Blood On The Sun Read online

  "Why?" asked Stella.

  "Had the idea that if I came up with something I could get close to you."

  "No," she said. "There's something else."

  He didn't answer.

  "You're a Catholic," she said.

  "Was," he said.

  "So am I," she said. "You wanted to protect the priest."

  "I don't know," said Melvoy. "God, I'm tired."

  "The priest," Stella prompted.

  "Father William Wosak," said Melvoy. "Parish priest at St. Martine's. Sometimes I think there is a God. I've got the feeling that he stopped me from killing you. I'm really glad I didn't."

  "So am I," said Stella. "You're a combat veteran. The Veterans Administration will take care of you."

  "I've got enough money and nobody to give it to but doctors," he said. "But I meant what I said. I don't intend to be here when it gets worse. I intend to commit a mortal sin."

  Stella said nothing. The decision was his. She couldn't stop him and maybe, given his pride, it wasn't an unreasonable choice to make.

  "Could you recognize the person who followed the priest?" she asked.

  "No," he said. "His back was to me. He was tall, heavyset, wore a dark blue shirt with short sleeves. My money's going to Alzheimer's research. It's all arranged. Now you better go save a priest."

  Stella took out her cell phone, moved to the window and made her call. She kept her gun in her hand and didn't turn her back on Melvoy, whose eyes were closed, mouth open, head back against the chair.

  He moved quickly. Stella was in the middle of a sentence. Before she could reach him, Melvoy had taken the antihistamine syrup bottle from the box, opened it with a quick twist and gulped the thick liquid down. He handed Stella the empty bottle.

  "Don't call for help," he said, moving back to the chair.

  "I have to," said Stella.

  Stella dialed 911, identified herself and asked for an ambulance. When she turned off the phone, Melvoy was having minor convulsions.

  * * *

  Jane Parsons brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, popped the two aspirin into her mouth and washed them down with room-temperature bottled water. She had a headache and may or may not have been hungry. She wasn't sure.

  She checked the clock on the wall of the lab. Ten forty-five. She had been working for the past fourteen hours.

  Her time had not been wasted. After examining the DNA sample Aiden had given her, Jane had gone to the Internet and followed link after link, most of them leading nowhere, all of them interesting. She had also sent eight e-mails and made four phone calls.

  The rough draft of her report was on the screen in front of her. She scrolled down, being sure that she couched her conclusions with protective phrases, including: "It appears to be," "Research at the following laboratories and universities supports the conclusion that…" and "Therefore, it is almost certain that…"

  When she was reasonably satisfied with the report, she printed four copies, one for Aiden, one for Stella, one for Flack and one for Mac. They'd have them in the morning.

  She stood up, moved the mouse and put the computer to sleep. It needed the rest. She screwed the cap back on the water bottle.

  DNA did not lie. It did speak a foreign language, which Jane had been taught to read with reasonable fluency. In her mind, there was no doubt. The person whose DNA she examined had lied.

  Why the lie? Jane didn't know. That was a job for the Crime Scene Investigator in charge of the case, Stella.

  Jane looked around, almost-empty bottle in hand, took off her lab coat and draped it on the chair, walked to the door and turned off the lights.

  The thought came to her fleetingly. She realized it wasn't the first time. What was the relationship between Mac and Stella? All business? Friends? Something more? It really wasn't Jane's business and normally she saved her curiosity for the secrets the microscopic strands of DNA could reveal. Each day she learned something new. Some days she discovered something new.

  Mac's office was dark. She didn't look at it as she headed for the elevator, deciding that she was more hungry than she was tired. Whatever was in the refrigerator or pantry would have to do.

  * * *

  "Find 'em," said Mac.

  There was enough light from the street lamps and the almost-full moon for Mac and Rufus to make their way up the stairs, past the room where the Vorhees massacre had taken place, and into the room of Jacob Vorhees, where Mac took separate pieces of cloth from two evidence bags. He placed the first piece of cloth in front of Rufus, who smelled it and began to move around the room. He picked up Jacob Vorhees' scent almost everywhere. Then Mac placed the second piece of cloth in front of Rufus, who turned, bent his head to the floor and immediately moved to the partially opened closet door. Mac followed, paper bag in hand. Mac pushed the door open and reached up to pull the chain that turned on the hundred-watt bulb in the ceiling.

