The Rosary Girls (28 page)

The wind continued to bay outside, trembling the windowpanes in their cracked glazing.
“Patrick?”
No response.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, padded across the living room, opened the drawer in the hutch, grabbed the old flashlight. She pushed the switch. Dead. Of course. Thanks, Vincent.
She closed the drawer.
Louder:
“Patrick?”
Silence.
This was getting out of control really fast. She wasn’t going into the cellar without light. No way.
She backed her way to the stairs, then made her way up as silently as she could. She would take Sophie and some blankets, bundle her up to the attic, and lock the door. Sophie would be miserable, but she would be safe. Jessica knew she had to get control of herself, and the situation. She would lock Sophie in, get to her cell phone, and call for backup.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “It’s okay.”
She picked up Sophie, held her tight. Sophie shivered. Her teeth chattered.
In the flickering candlelight, Jessica thought she was seeing things. She
had
to be mistaken. She picked up a candle, held it close.
She wasn’t mistaken. There, on Sophie’s forehead, was a cross made of blue chalk.
The killer wasn’t in the house.
The killer was in the
room
.

FRIDAY, 9:25 PM

Byrne pulled off Roosevelt Boulevard. The street was flooded. His head pounded, the images came roaring through, one after the other: a demented slaughterhouse of a slide show.

The killer was stalking Jessica and her daughter.
Byrne had looked at the lottery ticket the killer had put in Kristi Hamilton’s hands and not seen it at first. None of them had. When the lab uncovered the number, it became clear. The clue was not the lottery agent. The clue was the number.
The lab had determined that the Big 4 number the killer had chosen was 9–7–0–0.
The address of St. Katherine Church rectory was 9700 Frankford Avenue.
Jessica had been close. The Rosary Killer had defaced the door at St. Katherine three years ago and had fully intended to end his madness there tonight. He intended to take Lauren Semanski to the church and fulfill the final of the five Sorrowful Mysteries on the altar there. The crucifixion.
That Lauren had fought back and escaped only delayed him. When Byrne had touched the broken ballpoint pen in Lauren’s hand, he knew where the killer was ultimately headed, and who would be his final victim. He had immediately called the Eighth District, which had dispatched a half a dozen officers to the church and a pair of patrol cars to Jessica’s house.
Byrne’s only hope was that they were not too late.

The streetlights were out, as were the traffic lights. Accordingly, as always when things like this happened, everyone in Philly forgot how to drive. Byrne took out his cell phone and called Jessica again. He got a busy signal. He tried her cell phone. It rang five times, then switched over to her voice mail.

Come on, Jess.
He pulled over to the side of the road, closed his eyes. To anyone who had never experienced the exacting pain of a rampant migraine, there could be no explanation rich enough. The lights of the oncoming cars seared his eyes. Between the flashes, he saw the bodies. Not the chalk outlines of the crime scene after the sanitization of investigation, but rather the human beings.
Tessa Wells having her arms and legs positioned around the pillar.
Nicole Taylor being laid to rest in the field of bright flowers.
Bethany Price and her crown of razors.
Kristi Hamilton soaked with blood.
Their eyes were open, questioning, pleading.
Pleading with
him
.
The fifth body was not clear to him at all, but he knew enough to shake him to the bottom of his soul.
The fifth body was just a little girl.

FRIDAY, 9:35 PM

Jessica slammed shut the bedroom door. Locked it. She had to begin with the immediate area. She searched beneath the bed, behind the curtains, in the closet, her weapon out front.

Empty.
Somehow Patrick had gotten upstairs and made the sign of the cross on Sophie’s forehead. She had tried to ask Sophie a gentle question about it, but her little girl seemed traumatized.
The idea made Jessica as sick as it did enraged. But at the moment, rage was her enemy. Her life was under siege.
She sat back down on the bed.
“You have to listen to Mommy, okay?”
Sophie stared, as if she was in shock.
“Sweetie? Listen to Mommy.”
Silence from her daughter.
“Mommy is going to make up a bed in the closet, okay? Like camping. Okay?”
Sophie had no reaction.
Jessica scrambled over to the closet. She pushed everything to the back, yanked the bedclothes off the bed, and created a makeshift bed. It broke her heart to have to do this, but she had no choice. She pulled everything else out of the closet and tossed it on the floor, everything that might cause Sophie harm. She lifted her daughter out of the bed, fighting her own tears of fury and terror.
She kissed Sophie, then closed the closet door. She turned the church key, pocketed it. She grabbed her weapon, and exited the room.

