“Thanks. Now, go lay down for a while and if you don’t feel better shortly I’m going to call Doc Roberts.”
“I’ll be fine.” Thelma turned and headed back to her desk.
“What do we do now?” Sam asked.
“Find the Goddamn knife. And hope it’s not sticking out of somebody when we do.”
Sam massaged her temples. “Are migraines contagious?”
“No,” Charlie laughed.
“Tell my brain that. Jesus, will this madness ever end?”
Sam walked to the window, leaning her palms on the sill. She peered through the half open curtains and the dirty panes at the slice of downtown Mercer’s Corner visible from where she stood. Cars moved by slowly, people, in no hurry to be anywhere, greeted one another as they passed on the street, and two children swung around parking meters, while their mothers chatted nearby. To the casual observer, everything appeared normal, dull, ordinary, without a hint of the insanity that had descended on the town.
She pushed herself upright and turned from the window. “Anything on the prints?”
“They’re not Garrett’s. We’ll have to wait and see if Sacramento can make a computer match.”
Sam walked to the door, turned around, and leaned against the frame. She hooked one thumb in her belt. “Any thoughts on who might be Garrett’s side-kick?”
“None,” Charlie said. “No relatives or friends or anybody showed up at the trial. Except those kids that hang out on the corner every day. Could they be involved?”
“They can barely organize a trip to the 7-11. Too stoned. Not that I don’t think they would help Garrett if they could, I just don’t think they’re capable of murder.”
“Looks can be deceiving. To me, they look like the Manson Family.”
*
Fatigue slowed Walter Limpke. It slumped his shoulders and dulled his senses, causing him to move heavily. The muscles and joints of his arms and legs ached as he emptied boxes, lugged trash barrels, and climbed up and down the ladder at his hardware store.
He had awakened exhausted and even the four cups of coffee and two donuts he had consumed did not restore his energy. He had spent the morning doing inventory, stocking shelves, and tending customers, trying to ignore the flashes of last night’s dream that occasionally assaulted him. He was moderately successful, until he saw news of the murders on the TV he kept behind the counter. Then, distorted apparitions from last night invaded his thoughts with increasing rapidity.
At first, the images came at him with great effort, like a distant TV signal that flickered and faded and reappeared. Nothing coherent, but rather vague visions and sounds and smells. Soon, they became clearer, stronger. He saw a golden lake, an orange sky, a luminous red house, and Miriam Hargrove. He could see her face. Not her usual smiling, welcoming face, but a face twisted by fear and pain. A face surrounded by swirling colors and flashes of black lightning. A pale, bloodless face.
He felt empty, as if someone had ripped everything from him and left behind a hollow shell. Cold sweat leaked from his pores. He retreated to the restroom where he splashed cold water on his face and examined himself in the mirror. He appeared old, gray, defeated.
He told his wife that he felt ill and was going home to rest. She insisted he go see Dr. Roberts, but he refused, saying he didn’t sleep well and was tired and after a couple of hours of sleep he would be fine.
As he entered his street, his unease grew.
Last night’s nightmare continued its assault: screams and moans and flashes of ruby light intermingled with Miriam’s distorted face; rows of pastel houses oozed down a hill side as if melting; silvery streaks of lightning, which produced no thunder, swirled within his head; a curved knife blade flashed before him, its polished surface reflecting the colors of the dream world, its finely honed edge slicing them into millions of bright shards; and blood, thick and pungently scented, seeped from the edges of each vision.
He was going crazy. There was no other explanation. This must be what people go through on their way to crazy from whatever sanity they possessed before.
He told himself that he would get home and find that there were no drying clothes hanging in the garage, no soiled towel from his clean-up efforts. It was all a mad nightmare. It must be, for he could not fathom what the alternative would mean. He did not kill Roger and Miriam. He was sure of that.
He turned into his drive and reached up to press the garage door opener, which hung from the sun visor. He hesitated. Moment of truth.
Fear shoved his heart into overdrive. He touched the opener, his finger resting lightly on the button. For a brief moment, he considered backing from the drive and fleeing. Where? For how long? He couldn’t. He had to know.
