“Mr.
Coleman,” she said.
“Patty,
would you like to talk?
Privately?”
He looked down
at his wife, Barbara.
“Would you
mind if we spoke alone?
I know the
grandkids are coming soon.
We won’t
be long.”
“Of
course not,” she said.
She looked
at Patty with concern.
“I don’t
know why I’m about to straighten up the house, because they’ll just make it a
mess again.
Pride, I guess.
You two go and have a chat.
See if you can figure out where Cheryl
is.”
She put her hand on Patty’s
forearm and furrowed her brow.
“And
don’t look so concerned, dear.
Cheryl is going to be fine.
It’s not as if you did something wrong.”
CHAP
TER SIXTEEN
“I did
do something wrong,” Patty said.
She was
sitting in James Coleman’s study, the walls of which were lined with bookcases
filled with law books and, in one corner of the room, a space reserved for the
popular thrillers he enjoyed.
It was a
masculine-looking room.
The
Coleman’s house was a large Victorian that dated back to 1870.
A true New Englander, probably owned not
by one of Bangor’s former lumber barons, whose mansions mostly were found on a
small portion of West Broadway, but by somebody in higher management who could
afford a more reasonably sized home with the finer details she saw now.
The wood
never had been painted and it gleamed dark against the light green walls.
Above them was an ornate tin ceiling
and, where the walls met the ceiling, intricately carved molding.
Light in the room was dim because the
windows faced west.
Later in the
day, it would be ablaze with sunlight.
The inlaid floor was a mix of maple and mahogany.
It gleamed with a high-gloss sheen, as
if it recently had been refinished.
James
Coleman was sitting opposite her in the same sort of leather wingback in which
she sat.
“There are layers of
wrong,” he said.
“Human
layers that, depending on your perspective, are subjective and not necessarily
wrong.
What do you consider wrong?”
The
sense of shame she felt was almost crippling.
“We got a little drunk last night.”
“I’ve
been drunk several times in my life.
Mostly, I enjoyed it.
Sometimes, the next morning, not so much.
Was I wrong to do it?
Subjective, but I don’t think so.”
“I did
something stupid.”
“We all
have.”
“Not
like this,” Patty said.
“I left
with a man last night.
I left
Cheryl alone at the club.
I took
him to my house, something I’ve never done with a stranger, in spite of what
this town thinks of me.
I was
drunk.
I was attracted to him.
I took him home and I left her there.
Now, she’s nowhere to be found.”
She paused.
“And it gets worse.”
He was
looking at her intently.
“How does
it get worse?”
“The man
I took home?
He drugged me.
He raped me.
He made me do sick things I don’t
remember doing.
He caught it all on
camera and then he placed the photos on a website.
He told me that if I don’t kill myself
for my sins as a whore that he would send my family, my employer and my friends
that link.
He said it would confirm
who I was.
He said when it came to
my ‘friends,’ the link would go viral and the rest of my life would be akin to
a public stoning.”
James
Coleman stood.
“You said he drugged
you?”
“I know
he did.
He must have.”
“And he
raped you?”
She
nodded.
“You’ve
showered, so there might be an issue gathering evidence, but there’s always a
chance, so we need to try because it could tell us who this person is if he’s
on record.
I need you to go to the
hospital with me.
They will perform
a procedure to see if they can get any of his DNA from you.
They also will do a blood test to see
what he drugged you with.
This is a
crime, Patty, and it’s something you must do, but time is of the essence.”
“This
will go to the press?”
“Probably.”
She sat
with that knowledge for a moment, and then she shrugged.
“So, everyone will finally get their
confirmation letter about me.
Whatever.
I’ve dealt with
this for years and I’ll deal with the fallout now.
It’s Cheryl who matters.
We need to find her.”
“So, we
call the police now,” he said.
“I
have a good friend there.
A
detective.
In a bit, we’ll tell him
what happened.
He and others will
then begin their investigation at The Grind.
I’m assuming you left Cheryl there?”
“In the
parking lot.”
“Then
they’ll check the parking lot.
And
they’ll question the owners.
And
they’ll question the regulars the owners know by name to see if they were there
l
ast
night and saw anything unusual.
I’m
sorry, Patty.
This is awful―I
understand that.
But you didn’t do
anything wrong.
Between us, Barbara
wasn’t exactly the first woman I had
relations with.
When you’re in the Army and away from
home and living in Paris, as I was in my early twenties, things happen and I
don’t regret any of it.
Especially
Eveline.
But when Barbara and I
married?
That was that.