All the candles she had lighted in the house were blown out. The wind howled outside, but in the house it was deathly quiet. It was an intoxicating dark, a dark that seemed to consume everything it touched. Jessica saw everything she knew to be there in her mind, not with her eyes. As she moved down the stairs, she considered the layout of the living room. The table, the chairs, the hutch, the armoire that held the TV and the audio and video equipment, the love seats. It was all so familiar and all so foreign at the same moment. Each shadow held a monster; each outline, a threat.

She had qualified at the range every year she had been a cop, had taken the tactical, live-fire training course. But it was never supposed to be
her
house,
her
refuge from the insane world outside. This was the place where her little girl played. Now it had become a battleground.

When she touched the last step, she realized what she was doing. She was leaving Sophie alone upstairs. Had she really cleared the entire floor? Had she looked everywhere? Had she eliminated every possibility of threat?

“Patrick?” she said. Her voice sounded weak, plaintive. No answer.
Cold sweat latticed her back and shoulders, trickling to her waist. Then, loud, but not loud enough to frighten Sophie: “Listen. Patrick.

I’ve got my weapon in my hand. I’m not fucking around. I need to see you out here right now. We go downtown, we work this out. Don’t do this to me.”

Cold silence.
Just the wind.

Patrick had taken her Maglite. It was the only working flashlight in the house. The wind rattled the windowpanes in their mullions, resulting in a low, keening wail that sounded like a hurt animal.

Jessica stepped into the kitchen, trying her best to focus in the gloom. She moved slowly, keeping her left shoulder to the wall, the side opposite her shooting hand. If she had to, she could put her back to the wall and swing the weapon 180, protecting her rear flank.

