Fear the Darkness: A Thriller (21 page)

“None of us drank the coffee. They think it was the coffee.”

“That sounds suspect, that nobody in your family drank coffee. And I saw you by the table.”

“Stop playing detective,” Gemma-Kate said. “You didn’t drink any either.”

“I never do. But I went to the hospital anyway. They made me drink whisky.”

“No they didn’t.”

“Yeah, they said there was antifreeze in the coffee, and there were so many people they didn’t have enough of the antidote. They said whisky works. I bet you didn’t know that.”

Gemma-Kate stayed quiet, unwilling to admit ignorance of anything.

“So why did you do it?” Peter asked. “Just for fun?”

“I didn’t do it. Maybe you did it.”

Peter smirked. Gemma-Kate wished she could disconnect, but something kept her fixed to his face on the screen.

Peter said, “I don’t know, Gemma-Kate. First the dog, then a whole church. You even said your aunt wasn’t feeling so good.”

“I never said that. I said she was acting weird.”

“Same thing. You move in and people start puking.”

“If you repeat that to anyone I swear I’ll get you,” Gemma-Kate said.

Peter stopped smirking. Gemma-Kate was going to tell him she wouldn’t talk to him anymore, but the screen went dark before she could say it.

Thirty–one

Father Manwaring was in his office alone the next day. When I walked in on him I heard
click click, click, click, click click
from his computer mouse.

He looked up from his laptop. “I’m just writing my sermon,” he said.

“No, you’re not. You’re playing solitaire. I can tell from the clicking.”

He leaned back in his chair, the chair barely putting up with it. He looked world-weary, the kind of look I always expect to find on clergy, only more so today. “It eases the stress.”

But not much, I thought, watching him. “Mallory told me everyone was treated in emergency and sent home,” I said.

“Thanks to your guess that there was something in the coffee. They weren’t sure what to test it for, but then the paramedic started reciting the symptoms and they narrowed it down. Whoever was in charge worked really fast, thinking that we all could die. They came up with ethylene glycol.”

“Antifreeze.” I knew that because of a case I’d heard where a daughter brought her mother a protein smoothie with a shot of antifreeze. The mother died. Dogs love the stuff, too.

Manwaring nodded. I tried to blend concern with indifference. “They suspect anyone?”

“Not from the questions they asked me. They wanted to know the names of everyone in church that day, not just in the parish hall. I mean, it’s not that big a church, but how can I remember the names of a hundred or so people? All I could remember is that Vicki Bergesen left during the prayers of the people, but she always seems to have to go to the bathroom right then. Then they looked at the different entrances and exits from the parish hall and quizzed me for who might have come in that back door that leads straight into the kitchen.”

“What about that poor old lady who broke her leg?”

“Mrs. Covington.” Manwaring sighed. “She’s still in the hospital but doing okay. I visited her before I came into the office this morning.” He leaned across his desk in a confiding way. “There’s crime scene tape on the parish hall. I tell you, Brigid, I got some bad karma going on. We’ve had too many accidents for one church, and now wholesale poisoning of my congregation. Don’t you think that’s too much?” He talked about it like the troubles were all his own. “Maybe I should hire you to investigate what’s going on.”

“One case at a time,” I said. “When I made this appointment it was about Joey Neilsen’s drowning.”

“Ah, that sad story. Sometimes I’m put in mind of what Bertrand Russell said, that the only way to achieve any happiness is to begin by admitting that the world is horrible, horrible, horrible.”

His philosophizing got me off track momentarily. “That’s what you tell people? You’re a priest. What about goodness, and peace on earth, and eternal life?”

Elias shrugged and, reaching for his mouse, exited from the solitaire game without saving it. “Is that what you came here for?”

I thought about my probable disease, but this was one person I wouldn’t discuss it with. No benefit to that. “No, I really did want to ask you about Joe Neilsen.”

“I don’t know how I can help,” he said. “It’s been a long time since the Neilsens came to St. Martin’s. They switched to St. Bede’s right after Joseph’s funeral. He was put to rest in our columbarium.”

“What’s a columbarium?” I asked.

“It’s where ashes are interred.”

“That place out back with the white walls?”

