The Church of Dead Girls (40 page)

“I am, I am,” said Franklin, writing some words on his pad. “Was it a man's hand or a woman's hand in the box?”

Donald grabbed his pistol and turned violently. “You're messing with me!” He swung the pistol, hitting Franklin on the side of his head. Franklin slid off the bench and tried to protect his head with his hands.

“Don't you know I could kill you?” shouted Donald.

Franklin rubbed his face. It was numb with cold and he could feel nothing. He knelt on the ground.

Donald kicked at him. “Get up here and do what you're supposed to!”

Franklin dragged himself back up onto the bench. With Donald's light he hunted around for the notepad and pen. Every move hurt his ankle. Locating the pen and pad, he sat up again.

“I don't like you,” said Donald. “I've never liked you. I was glad when your wife died.”

Franklin wiped the mud from his pen. He tried to speak calmly, without showing his anger. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me about your brother and Janice.”

“That woman hurt him,” said Donald after another pause.

“What did she do?”

“Shhh,” whispered Donald. “She hurt him with her hand. She grabbed him and hurt him.”

“I thought he liked it,” prodded Franklin.

“He never did. That's a lie to say he did.”

“Your brother?”

“Allen. She would reach into Allen's pants and pull out his little boy. Then she would yank it and squeeze it. She said she liked to see it shoot. He hated it.”

“Then why'd he let it happen?”

“Because part of him was sick. I already told you that.”

“But he kept seeing her.”

Donald was still whispering. “That was his sickness.”

“Did he kill Janice?” Franklin realized that his face was bleeding. He wiped his cheek on the sleeve of his coat.

“When she grabbed him again, Allen took her throat. He squeezed her just like she squeezed him, but he squeezed her until she didn't make any noise.”

“What about her hand?”

“Hands follow their appetites. One hand's dirty and one's clean. He took the dirty hand.”

“Does he still have it?”

“Of course. They're all together.”

Franklin shivered. Donald was hunched forward and his voice was hushed. Franklin could see the pistol next to Donald's leg but he was afraid to reach for it.

“What about Sharon?” asked Franklin. “Was she dirty too?”

“She had dirty thoughts,” said Donald.

“Did you touch her?”

“I never touched her!” Then, more quietly, “Allen touched all the girls.”

“Did Allen stop Sharon on the road?”

“Her bike was broken and he stopped. He had touched her before and he was afraid. He asked if she was going to tell. She wouldn't answer him. He hadn't wanted to touch her but she made him. She wanted to show him her fur. He was afraid she was going to tell. She was friends with Sadie Moore. She might tell Sadie; she might even tell Aaron. Aaron had been asking questions about his mother. So Allen told her to promise not to tell but she wouldn't answer. Then he covered her mouth. She tried to scream and he wouldn't let her. He held on to her mouth. When Sharon was little she was nice but she wasn't nice anymore. She was getting too big to be nice. She made him touch her, then when he touched her, she pretended it was his fault. And her fur smelled on his fingers. It made his hand dirty. She would grow up and grab men like Janice did. My brother wanted to save her from that. He wanted to make her into a church.”

In the distance someone was blowing a whistle.

“You're not writing,” said Donald angrily.

“I am,” said Franklin. “These are shorthand notes. I can put it all back together later. What about Sharon's hand?”

“Don't you see.” Donald lowered his voice. “It's the hand's fault. It likes to grab and squeeze. It eats. Hands eat. It's covered with piss and shit, even worse things. It likes touching them, rubbing itself in them.”

“What did he do?”

Donald laughed very quietly. “You know what he did.”

“He cut off the hand?”

“It's how you get rid of the filth. The left hand's the bad hand. He needed to clean them, clean all the girls.”

“And Meg's hand?” asked Franklin.

“All the hands are together.”

There was a hollow thumping noise and with horror Franklin saw that Donald was patting the side of his attaché case.

“Are they there?” whispered Franklin.

Donald made a soft clucking noise with his tongue. “Shall I show them to you?”

Franklin tried to keep from thinking about the attaché case but his mind would go no place else.

“Why Meg and Karla?” insisted Franklin.