  Mac took out his flashlight and pointed it upward.

  "Jacob," he said. "My name is Mac Taylor. I'm with the police."

  No response.

  "You must be hungry. I've brought sandwiches, an egg salad, a tuna salad and a chicken salad. Choice is yours."

  Still no response.

  Mac looked at Rufus, who continued to look up at the ceiling inside the closet.

  "We'll wait here till you make up your mind," said Mac. "But I don't see that you have much of a choice."

  It took about two minutes. Mac was sitting on the bed when he heard the sliding sound. He moved to the closet and looked up. A wooden panel was moving, revealing darkness behind it and then the face of Jacob Vorhees. The face was dirty. A red bump stood out on his left cheek. His thick glasses were smudged.

  The boy looked down at Rufus and Mac and saw something reassuring in Mac's face. The space in the ceiling was small, but there was enough room for the boy to ease his way through it, put a hand on the hanger rod and drop gently to the floor.

  "Show me your badge?" said Jacob.

  Mac removed it from his pocket and held it up. In his years on the job three people had actually examined the badge. Jacob Vorhees was the fourth. When he was reasonably satisfied, the boy nodded and Mac put the badge away.

  Jacob was wearing faded blue jeans, a pair of Nike shoes with no socks, and a loose-fitting blue T-shirt that needed cleaning. His arms, neck and face were spotted with red bumps. Jacob knew what Mac was looking at and said, "Bugs up there. Lots of them. I kept killing them but they kept coming. Rats too, but they didn't bite, just ran past me or even over me."

  Rufus moved next to the boy and rubbed against his leg. Jacob looked at Mac for permission. Mac nodded and the boy reached down to pet the dog and said, "Bloodhound."

  "His name is Rufus," said Mac. "Let's go down to the kitchen and have a sandwich."

  When they got to the kitchen and Mac turned on the light, Jacob said, "Tuna."

  "Tuna," Mac repeated, removing a wrapped sandwich from the bag he was carrying. He handed it to Jacob.

  They sat at the table. Mac took the chicken salad, unwrapped it, removed the top slice of bread before putting it on the floor for Rufus, who was waiting patiently.

  "Some of those sores on your arms and neck are infected," said Mac. "We'll stop at the hospital on the way back."

  "Am I going to prison?" asked Jacob, before taking a bite of sandwich.

  "Tell me what happened," said Mac.

  Jacob understood. He finished the mouthful of sandwich, adjusted his glasses, looked up and began.

  * * *

  Joshua walked down the dark street, passing a few people, determined. He came to the steps of St. Martine's, went up and tried to open the door. It was locked. On the wall to the left of the door was a button. Joshua pushed it. Nothing. He pushed it again and kept pushing till someone inside opened the door.

  Father Wosak was in sweatpants and a Fordham T-shirt. He wore sandals.

  "I want to talk," said Joshua.

  The priest saw the clenched
fists, the tight jaw of his visitor and stepped back to let him in. Then the priest closed the door.

  There were a few dim lights, enough to see by, enough to walk down the aisle toward the altar, where a crucified Christ was illuminated by a small yellow light at his feet. Joshua moved quickly, the priest following him.

  Joshua stepped up on the low platform, disappeared for an instant behind the statue and found the tote bag just where he had been told it would be. He unzipped the bag, reached in, came up with a sharpened iron bolt, put it back, came up with a heavy-headed hammer, reached in again and came up with a thick piece of white chalk. He held each item up for the priest to see. Finally he came up with a small gun, which he held in his right hand and pointed at the priest.

  "Kneel," said Joshua, bag in one hand, gun in the other.

  "No," said Father Wosak. "If you plan to shoot and crucify me, I will not cooperate. I will pray." The priest had clasped his hands and added, "Pray with me in the name of Christ our savior."

