J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide

NO TIME TO HIDE

A Legal Thriller

Featuring Michael Collins

J.D. TRAFFORD

Books
By J.D. Trafford

No Time To Run

No Time To Die

No Time To Hide

J.D. TRAFFORD IS THE WINNER OF

THE NATIONAL LEGAL FICTION WRITING AWARD FOR LAWYERS

Amazon Edition Copyright Notes and License Notes

Copyright © 2014 by J.D. Trafford

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook cannot be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person for each recipient.  Thank you for respecting the work of this author. 

To my readers. Thank you for your patience and support.

—J.D.

PART ONE: THE HIDDEN

“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”

―
Andre Malraux

CHAPTER ONE

He sat in his car across the street from the church and watched, holding a cell phone to his ear.

He wasn’t talking to anyone. The phone, in fact, wasn’t even on.

Nervous, he tried to look normal. If a late-night dog walker or a curious neighbor saw him, there needed to be a reason why he was there. The phone offered a logical explanation.

He looked down at his watch. It wasn’t much later than the last time he had checked. Scanning the street, he felt a knot of nerves. Adrenaline tightened inside of him.  It was a little after 1:30 am. He shouldn’t have to wait much longer.

The subway station was about four blocks away. That’s where Father Stiles should get off, and then start his last, lonely walk back to the rectory.

Two months earlier, Father Stiles had gotten a regular Thursday night gig at The Coney.

Burlesque shows were now popular amongst the Park Slope hipster crowd, especially if they featured a few overweight dancers as well as specials on Pabst Blue Ribbon. The hipsters came in their skinny jeans, received odd titillation for an hour, and then the ultimate irony: an Elvis impersonator who had taken a vow of celibacy.

He had heard Father Stiles preach about his new Elvis act in a Saturday mass.

“Jesus often hung out with tax collectors and prostitutes,” the priest had said, “so spending one evening a week in an Elvis costume with a smutty mime and a few unemployed actresses practicing for the next revival of Gypsy couldn’t be all too bad in the eyes of the Lord.”

###

He lifted the blue sweatshirt in the passenger seat, wondering if he should give up for the night. He didn’t
have
to kill the priest. But the crowd wanted him to do it. They talked about it all the time. They shouted at him, even when he was tired and needed sleep. The crowd wanted to strip Michael Collins of everything that the lawyer loved. It was revenge. What goes around comes around.

He looked underneath the sweatshirt. There was a seven-inch straightedge knife. It was old, but still good. He had found it in a Hoboken antiques shop amidst a table filled with WWII memorabilia and supplies.

Initially he was going to buy a gun. That just seemed like the right thing to do, but then he was asked to fill out the forms. The sales clerk had started to ask questions. The crowd didn’t like that. Too complicated. The crowd told him to keep it simple, don’t trust anyone. They liked the knife. They told him that the knife was good, but he had his doubts. The gun had advantages. Perhaps he’d revisit the matter later.

He took
a moment and ran the tips of his fingers along the blade. The edge didn’t cut, but he could tell the blade was sharp. Then he covered the knife back up with his sweatshirt and waited.

Ten more minutes passed.

He saw a flicker in the streetlight and shadows. The crowd became excited. They chattered.

Sliding lower in his seat, his heart pounded. He scolded the voices. He told the crowd to be quiet. He needed to think
, but it was hard. The cackle was constant.

His hand slipped under the sweatshirt and his fingers wrapped around the worn leather grip.

The plan was to wait until Father Stiles unlocked the side door. Then he’d get out of the car and cross the street as fast as possible.

It needed to happen.

After years of delay, the foreign banks had finally complied with the government’s subpoenas. He’d been told by Agent Vatch that Michael Collins would soon be arrested.

This information created urgency. The crowd didn’t want Collins to go to jail. The crowd wanted Collins dead along with everybody else.

###

But Father Stiles wasn’t alone. Two women and another man were with him, wandering down the sidewalk in a group.

He swore under his breath. The crowd grumbled. The voices disagreed. He wasn’t sure what he should do. The additional people created a complication. It was the first time the priest had come home with others. There was indecision.

A few voices began to jeer, heckling him to go forward. They called him a coward and a fool.

He fidgeted. His anxiety rose. He flicked the blade, back and forth; nervous.

The knife’s tip made tiny cuts in the passenger seat as he thought through his choices.

His eyes widened as he watched Father Stiles and his friends stumble toward the church. They were all intoxicated, although Father Stiles handled the liquor better than the others.

He contemplated killing all four of them. Why not? The voices in his head didn’t give a clear answer. He looked down at the knife in his hand, and he wished that he had bought the gun.

###

He watched
Father Stiles and the others stop in front of the church’s side door. He inched up in his seat, ready to charge. Then he heard one of the women giggle good-night.

They were leaving, he thought. The priest would be alone. He just needed to be patient, wait a few more seconds.

He watched as they hugged each other farewell. Father Stiles turned away from them and toward the side door. The priest took a step, but then stopped. More words were exchanged, and after some back and forth, they all apparently decided to go inside the church for a nightcap.

Another complication, and the crowd went crazy.