“They weren't any better,” said Donald. “They came into the pharmacy. My brother saw what they were like. They had dirty thoughts. They stuck out their little chests, their little titties. I could see them. They laughed and flirted. They showed their bare legs. They also wanted to grab little boys. And besides, Sharon was lonely. Allen had to get her company, girls who were as bad as she was. Girls with fur. But he didn't want to hurt them, he wanted to make them better.”

“How did he get them?”

“In his car. He pulled up beside them and squeezed them and put them in the back.”

“Why didn't they run?”

“Why should they? The car had orange triangles on the doors. He was a Friend.”

“And Sadie as well?” Franklin could hardly say her name. Its hugeness filled him with sorrow.

“She's bad. She came into the pharmacy. She hurt herself and I had to touch her leg. Aaron was with her and they asked questions. But she only pretended to hurt herself. She wanted me to touch her leg. She wore a ring with a dove. Aaron must have made her bad. He wanted to make her like Janice.”

“Allen didn't take her?”

“He tried. I don't want to talk about it.”

It wasn't quite hope that Franklin began to feel; more of an open space that was taking shape before him, and Sadie stood in that space. “So he didn't get Sadie?”

Donald raised his voice. “I said I didn't want to talk about it!” He paused, and when he spoke again, he spoke quietly.

“The girls love each other and they love their filth. Have you seen the way they smile? You don't think those are real smiles, do you? Allen thought no one would find out. He thought only my mother knew. But he's bad. Didn't he have a bad daughter? And she got it from him. Now my brother's built a church with three girls. You might think they're dead but they're not. They move and they shine. They sparkle in the light. All the filthy words have been made clean. You know how there are good numbers and bad numbers? All the good numbers protect them. My brother prays there. He wants to be made better, but the badness goes right to the bottom of him. Not even knives could scrape him clean. I should tell the police about him. But he's my brother. I'm supposed to love him.”

“What about Jaime Rose?” asked Franklin, writing Jaime's name on his pad.

“He was like Janice. These people, their faces are masks. They smile and look happy. They pretend to like you. D'you know how ugly the skull is when you take the skin away? That's when you see the teeth. Their real faces are like that. My brother settled him, all right. Jaime reached into Allen's pants. He squeezed Allen's little boy and he was going to tell about it. Allen couldn't let that happen; he took him back to the beauty shop. That name, it's almost funny. A filth shop, a cunt shop!”

“And Barry?”

“Oh, he'll die soon. He told after I explained to him that he couldn't, that it would be wrong to tell. He has to be taught how to be silent. My brother will fix it. He's a good fixer.”

“But Allen's dangerous.”

Donald chuckled. “Oh yes, he's very dangerous.”

“He should be stopped.”

“Oh, I agree. He's made himself dirty, very dirty.” Donald paused. “It's cold, but not too cold, don't you think? Once Allen is gone and the others are gone, then things will be better. We don't have much time. Isn't it awful, this rushing around? We must make it quiet again. People are afraid of death, but they're wrong. Death is very quiet. The girls sit so quietly. Sometimes I think they're praying.”

“You should talk to the police.”

Donald laughed. “They'll never believe it was him. You see, he always seemed like the good one. He did so well in school. But I've seen him when he was sleeping, when he grinds his teeth. I've watched him when he didn't know I was watching.”

“You should talk to Ryan Tavich.”

“You're trying to trick me,” said Donald.

“No,” said Franklin. “I'm your friend.”

“You pretend to be writing but you're not writing anything.” Donald snatched the pad from Franklin's knee and shone his light on it. There were scratches on the paper, half letters only.

“You're trying to make a joke of me!” shouted Donald, throwing the pad onto the snow.

“It's in my head,” said Franklin. “I'll write it later.”

Donald made a hissing sound. “I could make you believe me.”

“I believe you.” Franklin felt desperate. “I've got it all.” He heard a click, then another as the clasps of the attaché case sprang up.

“Here, look!” said Donald.

Franklin twisted away, pushing his good leg against the ground. Donald held the light in one hand and something awful in the other. Franklin jerked away. Then he sprang forward out of the lean-to, grabbing the side and pushing forward again on his good leg across the path. He stumbled against a tree and fell onto his stomach. He began crawling through the snow. The beam of Donald's light cut through the air above him. Franklin crawled between the trees. He crawled over a log and collapsed.

“I'm glad we've had this talk,” said Donald. The light kept swinging back and forth over Franklin but didn't settle on him.

