The Priest's Graveyard Page 9

  But now I was speeding away from the house, surely to a field where they would drag me out and kill me, or onto a ship that would be sent overseas, where stolen cars bring in good money.

  Motion sickness overwhelmed me and I had to throw up once, but after I wiped my face on a cuff of my flannel moneybag, I felt better.

  I tried to keep track of how long we were on the road. I wanted a rough idea of how far from Malibu we would end up, but time drifted and I lost track.

  I had left my pills in the house, I realized. Without them, the monsters would return. The blue pill was the one that helped me deal with the trauma I’d experienced, and the sedative helped keep me calm. Honestly, I don’t know why I took the sedative. I felt calm enough in the house, but now I wished I had brought both bottles.

  My mind imagined a dozen scenarios of what might happen once that trunk opened.

  I had lived with men who used violence to get what they wanted, and the memories came back to me in fragments, each one more sickening than the last. Screams, the crunch of bones, gunshots. They were bundled in a heroin-induced fog from long ago, but I was surprised by how real they felt as they surfaced.

  I started to cry softly as I lay there on that hard trunk floor, and I resigned myself to the fact that once they opened the trunk, I would be executed. My last threads of self-control fell away when one of Lamont’s favorite songs by Coldplay, “What If,” played over the speakers.

  It was a sad song about not belonging that he would sometimes listen to while drinking a glass of red wine on the balcony. “I hope you never leave me, Renee,” he would say. “I don’t know what I would do if you left me.”

  I would throw my arms around his neck. “I would never leave you, Lamont! Never!”

  In the trunk, I began to weep uncontrollably at the memory. Somehow this was all my fault. I was leaving him now, wasn’t I? Guilt racked my body and I shook with sobs. It wasn’t logical, I see that now, but my anguish was no less real than if I’d spit in his face to thank him for all he’d done for me. If the music hadn’t been playing so loudly, my sorrow would have alerted the driver and gotten me killed on the spot.

  As the miles rolled by I began to settle, enough to start thinking more about the present than the past.

  I concocted absurd little plans. When the trunk opened I would spring out and bite the man on his nose before he had time to react. When he grabbed at his bloody face, I would snatch my moneybag and fly into the woods.

  Or, when they opened the trunk, I would play dead and bide my time until they were off guard and leaning over me to poke me. Then I would swing my arm and hit the man on his head with…something…

  This made me think of a tire iron. I felt around for a way to get to the spare tire. It must have been under the trunk floor, because I couldn’t find a latch to open any tire compartment.

  What I did find was a small tool bag affixed with Velcro to the side wall. I unzipped it, fumbled around in the dark, and came away with a screwdriver.

  A new plan formed in my mind. I could hide behind the moneybag, way back against the seat. It would be dark when they opened the trunk, and they wouldn’t see me because all their attention would be on the flannel pajamas filled with hundred-dollar bills. As they gawked at the cash, stunned by their good fortune, I would fly out and stab them in the ears with the screwdriver before snatching the bag back and fleeing into an alley.

  These were among my more reasonable plans fueled by a burgeoning rage at the men who had, for reasons unknown to me, forced me to leave the house. Who’d separated me from Lamont.

  Jonathan Bourque. I imagined ways to deal with Jonathan Bourque. They were nasty and involved everything from boiling oil to machines with a thousand blades.

  I was in the middle of just such an exotic fantasy when it occurred to me that the car had stopped for longer than the typical red light required.

  The engine shut down. Startled, I went rigid. I wasn’t ready! None of my carefully considered plans rose to the top of my reasoning as the way to go. In fact, if the men saw the screwdriver in my fist, they would likely shoot me.

  The driver’s door opened, then closed. The cooling car ticked. I pressed myself against the moneybag, mind blank with panic, expecting the trunk to pop open.

  I shut down my lungs so as to not make the tiniest sound. Walking feet crunched past me, then faded.

  The trunk did not open. I ran out of breath and exhaled, then sucked at the stale air. They had left me? I felt momentarily exhilarated.

  I wondered if Lamont had come to my rescue again. Maybe he’d been on his way home, seen the Audi leaving, followed it here, and would take care of my abductors before coming to collect me. The trunk would open and he would swoop me out.

  But I knew that was impossible.

  It took me at least fifteen minutes of stillness to work up the courage to take a peek. I carefully pulled the trunk lever, eased the lid up, and saw that it was dark outside. The car was in a building with ribbed metal walls.

  I was so relieved by my good fortune that I got out of the trunk without fully considering what other danger I might be in. By then it was too late. I was standing exposed in a large garage lit by one fluorescent bulb over an exit door. This was about twenty feet away.

  But as far as I could see, except for about a dozen cars, I was alone in the room.

  Move it, Renee! Move it, move it!

  I reached in and grabbed the money, shoved it under my arm, and ran for that red EXIT sign. The concrete was cool under my feet, and that reminded me that I was naked below the waist.

  I pulled up and scanned the garage. Benches with tool boxes lined the walls. One of the cars was high on a lift. This was undoubtedly where they brought cars to modify them after stealing them. Had Bourque been involved in jacking cars?