He depressed the button and the garage door sprang to life. He closed his eyes as the door ascended, hoping it would hurry, hoping it would take forever.
He pulled into the garage. Before him sat the washer and dryer and above them, on the line he had stretched years ago, hung pants, a shirt, and a towel.
He began to shake. His blood became an icy river; nausea and faintness swept through him. The skeletal fingers of fear clutched his throat and a cold sweat slicked his skin. He oozed from his car and somehow staggered into the sanctuary of his home.
The Sheriff’s Department buzzed with activity. Penelope and her followers had arrived an hour earlier. Sam ushered them into one of the interrogation rooms where she had set up the fingerprinting equipment on a table along one wall. One by one, she inked their fingers and rolled them onto print cards. They cooperated, quietly, passively, and said little, which contrasted greatly with their demeanor once they returned to the front office and saw what Thelma had prepared for them.
Thelma, notorious for taking in strays of all kinds, had a menagerie of dogs, cats, and assorted other critters at her home. She took immediate pity on the ragamuffin group and ordered in pizza, cookies, and large bottles of Coke and 7 UP. The hungry kids devoured the treats with relish and laughed and joked as any group of teenagers would.
The sounds of the impromptu party filtered into the room where Sam finished printing Penelope. She handed the girl a moist paper towel so she could clean her ink stained fingers.
“Sounds like a party out there,” Sam said. She eyed the slim girl who made no response. Penelope was tall with stringy dark hair in dire need of washing. Her brown eyes held a sadness that was palpable. The pentagram on her forehead was painted, not tattooed as with some of the others.
“I spoke with Ed Campbell,” Sam said. “He corroborated your story. Said you guys were there around midnight.”
“That’s what we told you.”
“We cops are suspicious by nature. We check everything.”
“That’s why we have to go through this?”
“Exactly.”
Penelope shrugged.
“How did you get mixed up in all this?” Sam asked.
“All this what?” Penelope finished cleaning the black ink from her fingers and tossed the stained paper towel into the trashcan next to the table.
“This Satan thing. Garrett.”
“An old boyfriend introduced me to the religion.”
“Penelope, this is not a religion. It’s a cult. A dangerous cult.”
“Outsiders always say that. Satanism is no different from any other religion. Catholics, Baptists, Jews. Are they all cultists?”
“Any religion can become a cult if its followers take their beliefs to the extreme. If their ideas are out on the fringe. You must admit Satanism isn’t exactly mainstream.”
Penelope shrugged. “We’re bigger than you think. And growing.”
"What do you expect to get out of this?" Sam asked.
"Enlightenment. Contentment."
"It seems to me that there are better ways to get there."
"We will win, you know."
"Win?"
"The war. The apocalypse of Revelation."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"Of course. Read Revelation and you'll understand."
Sam began packing the fingerprinting materials back in the metal tackle box they were stored in. "What about your parents? Don’t they worry about you?”
“Not likely. They’re too stoned most of the time to care.”
“Where do they live?”
“Beverly Hills.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Nice digs.”
“My dad is a hot-shot Hollywood producer, my mother an actress. James Cochran and Jillian Bowers. You’ve probably heard of them.”
“Hasn’t everyone?” Both were A list players in the movie business. Golden Globes, Emmys, Academy Awards, you name it.
“Between my dad humping the honey of the week and my mom running off with whoever her current leading man happened to be, and the cocaine and booze, they occasionally had time for us to have dinner together. Usually at the latest Beverly Hills hot spot, where they could see and be seen.”
“And in protest, you found Satan?”
“He found me. I was already into drugs. A little. Four years ago, when I was fourteen, I met a man at a party. He was thirty-five, introduced me to harder drugs and sex. He also introduced me to Satan and other Satanists. They cared about me and listened to what I had to say. Became my family, my friends.”
The girl’s obvious intelligence unnerved Sam. How could someone so well spoken be dressed like a street tramp and be devoted to a psychopath like Richard Earl Garrett? “Why Garrett? You don’t even know him.”