You’re a single woman and a consenting
adult who had a crime committed against her.
Those are the facts.
You did nothing wrong.
All right?”
“All
right.”
“Now, we
need to follow procedure and we need to act quickly.
Are you willing to do that?”
“I’ll do
anything for Cheryl.”
“That’s
good to hear, but soon you’re going to have to start doing things for
yourself.
You matter as much as
Cheryl does.
Are we clear on that?
What happened to you last night was
terrible.
We’ll get to the bottom
of it.
We don’t know where Cheryl
is now, but we’ll find her.
I need
you to believe that.
That girl is
as special as you are.
We will find
her.”
He got up
from his desk and called downtown to one of his detective friends.
“Steve,” he said.
“James.
Fine, fine.
It was good seeing you and Mary last
week.
I know―he tends to get
that way.
Listen, I have an
issue.
I need you to meet me at the
emer
gency
room at Eastern Maine in ten minutes if you can.
I’ll be there with a Miss Patty
Jennings.”
There was a silence and
in that silence, James Coleman frowned.
“I’m not sure if she’s the Patty Jennings you know of, Steve, but we’ll
see you there in ten?
Good.
And Steve?
A favor for an old friend?
I’ve come to you with this for a
reason.
For as long as possible,
would you keep this quiet for me?
I
understand.
But whatever you can do
would be appreciated.
See you
soon.”
He hung
up the phone and looked at her.
“Are you ready?”
“Do you
think he’ll call the press?”
“Not
right away, but eventually, if Cheryl does go missing for more than twenty-four
hours, it will come to that.
At
that point, she’ll be a missing person and the two stories will become one.”
She
stood.
“So, let’s do this,” she said.
CHAP
TER SEVENTEEN
Kenneth
Berkowitz stopped cold when he heard the shriek far off in the distance.
He
listened to the woods.
He listened
to the breeze and he breathed it in.
He felt the beat of the sun on his face, he listened to the leaves fall
from the trees, and he heard birds signing.
He tuned in hard to his surroundings,
fully aware of all that could be lost to him if he didn’t listen carefully.
In spite
of having run far, he was so fit, he hadn’t broken a sweat and he was breathing
normally.
And so he listened with
no interference.
A silence
passed.
Then, he thought he heard
movement in the underbrush, but it was too far away to tell if it was human
movement or an animal’s movement.
In woods
this deep, it could be anything.
But he
knew the shriek he heard was human, and that it belonged to the
cigarette-smoking whore that was Cheryl Dunning.
He was certain of that.
Was she dead?
Had Ted killed her without him?
Did Ted have no choice because God
commanded him to do so?
He wasn’t sure.
The only thing he knew is that what he
heard was Dunning and that right now, her death might already have happened.
If that
was the case, he felt cheated and disappointed.
Was he not to be there for each
death?
Was he not to help deliver
the divine calling with those he targeted with Ted?
He would never, ever challenge God’s
will, so he only could accept what might have happened and that Ted was meant
to learn something from that kill for a reason.
Still,
as much as he wanted to believe this, he knew he was, after all, a divine
spirit that existed above Ted.
He
knew that Jesus Christ viewed him differently.
He was brighter than Ted.
He had a vision for their mission that
Ted lacked.
He might be younger
than Ted, but spiritually, he was thousands of years older.
He was sent here for a purpose.
So was Ted, but only to serve him.
Before they met, Ted may have experienced
more kills on his own, but Kenneth obviously was his superior in every
way.
And his kills were more
creative.
So,
maybe there was a lesson to be learned here.
Maybe it was deemed that Ted needed the
taste of his own kill again, if only because it had been so long.
If that was the case, Kenneth Berkowitz
was fine with God’s decision because it would only strengthen his bond with Ted
as they moved across the country and took out as many whores as they could.
Still,
there was a chance that she might not be dead.
Maybe she was suffering...?
He was
about to start running in the direction of the shriek when a woman he
remembered from his past stepped out from behind one of the trees in front of
him.
Her name came
to him instantly―Meredith Ward―and she looked just as she had when
he took her life after following her out of a Texas bar four years ago.
Same snug red dress, same sluttish show
of nipples pressing against the dress’s thin material, same re
d high
heel shoes, same smear of red lipstick coloring her full lips.
Her pupils were dilated pools of black,
and the hatchet he’d planted in the back of her head was still there, cleaved
deep into her brain.
He
wasn’t surprised to see her, because he often came upon those women he’d sent
to hell.
“Meredith,”
he said with a nod.
“Kenneth.”
“How
have you been?”