  Several overalls hung by hooks on one wall. I hurried over to them, pulled down the first pair, and stepped into it. The legs and arms were way too long, but with a little folding and scrunching it fit well enough for what I needed.

  I headed back toward the door, then on second thought veered toward a tire machine and picked up a black crowbar.

  The night was cool outside. I was in a warehouse district lit by a full round moon.

  I stood there in my blue overalls with my money-stuffed pajamas under my arm, and I stared around in a wide-eyed daze. I needed to move, I knew that, but I had no clue where to go.

  I didn’t know what I would do when I got to wherever I went. I didn’t really even know who I was. I knew only that I was alone, that if Lamont was alive he would have a difficult time finding me.

  More than anything, I knew that I hated the man who’d done this to us. His name was Jonathan Bourque, but as far as I was concerned he was really Satan.

  You have to go, Renee. You really have to go.

  I wiped away my tears on the sleeve of the dirty overalls and stepped out into the night with nothing to my name but a shattered memory, a few scrawny muscles and thin bones, a pretty face, and a bag of money over my shoulder.

  When I counted it later, I learned that the hundred-dollar bills added up to about three hundred thousand dollars. And that was enough money to do what I thought I needed to do.

  10

  Three Months Later

  DANNY HANSEN STOOD at the back of the Long Beach Hilton’s banquet hall waiting for Jonathan Bourque’s introduction. Three large chandeliers twinkled over the banquet hall hosting the Cancer Research Fund’s benefit dinner. The four hundred guests seated before the finest silver and crystal place settings were being served their choice of tenderloin, wild Atlantic salmon, or stuffed quail. Most of the men and women were dressed in black and white, like himself. They were the cream of society, unlike himself.

  Yet so few understood.

  Despite Danny’s violent encounter with religion as a teenager, he knew that violence itself was a natural aspect of life that could be used for good or evil.

  Angels and demons had both wielded
violence and would again, surely. As would so-called God and the so-called devil.

  Did not God make waves to crash violently on the coral? And if that violent pounding killed a baby crab, did one blame God for making violent waves? No.

  The same could be said for all the great sins decried by religion through the ages. All were condoned or embraced by God himself in given situations.

  Had not Rahab the prostitute been called a great woman of faith for lying to save God’s servants?

  Had not Jesus taken up a weapon in anger to whip the merchants out of the temple?

  Had not God blessed David with many wives and mistresses?

  If any of these wealthy, tastefully dressed contributors to the Bourque Foundation’s Cancer Research Fund knew of Danny’s particular violence, they would undoubtedly grow red-faced and cry foul.

  They had been bred, born, and raised in a system that bowed to a set of rules and laws, both religious and societal, that satisfied their need for a nice, neat box of moral understanding. In their minds, violence in general was immoral, and killing outside the law was diabolical, even when it truly benefited society.

  Danny thought about that for a moment, wondering absently if he was wrong in his own understanding of the matter. What if, however absurd it seemed to him, all these thickheaded fools were actually right and he was wrong? Would God forgive him?

  Either way, one thing was certain: While feeling smug for avoiding “bad” behavior, most people missed the point of morality.

  Morality wasn’t about following rules. It was about treating others with love. The box of rules certainly aided that cause, but only as a guideline. Danny’s use of violence against the guilty was an act of love. For Danny so loved the world that he gave up his own dignity to cleanse the temple of snakes.

  Like the one about to take the stage.

  Crackling applause filled the room when Jonathan Bourque was introduced, and Danny shifted his attention to the man who stood from his table and strode toward the podium.

  Three months had passed since Danny had taken his last subject, that being Cain Kellerman. He’d spent that time settling his spirit and examining his conscience, always mindful of his oath to change his behavior if he ever became convinced that what he did was immoral.

  The ten weeks of rest had ended with affirmation. His mission to bring justice to his small corner of the world, regardless of the danger to himself, was sound. Inspired even.

  Indeed, if he ever had to give his life to this cause, he would.

  Jonathan Bourque was speaking in a deep, rich voice that conveyed confidence. Oratory was perhaps the gift that served him best as a priest, then as an attorney, and now as the founder and figurehead of the Bourque Foundation, which swindled unsuspecting charity donors of millions.

  He was married to Cynthia Bourque, a blond woman twelve years his junior who had married him for money. She secretly hated him for many reasons, including his refusal to have any children because he privately despised children.

  He stood six foot three. Six-four if you counted his black, slicked hair, which looked like it might break if tapped with a hammer. The man wore a mustache and goatee, which softened his ax-shaped nose. High cheekbones rose toward a forehead that sloped back to meet an arching hairline.

  He was appealing in the sense that power and authority were attractive, but if one were to remove Bourque’s social standing and sharp intelligence, he would not be considered handsome, at least not to Danny’s thinking.

  “Every dollar you contribute goes to work in industries throughout the world, employing millions, before the profits are returned to charities like the Cancer Research Fund. In our last fiscal year, the Bourque Foundation returned one hundred eighty-two percent to its benefactors. I think it’s safe to say that we have elevated benevolence to a whole new level, my friends.”