“He has seen Satan, has talked with him, and has been selected by him to be his personification here on Earth. He has Satan’s power within him.”
If that didn’t sound rehearsed, scripted, Sam didn’t know what did. “Actually, he’s a pathetic child killer. Is that what Satanists aspire to? Killing children?”
“Sometimes war has casualties.” Penelope looked at the floor and shuffled her feet.
Sam couldn’t help wondering if the girl truly believed what she said or was merely parroting the cult dogma. “And this war requires killing children?”
Penelope seemed increasingly uncomfortable with Sam’s questions. “Richard needed the blood of the innocents to seal his pact with Lucifer. That’s the only way he could be a chosen disciple.”
“You don’t see anything wrong with that?”
“In some ways. Maybe.” She twirled a strand of hair around a finger and glanced nervously around the room. “But, there was no other way for him to achieve unity.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” The question hung somewhere between a challenge and a hopeful prayer.
Sam sensed a sadness and loneliness in the girl as if she was stranded in the ocean with no land in sight.
“Penelope, you’re probably a good kid who has been brainwashed by drugs and weirdoes and neglected by your parents. I hope that someday, if you live through your Satan period, you’ll see that. You’re a beautiful and intelligent young woman. You deserve better. I know you think us cops are the enemy, but that’s not true.”
Penelope lifted her eyes from the floor, stared at Sam, but said nothing.
They stood motionless for a moment. So close, yet so far apart. As if they were from different worlds, Sam thought. And in many ways, they were. Sam wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of what. She sensed Penelope wanted more, too. The silence grew thick, broken only by the ceiling fan, which hummed and groaned as it drew ever nearer the end of its life.
Sam placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “If you need help or get in a jam, let me know.”
Penelope looked at her blankly. Sam wasn’t sure anything she said had penetrated, but thought she saw a faint glistening of the girl’s eyes.
“Why don’t you join the others before they eat all the pizza,” Sam said.
“Can I see Richard?” Penelope asked. “Talk with him for a few minutes?”
“Afraid not.”
Sam ushered her down the hall to where her friends were laughing and talking animatedly. That’s the way kids should act, Sam thought.
The front door swung open and Lanny Mills entered. A look of dismay spread across his face as he took in the scene before him. The expression quickly dissolved into a scowl. His eyes finally rested on Sam and he crossed the room toward her. “Charlie here?”
“No. Come on back.” She led him down the hallway. Not that she relished the idea of a conversation with Lanny, but if it had to be better that it took place in the privacy of her office and not in front of a bunch of kids.
“Did you or Charlie get my messages?”
“Yeah. But, I’ve been a little busy.”
“So I see.”
“What do you want, Lanny?” Sam sat down behind her desk, welcoming the distance between them.
“What’s going on out there?” He stood with his spidery thumbs hooked in his belt, which exaggerated his paunch.
“They came in for fingerprinting.”
“So, you threw them a party?”
She wanted to knock the smugness right off his face. “Thelma’s idea. If you want to complain, talk to her. I wouldn’t advise it though. She takes this charity stuff pretty seriously.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little odd for the Sheriff’s Department to host a party for a bunch of criminals?”
“They’re not criminals.”
“Then, why are you printing them?”
“It’s my job.” She focused a glare at him.
“Did they have anything to do with Roger and Miriam’s murder?” His chin pointed at her defiantly.
“Not likely.”
“Miriam did help convict Garrett and they are his followers.”
“They’re mixed up kids, Lanny. Not killers.”
“But, you’re not sure.”
“Mostly.”
He walked to the window, standing with his back to her. “Where were they last night?”
“Camped out on Salt Creek Road.”
“All night?”
“Ed Campbell saw them there about midnight. Which is about the time of the murders according to Ralph Klingler.”
He turned from the window. “All of them?”
“Ed didn’t do a head count if that’s what you mean.”
“So, some of them might have slipped away and murdered two people?”
“That’s why we’re printing them. The killer left prints all over the place, so we’ll know soon.”
“Are you going to hold them until then?”