The Church of Dead Girls (39 page)

Franklin found a lean-to about three hundred yards up the trail, though it took ten minutes to reach it. In the meantime he heard two more gunshots. Franklin's shirt was soaked with sweat; his socks were wet from the snow. He ducked inside and collapsed on the long bench that ran the length of the back wall. He set the broken branch beside him. At least he was out of the wind. Franklin saw a small potbellied stove but he didn't have any matches. He turned off his light, then sat up on the bench, leaned forward, and began to massage his ankle.

After several minutes Franklin saw a light on the trail. Its beam swung across the trees. “Hey!” he called. Franklin tried to get to his feet and fell back again.

Someone appeared at the entrance of the lean-to and flashed his light across him.

“Who are you?” demanded a voice.

“Franklin Moore,” said Franklin, blinking.

“The newspaper guy, right? It's your kid they're looking for.”

“That's right. Who are you?”

“Martin Farmer. What're you doing in here?”

Franklin didn't recognize the name and he could see nothing behind the man's light. “I twisted my ankle,” said Franklin.

“And you can't walk? Hey, too bad.”

“Will you help me?”

“Sure, I'll tell them you're here.” The man began to leave.

“Wait!” said Franklin. He turned on his light. Farmer's face was a blur. Franklin saw a dark-red hunting cap and red wool jacket.

“I can't carry you myself,” said Farmer. “I got a bad back. I'll get a bunch of guys. Funny running into you.” The man disappeared.

Franklin leaned back against the wall and put his foot up on the bench. Even the slightest movement hurt him. By his watch he saw it was ten o'clock. He turned off his light. The air felt damp, as if it would snow again. The wind in the trees made a sighing sound.

Someone was running down the path. Franklin called out. “Hey, give me a hand!”

The person kept running. Had he been mistaken? Was it the wind?

Maybe five minutes later Franklin heard someone else, the heavy sound of running feet. He started to call out, then he heard his own name being called.

“Franklin, Franklin.” It was a high, reedy voice.

“Here!” cried Franklin.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Franklin shone his light in that direction. The light had gotten so dim he could barely make out the person's dark legs and yellow boots.

“There you are,” said the voice. It was Donald Malloy.

“I sprained my ankle,” said Franklin. He felt tremendously glad to see him. He began to relax.

“So I heard,” said Donald. He sat down heavily on the bench and Franklin felt it sag. Donald had a flashlight and shone it briefly in Franklin's face so that he blinked and looked away. Then Donald turned it off, becoming a large indistinct shape in the glow of Franklin's light.

“They're out there,” said Donald. “They're all running around.”

“What about Sadie?” asked Franklin.

“Another little girl,” said Donald with a sigh.

“Jesus. She's my daughter.”

Donald leaned back against the wall. His breathing made a hoarse sound like the sawing of wood. “I never had any children,” he said.

Franklin tried to make him out in the darkness. He thought that Donald must be exhausted from all the running.

“Is there any trace of her?” said Franklin. “I've got to get out of here.”

“There must be a trace someplace,” said Donald. “But there's nothing here. Everything's coming to an end.”

“What do you mean.”

“It will be over soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

“What were those shots?” asked Franklin.

“That was me,” said Donald. He took out his pistol, showed it, and set it on the bench beside him. “They were signal shots.”

“Who were you signaling?”

Donald didn't answer. He was still breathing heavily. Franklin's light reflected off the barrel of the pistol.

After a moment, Donald said, “Why didn't you interview me?”

Franklin felt he must have misunderstood. “For the paper?”

“I could have told you many things.”

“You said you didn't want to be interviewed.”

“I wasn't ready then.”

“I was going to try again.”

Donald sat up and hissed at him, “You should have done it sooner.” His tweed cap had slid down his forehead as he leaned back against the wall. Franklin saw that Donald still carried the attaché case. He couldn't imagine carrying an attaché case through the woods. He realized something was wrong.

Donald reached over and picked up the branch that Franklin had been using as a crutch. Abruptly, he threw it into the dark. Franklin heard it hit against a tree on the other side of the path. He started to speak, then remained silent. The wind in the trees made the branches rattle and click together.