  Applause thundered. Naturally. Bourque was spoon-feeding these socialites his own special blend of manure, made to smell like strawberries and go down like a health-food smoothie.

  Danny stood just inside the back door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of water. The ice was nearly melted. He took a swig, then set it down on the drink table to his left.

  “Would you like another?”

  He faced a woman in coattails named Kris, according to her Hilton server badge. “No thank you.”

  “A soft drink? Coke, Sprite, Dr Pepper? Anything?”

  “A stiff martini, perhaps.”

  She glanced down at his jacket. “Tell me about it. These charity dinners are all the same.”

  “That they are. Still, as they say, it’s more blessed to give than to receive.”

  “So they say.”

  “Hold the martini.” He winked. “My work isn’t finished.”

  She laughed. “The story of my life.” She moved off.

  Danny was willing to bear the weight of purifying the world for women like Kris, who served others in small ways that made God smile.

  He sighed and returned his attention to the podium. Bourque’s right hand rested inside the breast of his jacket as he talked. Without glancing down he slid long fingers into his pant pocket, slipped out a cell phone, and set it on the podium. The information on the device could prove helpful, but people of Bourque’s caliber almost always protected that information with densely encrypted codes.

  Besides, the kind of information that Danny sought would be hidden in the minds of a very few people, not in a PDA. Indeed, if Cain Kellerman hadn’t offered up disturbing details about Jonathan Bourque in a bid to extend his life, Danny might have already moved on, because nothing he’d found so far provided anything but circumstantial suggestions that Bourque was as evil as Kellerman had insisted.

  It wasn’t easy to distinguish the kind of snake that deserved crushing from the ordinary garden variety that filled half the room. In fact, the craftiest were chameleons, who could fool even the most astute observer.

  Bourque finally glanced down at his phone. He’d come to the end of a sentence and his pause was natural. But for the briefest moment his eyes darted to the far entrance. If Danny judged the man correctly, there was some tension in his fleeting look.

  He followed Bourque’s glance to a man who stood at the other exit, PDA in hand. The head of the Bourque Foundation’s security, Redding. Simon Redding. Though four inches shorter and at least as many thicker than his boss, he favored the same dark slicked-back hair. The man looked like Italian muscle from the streets of Chicago.

  There was a connection between them, communication made with unspoken words, but nothing more than Danny expected, considering their roles here.

  Yet if there was any one person who might unlock closely guarded secrets in Bourque’s empire, it would be this man, Simon Redding. Upon seeing him for the first time that night, Danny felt his nerves tighten.

  When he glanced back at Bourque, the man was talking while staring down at the podium, nonchalantly sending a message.

  “That reminds me of a joke,” Bourque said, grinning. “A blonde and brunette were ushered to the gates of heaven.”

  When Danny looked back, Simon Redding had vanished through the exit.

  “Saint Peter addressed the blonde first…”

  Danny didn’t hear the rest of the joke. He was moving already, slipping out the door to his rear, into the hall that ran the auditorium’s length. No sign of Redding.

  There was a choice to be made here, but it wasn’t a moral choice. He could either return to the banquet hall and follow through with his intention to meet Bourque for the first time if the opportunity presented itself, or he could take a few minutes to perhaps learn more about Redding.

  He would never put himself in the position to pressure Redding for information, naturally. Directly involving any person other than the subject presented unacceptable risks. What he learned from others about his subjects had to come in the course of ordinary encounters.

  Then again, Redding might be the key to his investig
ation.

  There were three doors in the hall. The man had to have taken one of them. Danny headed for the exit closest to the banquet hall, the one with a red-letter sign that indicated it was for EMPLOYEES ONLY. He pushed through the door.

  Metal stairs. Ascending and descending.

  The clap of hard leather soles on steps echoed below. Danny eased the door shut behind him, slipped off his shoes, and descended quickly.

  A door closed below. From what he could tell, he was alone in the stairwell.

  The steps ended two floors down at a door labeled UTILITIES. He slipped his shoes back on and walked through, entering a short hall. To the right, two closets that he checked were stuffed with supplies: spare fuses, lightbulbs, coffeemakers, tools, and the like.

  Unless he’d made a mistake and descended one too many floors, whoever had preceded him had gone through the door at the other end of the hall.

  Danny was about to back out of the second closet when he caught sight of a black-and-yellow box knife with a retractable blade. The useful tool struck him as appropriate given the thuggish appearance of the man he was following.

  He plucked it off the bench and dropped it into his pocket, then moved down the hall on the balls of his feet.

  A sharp slap brought him up short. The sound was muffled but as undeniable as a cap gun on a winter morning.

  His heart lodged itself in his throat and he backed to the wall. He might have stumbled upon a lovers’ quarrel off the hotel’s beaten track—two employees whose affair had been discovered and were sorting matters out rather violently. Or it might be something less ominous. Perhaps a magazine had fallen off a shelf and landed flat on concrete.

  He didn’t think so.

  He slipped along the wall, up to a door with a glass window that peered into a darkened room. The sound he’d heard had come from farther in, perhaps from beyond the single interior door that allowed light to seep past the gap at its foot.