The kitchen was clear.
Before she rolled the jamb, into the living room, she stopped, listened, cocking her ear to the night sounds. Was someone moaning? Crying? She knew it wasn’t Sophie.
She listened, searching the house for the sound. It was gone.
From the opening in the back door, Jessica smelled the scent of rain on early-spring soil, earthen and damp. She stepped forward in the darkness, her foot crunching the broken glass on the kitchen floor. The wind kicked, flapping the edges of the black plastic bag pinned over the opening.
When she edged back into the living room, she remembered that her laptop computer was on the small desk. If she wasn’t mistaken, and if any luck could be found this night, the battery was fully charged. She edged over to the desk, opened the laptop. The screen kicked to life, flickered twice, then threw a milky blue light across the living room. Jessica shut her eyes tightly for a few seconds, then opened them. It was enough light to see. The room opened before her.
She checked behind the love seats, in the blind spot next to the armoire. She edged open the coat closet near the front door. All empty.
She crossed the room to the armoire that held the television. If she wasn’t mistaken, Sophie had left her electronic walking puppy in one of the drawers. She eased it open. The bright plastic snout stared back.
Yes.
Jessica took the D-cell batteries out of the back, walked into the dining room. She slipped them into the flashlight. It blazed to life.
“Patrick. This is serious business.You’ve got to answer me.”
She didn’t expect a reply. She received none.
She took a deep breath, centered herself, then gradually descended the steps into the basement. The cellar was pitch black. Patrick had turned off the Maglite. Halfway down, Jessica stopped, ran the flashlight beam across the width of the room, cross-handed with her weapon. What was ordinarily so benign—the washer and dryer, the utility sink, the furnace and water softener, the golf clubs and summer furniture and all the other jumble of their lives—was now fraught with peril, etched out of long shadows.
Everything was exactly where she expected it to be.
Except Patrick.
She continued down the steps. She had a blind alcove to her right, the recess that held the circuit breakers and electrical panel. She ran the light as far into the niche as she could, and saw something that made her breath catch in her throat.
The telephone junction box.
The telephone had not gone out due to the storm.
The wires dangling from the junction box told her that the line had been
cut
.
She eased her foot onto the concrete floor of the basement. She ran her light around the room again. She began to back up, toward the front wall, when she nearly tripped over something. Something heavy. Metallic. She spun around to see that it was one of her free weights, the tenpound barbell.
And that’s when she saw Patrick. He was lying facedown, on the concrete. Near his feet was the other ten-pound weight. It appeared that he had fallen over it as he was backing up from the telephone box.
He was not moving.
“Get up,” she said. Her voice sounded raspy and weak. She pulled the hammer back on the Glock. The click echoed off the block walls. “Get... the fuck...
up
.”
He didn’t move.
Jessica stepped closer, nudged him with her foot. Nothing. No response at all. She eased the hammer back down, kept it pointed at Patrick. She bent down, slipped her hand around his neck. She felt for a pulse. It was there, strong.
But there was also dampness.
Her hand pulled back blood.
Jessica recoiled.
It appeared that Patrick had cut the phone line and then tripped over the barbell, knocking himself unconscious.
Jessica grabbed the Maglite on the floor next to Patrick, then ran upstairs and out the front door. She had to get to her cell phone. She stepped onto the porch. The rain continued to batter the awning overhead. She glanced up the street. The lights were out on the whole block. She could see branches lining the street like bones. The wind picked up in a fierce gust, drenching her in seconds. The street was deserted.
Except for the EMS van. The parking lights were off, but Jessica heard the engine, saw the exhaust. She holstered her weapon, ran across the street, through the torrent.
The medic was standing behind the van, just about to shut the doors. He turned to face Jessica as she approached.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Jessica could see the ID tag on his jacket. His name was Drew.
“Drew, I want you to listen to me,” Jessica said.
“Okay.”
“I’m a police officer. There is a wounded man in my house.”
“How bad?”
“I’m not sure, but I want you to listen to me. Don’t talk.”
“Okay.”
“My phone is out, the power is out. I need you to call in a nine-oneone. Tell them an officer needs assistance. I need every cop and his mother out here. Call it in, then get over to my house. He’s in the basement.”
A huge gust of wind blew a sheet of rain across the street. Leaves and debris swirled around her feet. Jessica found that she had to yell to be heard.
“Do you understand?” Jessica shouted.
Drew grabbed his bag, shut the back doors on the EMS van, held up his handheld radio. “Let’s go.”
Traffic crawled up Cottman Avenue. Byrne was less than half a mile from Jessica’s house. He approached a few of the side streets, found them blocked by branches and electrical wires, or too flooded to pass.
Cars were cautiously approaching inundated sections of the road, all but idling through. As Byrne approached Jessica’s street, the migraine bloomed fully. A car horn made him grip the wheel tightly, realizing he had been driving with his eyes closed.
He had to get to Jessica.
He parked the car, checked his weapon, and got out.
He was just a few blocks away.
The migraine surged as he turned his collar up against the wind. As he fought the gusts of rain, he knew that...
He is in the house.
Close.
He has not expected her to invite someone else inside. He wants her all to himself. He has plans for her and her daughter.
When the other man walked in the front door, his plans became . . . . . . altered, but not changed.
Even Christ had his obstacles this week.The Pharisees tried to trap Him into uttering blasphemy. Judas had, of course, betrayed Him to the chief priests, telling them where Christ could be found.
Christ was not deterred.
I will not be deterred, either.
I will deal with the intruder, this Iscariot.
In this dark cellar I will make this intruder pay with his life.

When they entered the house, Jessica pointed Drew to the basement.
“He’s at the bottom of the stairs, and to the right,” she said.
“Can you tell me anything about his injuries?” Drew asked.
“I don’t know,” Jessica said. “He’s unconscious.”
As the paramedic descended the stairs into the basement, Jessica heard him call in the 911 emergency.
She mounted the stairs to Sophie’s room. She unlocked the closet door. Sophie was awake and sitting up, lost in a forest of coats and slacks.
“You okay, baby?” she asked.
Sophie remained unresponsive.
“Mommy’s here, sweetie. Mommy’s here.”
She picked Sophie up. Sophie put her little arms around her neck. They were safe now. Jessica could feel Sophie’s heart beating against her.
Jessica crossed the bedroom to the front windows. The street was only partially flooded. She watched for backup.
“Ma’am?”