“You won't be needing that,” Donald said.

P
a
ul Leimbach had been at the state police barracks in Potterville studying the mug shots of child molesters when the call came over the radio that Sadie Moore had disappeared. Of course, he had gotten permission from Captain Percy to look at the pictures and Percy knew he was there. Leimbach left the office and ran for his car. By the time he was driving out of town he heard on his radio that a man had been seen carrying a girl up the hill in Lincoln Park. He called his wife on his car phone.

“People have been telephoning,” she said. “They've even come to the house looking for you.”

Leimbach thought she meant people from the Friends. The road was mostly cleared of snow but some of the curves had patches of ice. Though he drove fast, six state police cruisers passed him on the way to Aurelius with their lights flashing.

He called Sandra Petoski at the Friends' headquarters.

“Something's wrong,” she said. “People are saying things. I think you should go to the police station.”

Leimbach's pistol was in his desk at his office, so he drove there first. On his desk was a shoe box wrapped in red paper with his name on it. He grabbed the shoe box as well as his pistol and hurried back to his car. On the way to Lincoln Park, he opened the shoe box and found the hand and the photograph of Janice McNeal. It was too dark to read what was written on the back, but the hand gave him a chill. He didn't understand why he had gotten it. He realized that his name had been mentioned in connection with the disappearances and that the police knew he had been briefly involved with Janice, but none of it made sense to him. He parked on Johnson Street, along the edge of the park, and got out. Up at the corner by Walnut, he saw a bonfire with some men standing around it. Eight or nine police cars were parked with their blue lights flashing. There were moving lights on the hillside. Men were shouting. He could see their dark shapes running between the trees. Wind blew snow across the ground. Leimbach stood under the streetlight and buttoned his overcoat. He put his pistol in his coat pocket. Then he drew on his gloves.

Before he had gone ten feet into the park, he heard his name being called loudly. Two men ran toward him. Then more men joined them. Looking toward the hill, he saw other men stop and begin to move in his direction. Ten, fifteen men. Their response startled him. At first he felt almost a sense of pride, as if his leadership skills were being acknowledged. Then he was struck by how fast the men ran and by the anger in their voices.

Leimbach recognized Mike Shiller in front of the others. He took a step toward him. “Mike—” he began. He grew aware of the contortion of the other man's face, the violent mask.

“Bastard!” said Shiller.

Leimbach put up his hand but Shiller didn't stop. He leapt forward, tackling Leimbach at chest level and knocking him back so they fell into the snow. More men came running up. Leimbach raised an arm to defend himself but Shiller hit him in the face. Two men grabbed the collar of Leimbach's coat and began dragging him toward the street. Leimbach tried to get his pistol from his pocket but because of his gloves he couldn't feel the trigger. Then someone kicked him and the pistol discharged, its explosion like a slap above the shouting. The men dragging Leimbach let go and jumped back. Leimbach rolled over into the snow, twisting and grabbing at himself. Half a dozen flashlights pointed at him and in their gleam the snow turned red. People grew quiet.

Others were running toward the group around Leimbach. Ryan was one of them. He heard someone crying out but he didn't realize it was Leimbach till he shoved through the crowd of men.

“Who shot him?” demanded Ryan. He pushed Mike Shiller aside. He was out of breath and furious with everybody.

“He shot himself,” said Shiller.

“It was an accident,” said another man.

“He was trying to commit suicide,” said someone else.

“I hope he dies,” said Shiller.

Ryan tore away part of the fabric of Leimbach's trousers above his left knee. “Get that ambulance over here,” he said.

The rescue squad ambulance was parked about a hundred yards away, at the corner. Several men began shouting at it and the ambulance began to move toward them.

Shiller held the light as Ryan fashioned a tourniquet from a handkerchief. The ambulance bumped over the curb, its red revolving light coloring the faces of the men.

“He's the one who took those girls,” said Shiller.

Ryan had remained crouched down by Leimbach, who seemed barely conscious. “You've no proof.”