“That’s the one.” He looked at me more closely, as if picking up on something he hadn’t noticed when I arrived, having so much on his own plate. “You look a little under the weather. Very pale and dark rings under your eyes. Do you have allergies?”

I said, “The Neilsens. Tell me again why they left St. Martin’s.”

“It was her asshole of a husband. I think Jacquie was getting a lot of support here, before Joe’s death, you know, when he came out about his homosexuality, and after his death, too. The only thing Tim let her do was to bury Joe here. Then they left for good.”

“What about Joe himself? I’ve been told he wasn’t well liked.”

“Well liked? I thought he was a spoiled little shit.”

“You know, it’s admirable that you’ve been able to get that Tourette’s under control enough to become a clergyman.”

He looked a little blank.

“Do you talk this way with everyone or is it just me?”

Elias grimaced. “It’s something about you. I guess I figure you can take it and it’s a relief to speak my mind. Have you ever thought about how difficult it is to be the person everyone expects you to be twenty-four hours a day seven days a week?”

Yeah, I kind of understood that from working undercover. The thought crossed my mind that Elias Manwaring might have some skeletons in his closet from a past as well, though I couldn’t imagine his being as bad as mine. After all, mine were real skeletons.

“Back to Joey. What was his problem?”

“This is church. We have to like everyone. People can see that, so they take advantage.”

On the whole I thought drug smuggling and prostitution was a whole lot more clear-cut than church work. “How did Joe take advantage?”

“Oh, not only him, but Jacquie. He was a problem for his parents, acting out, getting into trouble, sneaking out at night, some drinking, yadda yadda yadda. Jacquie gave him to us to fix him, though if you were to put it that way to her she’d deny it and say he was perfect.”

“You saw him drink?”

“My son told me he bragged about it.”

“Did he get along with the other kids?”

“I think they tolerated him as well as I did.” Elias looked at me, thinking. “You could get an opinion filtered through my perspective, or you could talk to Ken.”

“Ken?”

“My son. He was in the group.” Elias picked up a cell phone that was lying next to his computer, pressed a button for speed dial. Waited. “Hi, Lu. I’ve got Brigid Quinn here and she’s asking questions about Joe Neilsen and the youth group. Would you let me know when you get back with Ken?”

He disconnected and turned his attention back to me. “They should be home from school soon. I don’t think he had photography club today.” There was one of those little pauses where you both wonder who’s going to talk next and what it will be about. “You want some coffee?”

“Sure, that would be fine.”

Elias frowned. “I just remembered, I drank the last of it.” He didn’t seem to consider that he could make more. “Water?” he asked.

“Sure, water.” Anything to kill time until Lulu called back.

He left his office and came back with a glass of water, no ice. “Sorry, we’re trying to be environmentally conscious and not using plastic bottles.”

I took the glass from him and drank some. “That’s okay. This hits the spot.” While he was gone I had thought of something else. “While we’re waiting, tell me a little about the youth group. Sounds like Ken is involved in a lot of activities, like most kids today.”

“We try, though it’s difficult to get him into sports or anything else that gets him off his ass. I tell you, Brigid, I hate kids. And PKs are the worst.”

“What’s a PK?”

“Sorry. Preacher’s Kid. They can be snotty because they don’t want people to think they’re goody-goody. Ken’s not so bad, though.”

“Did he get taken to the hospital yesterday? Or isn’t he a coffee drinker?”

“No, he didn’t go to church. We can’t force him. I don’t know if he wants more attention from me or what, but it’s kind of like the plumber at home, you know? I gave at the office.”

I said, “Is there anything about this job you enjoy?”

Elias rubbed his face hard with both hands. The hands looked soft. “Sorry again, getting off track. What did you want to know?”

“Mmmm, how about what kinds of things the youth group does.”

“Hiking, movies with a message, writing their own worship services.” He rubbed his face again, then pushed the skin back so it only looked like he was smiling. “It’s a blast, at least that’s what Lulu says. She’s the head of the youth group.”

“Lulu said the Neilsens threatened to sue the church.”

His cell phone rang, interrupting his answer. The tone was the opening bars of “Amazing Grace,” no fooling.

“Hey,” Elias said. “What’s he done now?” Listening. “Okay, we’re coming over.”