  "Hypocrite," said Joshua.

  "And what does that make you?" said the priest. "You preach. You pray. You murder. Why are you doing this?"

  "You know," said Joshua, aiming the gun at the man before him.

  "No, I don't," said Father Wosak.

  Joshua shook his head. He didn't know how much time he had. There was no time for discussion. This was a Jesuit. If Joshua let him talk, answered his questions, he would be caught up in an explanation, a discussion of religious ethics he would almost certainly lose. No time.

  "I didn't lock the door," said the priest. "I pretended to. Someone could walk in any time."

  Joshua willed himself not to panic. He stepped closer to the priest, aiming at his chest.

  The door to the church did open, with a bang. Flack, Aiden, Stella and two uniformed police officers, all with weapons in hand, stepped in.

  "Put it down," Flack called out to Joshua.

  Aiden had taken the call from Stella, the call that told her that the man who had called himself Harbaugh had followed a man who had been stalking the priest.

  "You don't understand," Joshua said. "This has to be."

  "No it doesn't," said Flack, gun aimed straight, held in two hands.

  Father Wosak was no more than three feet from Joshua. He held out his right hand. The gun in Joshua's hand was now aimed at the priest's head.

  "God is not speaking to you," the priest said. "It's a devil or a demon."

  "You believe in devils and demons?" asked Joshua.

  "They live inside our heads. They speak to some of us, tell lies. But not often. Usually the voices we hear are our own in disguise."

  Joshua laughed. The police had moved forward. Flack was sure he could take Joshua out with one shot.

  "Does God also live in my head?" asked Joshua.

  "Joshua, God lives in our heads, our bodies, the universe."

  "And he speaks to you?" asked Joshua.

  "Not in words."

  Joshua handed the gun to the priest. Flack, Aiden and the two policemen moved forward with Aiden, who said, "Don't touch that bag. Father, put the gun down on the bench next to you."

  The priest did, and turned to put his hand gently on Joshua's shoulder. Joshua wept.

  10

  JACOB VORHEES LOOKED DOWN AT THE KITCHEN TABLE and softly, without hesitation, said, "I was sleeping. I heard a noise from Becky's room. It was different from the other noises on other nights. I knew Kyle sometimes came through her window and they had sex. Sometimes she made a little noise. None of my business, but this was different. I got up and went down the hallway to Becky's room. I saw my father going in. When I got to Becky's door I saw it. Becky was on the floor. Kyle was on top of her. He had a knife and was stabbing her. My mother was on his back trying to stop him. Kyle was going crazy. I should have done something but I just stood there. Kyle stopped stabbing Becky, pushed my mother off of him and began stabbing her. Then my dad came in and went to help my mom and Becky. Kyle got up and ran at my dad with the knife. I ran out of the room."

  "What were you wearing?" asked Mac.

  "Wearing? I slept in my clothes. A lot of the time I fall asleep in my clothes."

  "Your shoes?"

  "I guess I was wearing them too," said the boy. "I don't remember. I just kept thinking, 'He's going to come and kill me next.' I ran downstairs to the garage, got my bike and started pedaling fast, getting away."

  "You didn't think about going to a neighbor?" asked Mac.

  "He was right behind me. I knew it. I could feel it. I just kept riding. Cars, a truck maybe went by. I think I was heading for the police station or the all-night gas station or the hospital. Then I heard him behind me, looked back. I drove off the road before he could run me over. Got scratched up, crawled into some bushes. I could hear Kyle coming after me. Then I saw the light, Kyle's flashlight. I got the crazy idea of taking off my clothes, dropping them on the way toward town, making him think that was where I was going."

  "Why would he think you were taking off your clothes?" asked Mac.

  "I don't know. I couldn't think of anything else. But it worked. I ran back here."

  "Naked," said Mac.

  "Yes," said the boy.

  "Why didn't you call the police when you got back?"

  "I thought Kyle might be right behind me," he said. "I closed my eyes when I passed Becky's room. I didn't want to see her and my mom laid out on the bed. I could smell the blood. I climbed up into the space over my closet. Even there I could smell the blood."