“Then we'll get proof,” said Shiller. “It's in his house.”

“If it's there,” said Ryan, “then the police will find it.”

“You fuckers take too long,” said Shiller.

At that moment one of the men shouted from beside Leimbach's Mazda. “Look what he had on his front seat!”

Half a dozen lights focused on the man, who was holding up a mannequin's hand with brightly painted red nails. Nobody spoke for a moment.

“Come on!” shouted Shiller.

“Let's look in Leimbach's house,” shouted another.

Shiller and two other men began moving toward the road. One man broke away from the group around Leimbach to join him, then a second and a third.

“Wait!” said Ryan. But the men were already running toward their cars. Ryan started to follow, then there was a whining noise as the wheels of the ambulance began to spin in the snow. Leimbach groaned. “Get a stretcher over here now!” shouted Ryan.

—

The Leimbachs' house on Myrtle Street was dark except for a light above the front door and one in back by the garage, where there was a basketball hoop. Martha and the children had gone to Dr. Malloy's. Mike Shiller and the others drew up in front of the house in three cars. There were eight of them. Later, Fritz Mossbacher, a mailman who worked with Shiller, told Captain Percy what happened.

“There was no one home and Mike went around to the back. All the doors were locked. Mike just picked up a rock, smashed the window in the side door, and let us in. Like he knew just what he wanted to do.”

Mike Shiller believed there was evidence to be found in Leimbach's house. Maybe there was some kind of weapon. Maybe there was chloroform. Maybe there was Meg's pillowcase of Halloween candy, which had never turned up.

“Donald had told us that Leimbach was always fooling around with Sharon,” Mossbacher explained, “tickling and teasing her. He said Leimbach couldn't keep his hands off her. Mike had no doubt that Leimbach was guilty. And there'd been that fountain pen and those phone calls. Then that hand in his car. So we ripped everything apart. We searched the basement and the other rooms. We weren't too careful about what we broke.”

But they found nothing. There was some excitement at finding girl's clothes but they belonged to Leimbach's daughter. The house was extremely neat. Dishes had been put away; clothes were on hangers or in bureaus; newspapers were in a pile in the blue recycling container. Instead of quitting their search, the men grew angry.

“Mike kept saying that the fact that we didn't find anything didn't mean shit,” said Mossbacher.

So the men proceeded to wreck the house. I'm sure there was more involved here than the certainty that Leimbach was guilty. There was also the weeks of frustration and knowing nothing, weeks of accumulated anger. The men were upset and wound tight. They were ready to vent their feelings on anything and it was almost chance that let that thing be Leimbach's house.

“They started throwing dishes around,” said Mossbacher. “I guess I did too. One guy smashed the microwave, another guy started pulling everything out of the cupboards—food, you name it. Mike and Charlie Potter pushed the refrigerator down the basement stairs. Jesus, what a noise it made. They had a waterbed and one of the guys kept stabbing it and water came through the ceiling, a real waterfall. They put a kid's bed through a window. Guys were laughing. Some of them really got off on it. I mean, why bust the TV? It got perverse.”

Mossbacher was asked if Shiller had told them to do this.

“We all did it. Nobody needed to tell us.”

Luckily a neighbor called the police and luckily there was someone at the police station to take the call. Chuck Hawley responded with two other officers and forced Shiller and the rest to get out of the house.

“You should be on our side, not his!” shouted Shiller. “Don't you have kids?”

Chuck was holding on to Shiller's arm and Shiller pulled himself free. About twenty people stood along the curb. On either side of Leimbach's front walk was a border of white stones poking out of the snow. Shiller bent over, grabbed a stone, and threw it at the picture window.

“The window completely shattered,” said Mossbacher, “almost exploded. There's a hedge in front of the house and it got covered with glass. The curtains were blowing. It was a real mess. Chuck Hawley was fit to be tied. He put the cuffs on Mike. And he wasn't too gentle about tossing him into the back of the cruiser either.”

