The Psalmist (18 page)

 

Chapter 31

J
ACKSON
P
YNNE STOOD
in the doorway, his long cashmere overcoat flecked with snow.

Luke let him in and closed the door. Pynne brushed his shoulders and sleeves. He stomped his right shoe, then his left.

“Fucking snow,” he said.

“I thought you were leaving town, Jackson.”

“I came back.”

“I can see. Let's go to my office. It's warmer there.”

Pynne's rubber soles squished on the wooden floor as he followed Luke down the dark corridor to the church offices, walking in that slightly cocky way he had. Luke clicked on the desk lamp in his office.

“Have a seat, Jackson.”

He didn't. He stood in the center of the room, taking in everything, the snow melting from his coat. “I understand the police've been looking for me,” he said. “Bothering my sister.”

“Have they?”

“Our little conversation the other day was supposed to've been in confidence. Right?”

Luke clasped his hands on the desk.

“I trusted you on that, Pastor,” Pynne said, pointing an index finger at him. “I like to think I can take a person at his word.”

Luke sighed. “Please. Have a seat, Jackson.”

This time he did, reluctantly, his long legs jutting up from the card-­table chair in front of the desk.

“So, it turns out you
do
have a connection with this woman who was found in the church, after all,” Luke said.

Pynne's expression didn't change. Luke watched the shadows of falling snow on his face.

“She worked for a Quik Gas franchise in Ohio. Which, it turns out, you used to co-­own. That's what I was just told this afternoon. I didn't know you were a franchise owner of Quik Gas.”

Jackson Pynne watched him. He said nothing.

“The police figured that out by themselves, I assure you. From what I understand, they're looking for you.”

“Yeah?”

“That's what I understand.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, turning his eyes to the window.

“They want you to tell them what she was doing here in Tidewater. What might've happened to her.”

Jackson sighed dramatically, fiddling with the buttons on his coat. The tension had shifted; his concern now was defending himself rather than accusing Luke.

“Well, I can't. And I'm not going to,” Pynne said, anger rising in his voice.

“Which one is it?”

“What?”

Jackson sat up straighter again. He crossed his legs at the knee and jiggled his foot. Then uncrossed them.

“What happened?” Luke said. “Who was she?”

“Kwan Park.”

“Yes.”

He turned away, as if he didn't know where to look or what to do. “I was helping her,” he said, his voice sounding humbled all of a sudden. “Okay? What do they
think
happened?”

“I don't know.”

He kept glancing out the window, at the place he used to inhabit; like a man in prison, Luke thought.

“If you want to talk about it, please feel free,” Luke said, summoning the most reasonable tone he could.

“I'd rather you do the talking here, Father.”

“I'm not a father.”

“Pastor.”

Luke shrugged. “Okay, what should I talk about?”

“Tell me what you know.” He reached for something inside his coat. Then tried the other pocket. Luke wondered for a second if he might be carrying a handgun. “What the police think
my
connection to this is?”

“Police think this woman Kwan Park worked for you.”

“Okay.” Pynne finally found what he was after: a pack of Chesterfields.

“They think maybe you were having a relationship with her.”

“Yeah?” He tamped out a cigarette. Felt for matches or a lighter, nodding for him to go on.

“They also think her murder might be connected to several other homicides.”

The cigarette was halfway to Jackson Pynne's mouth when his hand froze.

“Several other
homicides
?”

“Yes.” They stared at one another across the desk for a while, the snow shadows creating an illusion of distance. He's come here for a reason, Luke thought. Information, yeah, but something else, too.

“What happened to Kwan Park, Jackson?”

Pynne shook his head, but his eyes, uncharacteristically, seemed to glisten. Luke noticed the front of the matchbook as he finally pulled the match between the striking surface and the cover. Gonter's Crabhouse. The end of his cigarette flared red. He slipped the matches back into his pocket. His fingers unsteady.

“I had nothing to do with what happened,” he said. “You understand that, right? I was trying to help the woman. I loved that woman.”

“Okay.” Pynne's eyes were on the end of his cigarette as he inhaled. “You can understand why police would want to find you, though, right? The fact that she worked for you—­they're going to want to ask you questions. I think you ought to be prepared for that, Jackson. I mean, if you didn't have anything to do with it, you still have—­”

“ ‘If' I didn't have anything to do with it?” he said, bolting forward in the chair.

“I'm sorry.”