“Was this a bad time?” I asked, picturing some minor family drama.

“Oh, sounds like just another day in paradise. Lulu said they walked in, Ken listened to the message on the machine, and started to cry.”

Thirty–two

The rectory was a short walk away from the church, a gravel-coated path down a little hill and across a cactus-studded field. It was quicker that way than driving, Elias said. That was all he said, then buried himself in thought as he trudged toward the place he pointed at. I trailed slightly behind, finding it odd that I was puffing to keep up with this out-of-shape guy, and noticing that my walking was not so good.

Lulu was watching for us at the screen door with a metal coyote on the front and opened it before we got there. A spaniel was beside her, licking the top of her sneaker. You could tell things were serious because she hadn’t trotted out a plate of cookies. She said, “Don’t be hard on him, Elias.”

Elias wasn’t listening. He seemed to have built up some steam as we walked from the rectory to the house, and the steam was looking for a way out. We found Ken sitting in the middle of the couch in a neat but carefully shabby living room, with the kind of furnishings that would warm a church mouse’s heart. I didn’t think you could get plaid Herculon in Early American anymore, and couldn’t imagine it was new when the Manwarings bought it. I sat down on it, too, not because they thought to invite me to do so, or because I particularly wanted to comfort Ken. I was feeling a little out of breath and dizzy, and my brain was misfiring again after the walk from the church.

Already saddled with his dad’s corpulent body, Ken looked like collateral damage from his father’s profession. Too many potluck dinners where the one common ingredient was cream of mushroom soup. He was blowing his nose, pushing up his glasses that slid down with the blow, and blowing his nose again.

Elias didn’t waste time with preamble. He was a priest and could smell a confession coming. That soft hand I saw at the church turned into the iron finger of judgment as he jabbed his son in the temple lightly, but definitely. “Start talking,” he said.

From that point on I could only listen while Ken talked and Elias asked all the questions. And Elias would have been good at Gitmo. Actually they always say people really want to tell the truth, and interrogation is just a way to help them do it with some dignity. That was how Ken was now. It looked to me like he’d been laboring under this burden ever since Joe’s death.

Punctuated by
supsups
and sniffles, Ken described what I had heard about but never dealt with at close hand. The Choking Game.

Lulu gasped at the very name. “What is it?” she asked.

“Kids do it to each other. It makes you pass out. Some kids say there’s kind of a rush when it happens but I never—”

“I hope to hell you never—”

“Stop it, Elias,” said Lulu. “How does it happen, Ken?”

Ken put the heels of his palms against either side of his neck. “You do this thing where you press here—”

“Don’t, Ken,” Lulu said.

“He’s not,” Elias said. “Where did you learn about this?”

“We heard about it at school. Some kids—”

“Who else played the game? Which kids?”

Ken shook his head.

“Which kids?”

Ken said, “He’ll beat me up.”

“Right now I don’t blame him,” Elias said, grabbing Ken’s shirt and twisting the cloth.

“Elias!” Lulu said.

Even I held my breath for a second. Then Elias glanced at me and let go. I couldn’t tell if his face was red from embarrassment or anger. Maybe a good thing I was there.

“You don’t understand,” Ken said. “He’ll be in a shitload of trouble—”

“You’re in a shitload of trouble right here, my friend.” The tone was menacing, but under better control now. After a moment Elias squinted at Ken like he was looking from a different angle. “It’s Pete, isn’t it?”

Ken’s silence confirmed it.

“I know Peter,” I said. “Is Peter a problem?”

Elias answered with silence before saying, “He’s another kid Ken’s age in the youth group. Father’s a cop and very strict. When Ken says Pete will be in a shitload of trouble for playing this game he’s not exaggerating.” He turned back to Ken. “Have you done it since Joe died?”

“No!” Ken said.

“Now tell me, what does this have to do with Joe’s death?” Elias asked.

“He talked about how you could do it to yourself, and when your body sagged the cord would give way if you tied it right and you’d fall down and then come to.”

“When did you do it last?”

“When we got back to the church from that last hike up to the Romero Pools. Everybody else got picked up and we were waiting for you to take us home. We were hanging out in the library.”