Later, when all was known, it was seen as ironic that at the same time Mike Shiller and the others were destroying Leimbach's house, Dr. Malloy had gone to his brother's house. He was by himself and he had to break in through a back window. The next day the doctor said he hadn't understood why Donald had begun to accuse Paul Leimbach, that the men had always been friends. He couldn't see why his brother was acting the way he was, and he hoped that he could find some reason for his behavior. And perhaps he had other suspicions, almost unarticulated suspicions, though he later denied this. But who knew if those denials were one hundred percent true? Of course, Dr. Malloy had often been in his brother's house but he had rarely been upstairs and he had never seen the attic.

—

Franklin held his notepad on his knee because Donald Malloy wanted it where he could see it. The beam of Franklin's light had grown dim. He couldn't see to write and his pen clogged in cold weather. But he wrote down what words he could. He didn't want to make Donald angry. In the dark he could barely discern the other man's shape beside him. Donald made Franklin write down basic facts about his life: when he had been born in Rochester, the years he had worked in Buffalo, the years of his failed marriage.

“Somebody did something to upset me,” said Donald. His voice was tight, as if he could barely keep from shouting.

“What happened?”

“Somebody sent me a hand, a hand in a shoe box. There was a picture of Janice with it. And on the back of the picture Janice had written, ‘With love.' That Marxist girl sent it.”

“Harriet Malcomb?” Franklin wondered if he could believe Donald about anything.

“Do you remember Janice's eyes? I hated her eyes.”

“Was it a joke?”

“It upset me,” said Donald. “It wasn't a real hand, just a mannequin's hand. The box had a ribbon around it.”

“Did you give it to the police?”

“Why'd she send it?” said Donald, more to himself than to Franklin. He stirred on the bench and it shook slightly. “It must have been the hand they found at your house, the hand that was meant for Sadie. It couldn't have been a joke.” He paused, then spoke angrily. “Why aren't you writing this down?”

“I am,” said Franklin, writing Harriet's name in the dark.

“Don't lie to me!” said Donald.

They sat quietly except for Donald's heavy breathing. Donald's pistol lay in his lap.

“Whoever sent me the hand knows that I've been protecting someone. It's my duty to protect him—even my mother said that. It's lucky she's dead now, that she'll never know. Do you have any idea how terrible this has been?”

Franklin moved his legs and a pain shot through his ankle. “Who is it, who are you protecting?”

“Can't you see who's guilty?” said Donald, raising his voice. “Don't be so stupid!”

“Who is it? Leimbach?”

“Leimbach's a fool!” Donald's voice was almost a squeal.

“Is it your brother? Allen?”

“He makes me ashamed!”

“Allen abducted his daughter?” Franklin was afraid of the man sitting next to him.

“People think he's so good. Doctor this and doctor that. My mother protected him and I protected him too. But he's an animal. He's like rotten fruit.”

“Nobody knew,” said Franklin. He wished he could see Donald's face, but he turned off his light. Better to save it for later, when he might need it badly.

“How can you write if the light's off?” said Donald.

“The batteries are almost gone.”

“Here, use mine.” Donald turned on his light and set it on the bench. Its strong beam cut across the path and into the leafless trees. Franklin could see that Donald was smiling, a vague, fatuous smile.

“My brother's clever,” said Donald. “Of course, I knew about it. I've always known about his bad habits.”

“The lie detector test will expose him,” said Franklin, trying to keep his voice as flat as possible.

“Allen wants to hurt me,” said Donald. “He'll make the test say that I did everything.”

“But you've been protecting him.”

“I've always been the good brother,” said Donald. “I tried very hard. Again and again I covered up for him. Why'd she send
me
the hand? Didn't she see it was Allen?”

“Was your brother involved with Janice McNeal?”

“Of course he was,” said Donald, raising his voice. “Can't you understand anything?”

“Tell me about it.”

“It's not a nice story . . .” Donald stopped.

Franklin waited for Donald to speak. From far away he could hear shouting. The bright light made Donald's yellow boots shine. “Can you help me get down the hill?” asked Franklin.

“Wait a minute,” said Donald. “You're trying to rush me. Why aren't you writing this down?”