“I just
told
you I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“Yes, you did. I'm sorry.”

Luke let him cool off. Smoke hung in the office now, the smell reminding him of other paths his life might've taken.

“Who's after you, Jackson?” Luke finally said.

He shook away the question.

“Do you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” He looked out the window. Luke waited, understanding they were in delicate terrain now.

“What's this about, Jackson? What do you think happened?”

Pynne took his time, seeming to work through a problem. Finally, his eyes slid back to Luke's and held steady. “I got into something, okay?” he said. “A little mess. But I didn't kill anyone.”

“What kind of a mess?”

“Just—­a business deal that went wrong.” He hunched forward, placing his elbows on his knees, holding out the cigarette in his right hand. “But it's not what I did so much as what I know. What I figured out. Or what they think I figured out.”

“Okay.” Pynne inhaled on the cigarette, letting smoke flow slowly from his nostrils this time. “And you don't want to go to the police with what you know. Not even anonymously?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Why?” His mouth flexed unfamiliarly. “Because I say anything, it'd be the same thing as shoveling my own grave. You understand?”

“Not entirely,” Luke said. “But, as I say, I'm sure the police are looking for you right now, Jackson.”

“
Are
you?” He feigned a laugh and shook his head. Looked out the window. “Fucking snow,” he said, lifting the cigarette slowly to his mouth.

“I know,” Luke said. “Just understand that if you want to talk, I'm here.”

“I heard you the first time, Father.”

“I'm not your father.”

“Pastor.” He pointed his cigarette at Luke again and held it; snow shadows twisted patterns through the smoke. “Tell me about those other homicides.”

Luke drew a deliberate breath; he probably shouldn't have mentioned that.

“Go ahead, goddamn it,” Pynne said, lurching forward again. “Tell me about that. Who they were. Describe them.”

Luke thought of the computer printouts, the death scenes, the victims, the man whose lips and tongue had been removed. “As I understand it, there are three other cases, Jackson,” he said. “Which police think might be related. I don't know a lot of details.”

“Tell me what you know. Describe them.”

“Two women and a man.”

“Describe them.”

“Okay. A woman in Delaware. Maybe forty-­five years old. Her body found burned beyond recognition in a wax museum fire. Then a woman in West Virginia, late thirties. Shot in the head, left in a waste pit, wrapped in a bedsheet and bound in duct tape. And a man in Virginia, around fifty, wearing a business suit. Shot in the chest. Left in the woods beside a rural highway.”

A shadow of recognition swept his face, Luke thought.

“Go on.”

“That's all.”

He slowly rose from the chair. Walked through Aggie's office to the front door. He took a long final drag on his cigarette and flicked it outside, the wind blowing the red sparks into the office. He walked back through Aggie's space, his eyes wandering, both hands shoved in his coat pockets, bringing a breath of cold air back with him.

“Let me tell you something, then, Pastor,” he said, still standing. “All right?”

“Yes, please.”

“I'm going to give you three names, okay? If you want to tell the police about them—­anonymously—­go ahead, see if they mean anything. Just don't call anybody right away, you follow me? Give me a ­couple of hours.”

“Why?”

“Why. You don't listen, do you?”

“Not always.”

“Not often.”

“Okay.”

“At this point, my name doesn't enter into it. Not in any way, shape, or form.”

“If that's how you want it.”

“It is.” Luke waited. “Okay. You got a pen?”

Luke reached for the church ballpoint pen on his desk and held it up.

Jackson Pynne gave him three names then, spelling each. Luke wrote them in his spiral sermon book: Mark Chandler, Sheila Patterson, Katrina Menken.

“Look into their backgrounds if you want. Where they worked.”

“Why? Who are they?”

Pynne stared back at him. Luke thought he was about to become angry again. Instead, he flashed a smile. “You mean, who they are right now?”

“Okay.”

“Right now they're nothing. Lighter than vapor.”

He stepped toward the window. Peered out, ducking his head slightly to see better, the set of his face somber again.

“The thing is,” he said, “I was trying to do something honorable. You know?” He turned, hands in his pockets. “You ever read ‘The Killers'?”

“You mean the Hemingway story?”

“Yeah.” He smiled quickly, surprised that Luke knew this. “Well, that's who I am. Old Ole. They're coming to collect now. Trumble's ­people are coming to collect.”

“Collect from you?”

“Yeah, right.” Luke saw an ambiguous half smile in his reflection on the glass. “Remember how we used to talk, Pastor?”