###

When the church’s side door closed, the street went quiet. He sat in the darkness for a minute, then he decided to move. He couldn’t wait. If he had to kill all of them, he would. He didn’t care.

“Do it,” the crowd said. “Kill them all.”

He jumped out of the car and sprinted toward the door with the knife in hand. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could.

Falling into the doorway’s shadow, he looked for a place to hide and wait. When Father Stiles and his friends had finished for the night, he wanted to be there. He wanted to be in a position to catch them from behind.

There was a mid-sized hedge that lined the outside of the church. He decided that would be a good place to hide.

The crowd agreed, and the crowd was content for the moment.

His heart pumped as he took a breath. He tried to slow down his system. He needed to be in control. He knew the chatter would come back, louder. He had to resist the crowd. They needed to stop shouting at him. The crowd needed to stop torturing him.

He made a small cut on the back of his hand. Blood rolled down his fingers. He felt a wave of relief. His system cooled and he closed his eyes for a second. He took a deep breath. He enjoyed the release and the moment of silence.

The crowd would be happy soon, he thought. They just needed to wait, just like him.

He opened his eyes and took a step further behind the hedge, then stopped himself.

A smile crept over his face. It was a strange idea, and it was certainly possible. There was little harm in trying. Why not?

“See what happens when you let me think?” he scolded the crowd. “See what happens when you give me space?”

He wiped the blood off of his hand and onto his pants, and then walked up to the heavy church door. He reached out, gripped the knob, and gave it a turn. The hundred-year-old mechanicals squeaked. The knob and latch moved, and the door swung open. He was now inside.

The drunk priest
had forgotten to lock it.

###

Another hour passed before the two women and the man came down the stairs. From a dark corner in the unlit hallway, he watched them leave. The crowd screamed at him to jump. When he resisted, the crowd let loose a string of expletives. He ignored them, but he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

Father Stiles opened the side door to the street. He and his guests exchanged their good-byes, and then Father Stiles came back inside. The priest paused, looking around as though he sensed that something was not right, and then he locked the door.

From the dark corner, he watched the priest. He listened to the priest’s footsteps as the priest walked up the steps to the rectory. He decided to wait a little longer. It’d be easier if the priest was asleep, although it would be a less exciting kill.

The crowd didn’t like that decision at all.

###

It was still night, but morning was coming. He needed to move.

He unfolded his body, standing. His back was sore from sitting for so long, he forced one foot forward and then he started to climb the steps.

He stayed on his toes.
He took one step at a time, pausing every third step and listening. He didn’t hear anything, so he continued.

At the top of the steps, he opened the rectory door that led into the priest’s study. Father Stiles had left a small desk lamp on, which provided just enough light to navigate the cluttered space. He walked around the piles of books to another door.

He turned the knob, hoping it wasn’t locked, and it wasn’t. The door opened and he walked into the priest’s main living area.

A few in the crowd started to chant, and then the others picked up on it. In unison, the voices drove him forward.

They chanted for revenge to the steady beat of his heart, a beat that kept getting faster the further he went inside the house.

He had never been in the space before, but all homes had a certain logical design. He figured that a bedroom was nearby. He walked down the hallway and the crowd’s chant continued.

He looked into one doorway and discovered the bathroom. He looked into another small room. There was a single bed, but it was empty. The crowd pushed him on.

“Revenge. Revenge. Revenge.”

Then he went to the last room on the corridor.

This had to be it, he thought.

He opened the door. It was pitch black, but felt right. This was the master bedroom. Father Stiles had to be inside.

The chant broke, and the individual voices in the crowd started screaming, disjointed high-pitched screams. “Do it.”

A bolt of energy shot through his body. He turned on the light and jumped toward the bed with the knife held high, yelling.

It took just a second to get there. He brought the knife down, and it sliced through the sheets into the lump underneath. But, there wasn’t enough resistance. It was too soft. The bed was empty. The lump was just a pillow.

He swore, again, as he looked around. “Find him,” said a voice in the crowd, and then others joined.

Panic.

The lights were on. He was exposed.

He turned around, scanning the empty room. He decided that Father Stiles must sleep someplace else, maybe on the main level.

He moved away from the bed, leaving. He wondered if Father Stiles had escaped. He wondered if the police were on their way.

“Find him,” the crowd shouted. “Hunt.”

He got to the door, and he reached for the light switch.

About to turn the lights off, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It
was a bare foot on the floor. The foot was in a small space between the bed and the room’s outside wall. 

He walked back. The foot wasn’t moving.

He crouched down, examining the body. It was Father Stiles.

The priest wore only a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Father Stiles
had obviously been about to go to bed, but had never made it. He watched the priest for a minute, waiting for Father Stiles’ chest to rise, but there were no breaths taken.

He crouched lower, reached out, and felt the priest’s forehead. It was cold.

He felt for a pulse, waited, and then took his hand away. There was nothing.

He stood up and walked out the door.

The crowd was disappointed. The crowd voiced its displeasure with him for waiting so long. They taunted him, but there was nothing he could do. There was no revenge to be taken.

The priest was already dead.