. The police weren’t an option.

She realized Richter was saying something.

“I’m sorry, Father. What was that?”

He was pouring himself more wine.

“I said I’d love to try that pie now. I do hope you have some vanilla ice cream.”

He stumbled out an hour later, refusing Mary’s offer to drive him home.

“The rectory
ish
only two
blocksh
away,” he slurred. “
Pish
of cake.”

***

The next morning Mary Naulls was awakened by a phone call from Margaret McGiver, who, like her, was a Eucharistic minister. Mary didn’t particularly care for her, but the Eucharistic Ministers who were women tended to stick together in the male-dominated world of the Catholic Church, which allowed them to pass out Communion and do other, minor, functions. As if, Mary often thought bitterly, that could make up for thousands of years of sexual discrimination. But Margaret was also a world-class gossip and Mary liked to keep abreast of parish developments, for a variety of reasons.  

“Did you hear about Father Richter, Mary?”

She looked at her alarm clock. It was just 6:30 AM. How the hell would Margaret expect her to know what happened? The woman was certainly on the ball. She should be working for the C.I.A. But Mary played along, wondering who found the body. Maybe Richter had an early Mass and when he didn’t show up somebody went to check on him.

“No, Peggy.” Mary Naulls yawned. She didn’t have to pretend to be tired. “What happened.”

“He’s dead!”

Margaret imparted the news with the relish most people reserve for bad tidings.

“Oh, no. The poor man.”

“You must feel terrible, Mary. He had dinner with you last night, didn’t he?”

Mary Naulls wasn’t alarmed. Richter had surely told a lot of people he was getting a meal with one of his parishioners. It would be a way for him to hint that other invitations to free meals would be appreciated.

“Yes. He seemed fine. Was it his heart?”

“They don’t know. They’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”

Autopsy? Mary Naulls tries to keep her voice calm, but she was wide awake now.

“Why would there be an autopsy? I thought he died in the rectory.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know,” she said, cursing her slip. “I just assumed. He left here rather late and said he was going straight home. I also assumed he might have died in his sleep, or something.”

“He died in the police station, Mary.”

“Fuck me!”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. What’s this about a police station?”

“Well,” Peggy said, getting a head of steam up, “Richter was apparently drunker than a skunk and hit another car. Just a fender bender, mind you, but the police came and he was arrested.”

“They arrested a priest?”

The local police had a reputation for live and let live, particularly when prominent citizens were involved.

“Yes. Apparently one of the officers knew him from when he was an altar boy. They had a falling out or something. I don’t even want to know what that was about, what with all the stuff you read about priests. But the cop took Father Richter right to jail. He dropped dead right in the middle of a blood test.”

Blood test? And an autopsy?

“Anyway, the police are frantic. Having anyone dying in custody is bad enough, but a priest?” Margaret McGiver finished triumphantly. “They have to do an autopsy.”

“Well, thanks for calling me, Peg. I’ll say a prayer for the poor man.”

“Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you should think about contacting a solicitor. Mary? Are you still there?”

“Why on earth would I need a lawyer?”

“Well, if his blood alcohol level is above the limit, they could come after you for letting him leave your house drunk. I think that’s the law now. Thank God he didn’t hurt anyone in the crash. But I wouldn’t take any chances.”

No good deed goes unpunished, Mary Naulls thought. But I’ll be long gone before they come around to ask me about what was in his blood. And they won’t be talking about alcohol.

She thanked Peggy for the heads up about “poor Father Richter” and made a promise, which she had no intention of keeping, to come over for dinner the following weekend. The dumb woman never noticed how her husband looked at Mary when they were together. Fred McGiver, who owned the local Hyundai dealership, even pinched her ass in the kitchen when his wife wasn’t looking. Mary had been planning to jump his bones for weeks. If it wasn’t for the spur-of-the-moment decision on Father Richter, Fred would have been her No. 4; he was just the kind of cheating, lecherous hypocrite she preferred.

After ringing off, Mary went into her bedroom and opened the small safe at the rear of her closet, pulling out a notebook that she carried to the vanity table across from her bed. She sat down and began riffling through the pages until she came to the section on the destinations she had researched for a hasty relocation. She had narrowed down the possibilities to two locales on the opposite coasts of the United States. One really intrigued her. It offered the greater anonymity of a large city, which might be safer now, but seemed to have the ambiance and sociability of the small towns she preferred.

***

The next morning the lone security guard at the desk in the lobby at LexGen Lifescience Ltd. was surprised to see Mary Naulls. Not because the sun was barely up – she was known to put in the longest hours of anyone on staff – but because it was Sunday, the only day Dr. Naulls scrupulously avoided coming to work. In the small, tight-knit Catholic parish they both lived in just outside Cashman, she was known for her religious fervor. They had often bumped into each other at Holy Rosary. 

“Good morning, Charlie,” she said brightly.

“Good morning, Doc. What are you doing here?”

“Just dropping off some research papers for the team to sort through.” For emphasis, she hefted the attaché case she was carrying. “I had them at home and was planning to work on them next week but my sister called. My Mom’s sick and I have to take some time off to help Sis care for her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is it serious?”

“I don’t think so, but at her age one has to be careful.”

“Where does your Mom live?”

“Vancouver,” she lied.

“Well, when your Mom needs you, it’s important to be there. I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

“Thanks. Charlie. Anyone else here today?”

“Are you kidding?” He wrote her name down on a yellow pad. “This early?”

The security guard’s eyes followed her as she walked to the elevator. While it was the look of an appreciative male, he liked Dr. Naulls on all levels. She was always friendly, often asking to see photos of his grandchildren. His wife was another story. She didn’t care for the woman, a sentiment, he knew, that was shared by some of the other wives in the parish. He ascribed it to both personal and professional jealousy in a community that was very class conscious. Mary Naulls was a fine-looking woman and her position at LexGen gave her a certain status.   

Five minutes later she buzzed her way into the lab complex on the fifth floor, smiling, as she always did, at the small sign some joker had placed under the coded key pad: “Venom Inc.” After undergoing the retina scan that allowed her entry into her own laboratory, the most secure facility in the building, Dr. Mary Naulls went to a small refrigerator that sat on top of a counter. Its door was secured by a simple combination lock. She opened a drawer below the refrigerator and put on a pair of gloves. Then she unlocked the refrigerator door and removed a large tray of vials, setting it next to her attaché case. Each of the 30 vials was marked with letters and numbers that only Mary Naulls understood. These were her experiments and her reputation in her chosen field accorded her a certain amount of idiosyncratic privacy.