“Of course I remember.”

“And how I always told you I was looking for something? Something I could do that would make a difference. Help other ­people. Maybe give me redemption, in a way. Remember that?”

“I think so.”

“Well, you know what? I finally found a deal like that. And it had to do with Kwan. It was about us. We were going to do some good and then maybe have a life for ourselves. Somewhere down South.”

Luke felt an enormous sadness for Jackson Pynne all of a sudden, Pynne looking up at the snow.

“What I recommend, Jackson, is that you talk with the authorities,” he said. “They're going to find you eventually, you know.”

“Yeah, I do. I do know that, Pastor. And you know what: they can
fuck off
, okay?” He gave Luke an unfriendly smile. “But I want to tell you this. I actually prayed for this goddamned thing to work. With me and Kwan. And you know what? Despite all that, the whole fucking thing blew apart, you follow me? The whole fucking thing!”

Luke waited a moment, looking at his desk.

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

“No. I wouldn't.”

“Why not? You were just saying how we used to talk.”

“Why
not
? Because I said so, okay? I can't. Not until I'm sure about a ­couple of things.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later Luke watched Jackson Pynne striding through the snow to his Audi, scanning the grounds of the church. Taillights brightened as he braked around a bend of trees. Luke tracked his direction, waiting for the taillights to disappear in the snow. But before they did, he saw from the north a pair of headlights, slicing a path that came into line behind Jackson's car. And for a few seconds there were two sets of taillights, moving in tandem, south and east, before both vehicles seemed to become engulfed, swallowed up by all that snow.

K
I
RBY
M
OSS FOLLOWED
Pynne's Audi as it pulled out from the church lot.
Finally
, he'd found him. Mostly by dumb luck and happenstance. He'd been staking out the town house from a distance and Pynne had eventually shown up, parked for less than a minute, and then driven on. Police evidence techs were inside by then, processing the unit. No way was he going in.

Moss had followed. He'd tailed Jackson Pynne driving north, back toward the church. Back to the scene of the crime, just as Rankin's client had predicted.

The fact that Pynne had spent this time in the church might become a problem now, Moss figured. But it wasn't
his
problem. His problem was to keep Pynne in sight, to find where he was going to stay tonight. Then Rankin would make sure they ended this thing in whatever way he saw fit, so they could all go home. It was even possible they could finish it before morning. Moss felt a warm current of satisfaction course through him, thinking about it.

Then Rankin would have to make a decision about the man at the church. The pastor. It was too bad Pynne had decided he was going to involve a pastor in this deal.

 

Chapter 32

“I
T BECOMES EASIER
,
then, doesn't it?” Charlotte watched Luke across the sofa, as snow continued to settle on the lawn and trees around their cottage. “I mean, there's a pretty clear line beyond which you can't protect him. Right?”

Luke nodded, although it didn't seem quite so simple to him. Coming up the drive, his tires losing traction on the snow, he'd seen the pastel-­orange glows of lampshades inside and felt a deep sorrow for Jackson Pynne again, who had no such rooms or ­people—­or even pets, as far as he knew—­to return to.
Did Jackson commit this crime?
He didn't think so. But he seemed guilty of something, something that was persecuting him.

“It's just that he asked me not to mention him. In any way, shape, or form.”

“Which is asking a lot.”

“Yes.”

“If he had insisted you not identify him in any way or shape that would've been bad enough,” Charlotte said.

“I know.”

“But adding form in there.”

“Pretty cruel.”

They shared a smile, Charlotte trying to draw him out, a skill she'd honed pretty well over the years.

“On the other hand, he told you those names for a reason,” she said.

“He wants them known.”

“Yes.”

“So. Maybe I'll send them to her anonymously, by e-­mail.” He had tried calling Amy Hunter as soon as Jackson left, but only got her voice mail. Which struck him as odd.

“ ‘Her' being the sergeant? Nancy Drew?”

“Yes.” Luke turned to his wife. “You're quite the comedian, have I ever told you that?”

“Sorry, I misspoke. I meant Amy Hunter. She likes you, you know,” she added, batting her lashes provocatively. “You do know that, don't you?”

Luke laughed incredulously.

“I just hope you don't think of her the same way,” she said.

“She doesn't ‘like' me. And I'm interested in no one but you. I'd be the world's biggest fool if I was.”

“Good. Because you know I'll scratch her eyes out if she tries anything.”