  "Did Kyle come back looking for you?"

  "Yes. I could hear him."

  "He came in your room?"

  "Yes. I could hear him moving around. I think he looked under the bed and I know he opened the closet door and turned on the light. I didn't cry till he was gone."

  "Why didn't you come down when the police came?"

  "I was afraid Kyle would find out and kill me. I just wanted to hide a few more days and then run away."

  The boy was shaking. He was pale, sallow cheeked, filthy and covered with insect bites. Rufus sat next to him.

  "He likes you," said Mac.

  Jacob looked down at the dog and reached out a hand to pet him.

  "You like dogs?" asked Mac.

  "Some," said the boy. "Some scare me."

  "Rufus is very friendly," said Mac. "Almost all bloodhounds are."

  "He smells bad," said Jacob. "He stinks."

  "Bloodhounds smell bad, especially when they're wet, which is why you don't see them at dog shows. Ever been to a dog show?"

  "Seen one on television."

  "It's better live," said Mac. "You sense it. The pride, training, grooming of the dogs."

  The boy wasn't really listening. His hand rested on the head of the dog, whose eyes were closed in pleasure at the human touch. After he saw to taking care of the boy's injuries, he would make an appointment with a psychologist, hopefully Sheila Hellyer.

  "Jacob," he said.

  The boy looked up.

  "Did you memorize what you just told me?"

  The boy didn't answer. He took his hand from the dog's head and sat upright.

  "Most of it wasn't true, was it?" asked Mac.

  No answer from Jacob, whose eyes met Mac's and then turned away.

  "That's the way it happened," the boy finally said without conviction.

  Couldn't have, thought Mac. The boy had been through enough. He should be cleaned up, his wounds cared for and someone found who could comfort him. We'll go over it again in the morning, Mac thought, and see if we can get it right.

  * * *

  It was after midnight.

  While she was waiting for the paramedics to arrive at her apartment, Stella had called in for an emergency department vehicle to pick her up immediately. When it arrived, she had simply told the uniformed officer behind the wheel where they were going.

  The driver's last name was Fannon. When Stella told him that they were heading for St. Martine's Church in Bro
oklyn and a priest might be in danger, Fannon had made a serious attempt to break the sound barrier.

  When George Melvoy had taken the poison, Stella had acted instantly. She knew the principle poison was turpentine. She had ipecac in her bathroom cabinet, but Stella knew that with turpentine poisoning vomiting should not be induced. Instead she gave him sips of water to ease the burning in his throat.

  Stella helped the man off the chair. He resisted, but he was weak now and breathing hard. The convulsions were stronger now. She led him to the bathroom and sat him on the floor next to the tub.

  Melvoy gagged twice, leaned over and spewed out a thick greenish spray of liquid that splattered in the tub. She held his head as he convulsed in pain again, that which he most prized, his dignity, now gone.

  When the paramedics had arrived, Stella had held the hand of the man who had planned to kill her. The hand was dappled with age spots and his face looked as old as he really was.

  At the hospital, they would probably place a tube down Melvoy's nose and into his stomach, a nasogastric tube, to wash out his stomach. He would be treated with activated charcoal and examined with an endoscopy, the placement of a camera down the throat, to determine the extent of the burns to the esophagus and stomach. IV fluids would be given. If the treatment worked, there could still be extensive damage to the mouth, throat and stomach. Damage might continue for weeks. He might recover and he might die in pain a month later. A hard way to die.

  * * *

  Now Stella sat across from Joshua in the same room at CSI headquarters where they had sat before. Aiden was working on the contents of the tote bag and Flack was in the next room listening. They had decided that Joshua would be more likely to talk to a single person. Stella, after a cup of thick, terrible tasting coffee, had volunteered.

  Stella remembered that she would have to clean Melvoy's vomit off her tub. It might take a while. It would be hard and she would have to work at getting rid of the foul acrid odor. She had seen worse, worked with worse, but not in her own home.