“A very Chris­tian sentiment.”

“Well, no, more Old Testament.” Charlotte smiled, irresistibly. Normally self-­assured, she was capable of surprising insecurities. “She does have chutzpah, I give her that,” she said. “Going up against the sheriff and the state's attorney the way she has.”

“She has moxie, too,” Luke said.

“Yes, that, too. Not to mention pluck.”

He set up an e-­mail account in several minutes using the name Anonymous777. Charlotte looked on while he typed in a message.
These three ­people are somehow involved in the killings you are investigating,
he wrote, followed by the names that Jackson had given him:
Mark Chandler, Sheila Patterson, Katrina Menken
.

“Think they might be the three victims?” she asked after he'd sent it.

“Could be.”

“But Jackson Pynne isn't responsible. Is he?”

“I don't think so. He's involved in some way, because of Kwan Park. I think he loved her very much. But for whatever reason, he isn't ready to talk about it. I don't understand that yet.”

Luke was flashing again through the images Hunter had shown him of the victims. “It's peculiar, though,” he added. “Something about these crimes seems wrong to me.”

Charlotte filled their wineglasses and returned to the sofa. The wind gusted against the cottage, rattling shutters and the side door latch. Sneakers, lying on his rug by the heat vent, his favorite toy—­a tiny, slobber-­stained reindeer—­beside his nose, growled as he slept, but didn't raise his head. He was still in postsupper siesta mode.

“Okay,” she said, “so what is it that seems wrong?”

“This isn't how serial killers operate.”

“There's a rulebook?” Charlotte sipped, sliding her eyes to the snow for a moment. “You're talking about the victims.”

“Uh-­huh. Serial killers usually target a certain type of victim, don't they? To take some of the better-­known ones: the Atlanta killer went after little boys, the Hillside Strangler guy killed prostitutes, Ted Bundy young women and college girls, Jeffrey Dahmer gay men.”

“The Hillside Strangler guy was actually two guys.”

“Okay. You're right.”

“But anyway, so there's no pattern like that here, you're saying.”

“There doesn't seem to be. One's a well-­dressed Asian woman, early thirties, who worked in a convenience store. Another is a woman in her late thirties, wearing jeans and a T-­shirt, with drugs in her pocket. One's a man in a business suit, about fifty. And the other is a woman, mid-­forties. The methods and locations are all different, too.”

“Okay, professor,” she said. “So are you saying he's
created
a pattern to make them
appear
to be serial killings? That's what the Psalms verses are?”

“Maybe,” Luke said. “Or maybe the Psalms obscure a different pattern that's not as obvious.”

Charlotte held his gaze, tracking with him. “Like maybe the killer knew these four ­people.”

“Mmm hmm.” Charlotte nodded with just her eyes. “That's what I'm wondering. It's an idea, anyway. Jackson said police might look into where they worked. So, what if they worked for the same person, or the same organization?”

Luke stood, setting his wine on the side table.

“Where are you going?”

“I just thought of something else. I'll be right back.”

Charlotte tilted her head expectantly when he returned. Sneakers continued to snore, the vent air ruffling the fur around his neck.

“Yes?” she said.

“Right before he left, I asked Jackson who those three ­people were. He said something like, ‘Now? Now, they're nothing. Lighter than vapor.' ”

“Okay. And?”

“It's from the Book of Psalms.” Charlotte's eyes deepened with interest. “ ‘Lighter than vapor' is Psalm 62:9. Well-­known Psalm.” He read aloud:

“Surely men of low degree are a vapor,

Men of high degree are a lie,

If they are weighed on the scales,

They are altogether lighter than vapor.”

She held her wineglass thoughtfully. “Okay, and high degree means something like highborn? Rich?”

“Yes.”

“But why would Jackson Pynne be quoting from the Book of Psalms? He never struck me as someone interested in the Bible.”

“I don't know that he was consciously quoting from Psalms. I had the feeling it was a phrase he'd heard someone else use and maybe liked the sound of it.”

“Huh.” Just then a loud thumping sound startled them—­twice, then three times, against the front of the cottage.

Sneakers lifted his head and went into his slow, sinister growl—­a sound known at times to intimidate the wind. All three of them waited and it came again, the sound resembling Jackson Pynne's urgent knocking on the church door. Luke felt his heart racing. Then he recognized it: the shutter had come loose again at the front of the cottage. “I'll go fix that,” he said.