“Sadie's a pretty name,” said Donald. “I'm sure we'll find her.”

D
ona
ld came out of the woods by the parking lot. A Salvation Army wagon had arrived from Utica and a woman in a dark uniform was handing out cups of coffee. To the others, Donald must have looked like one more person hunting through the woods. He didn't pause but cut across the parking lot toward the sledding hill. It was the shortest way toward town.

Ryan saw him coming down the hillside. Or rather, he saw a man carrying an attaché case and he saw the yellow boots. He knew it was Donald. There was a way that Donald ran, bent over and never straightening his legs, that reminded Ryan of an animal. A wedge of light from Donald's flashlight cut across the snow in front of him. Ryan was with Chuck Hawley and they were making their way across the hill toward Aaron, who apparently had just arrived. Ryan believed that Aaron might know something about Sadie. Then Ryan stopped and turned toward Donald.

“That's Donald Malloy,” said Chuck.

“Hey!” Ryan shouted. He began jogging toward Donald. He wanted to ask him about what Dr. Malloy had said and he was curious about the attaché case. He meant to look inside it.

Donald stopped on the hillside. Flicking off his light, he stuck it in the pocket of his coat. He stood facing Ryan, holding the attaché case in front of his belly with both hands. His cap was tilted back on his head. Standing higher up on the hill, he looked huge. As Ryan got closer, he saw Donald was grinning. Ryan pointed his flashlight at him in time to see him move his right hand from behind the attaché case. When Ryan saw Donald's pistol, he at first thought he was mistaken. It led him to delay a moment. Then he jumped just as Donald fired. His body jerked and he felt as if he had been kicked. His flashlight flew through the air. There was a second gunshot. Ryan hit the snow and rolled. He tried reaching for his pistol but none of his muscles would do what they were supposed to.

Aaron was halfway up the hill when he heard the gunshot. He saw someone fall but he didn't know it was Ryan. Then there was a second shot. He began to run up the hill. Ahead of him, Chuck Hawley, intent on Donald, was tugging his pistol from its holster.

“Donald!” shouted Chuck. Then he fired: one, two, three times.

Donald Malloy turned and ran back up the hill. There were trees and Donald ran behind them. He paused and fired back down the hill. Aaron could see men by the bonfire stop and fling themselves to the ground. It never occurred to him that he might get shot. He saw Chuck running toward the man lying on his back in the snow. Aaron ran after him. The man's flashlight was still on and it stuck straight out of the snow like a torch. The triangular wedge of its beam seemed to brush the low-hanging clouds. It was only when Aaron reached the flashlight and looked over toward Chuck that he realized the other man was Ryan Tavich.

“Oh shit,” Chuck kept saying. “Oh shit.” He was crouched down in the snow beside Ryan, who was twisting on the ground.

Aaron grabbed the flashlight, then ran up the hill after Donald, who was just cresting the top. There was shouting up ahead. Aaron slipped, then regained his balance. When he reached the parking lot, he saw men running toward him. Maybe there were twenty men. He didn't see Donald.

“Is it Leimbach?” someone shouted.

“Where's Donald Malloy?” said Aaron. He could see the Salvation Army wagon and the woman inside staring at him. Several troopers had their weapons drawn. People were moving in all different directions.

A man grabbed his arm, someone he had never seen before. “Who's dead?” the man shouted.

Aaron gestured down the hill, then he pulled himself free. He ran toward the woods. A small sign showed a glyph of a cross-country skier and a pointing arrow. Aaron's light swung across it. He thought of Donald Malloy running down the path ahead of him. He knew that Donald had been mixed up with Barry Sanders. He knew now that Donald had killed his mother. A professional man—that's how he described himself. Aaron wanted to hurt him so much that it made an iron taste in his mouth. He ran so fast that he kept slipping and once he fell.

Aaron ran down the path, swinging the light to either side to make sure he wasn't missing any footprints cutting off into the woods. There were the parallel tracks of cross-country skis and heavy footprints imprinted across them. He began to fear that Donald wasn't in front of him, that he had missed him. Aaron stopped to listen. Up ahead he heard someone calling.

“Hey! Somebody!”

Aaron didn't recognize the voice but he began to hurry forward, not quite running. He wondered if it was a trick but could think of no reason for a trick. He imagined Donald's getting away from him and how awful that would be. It had begun to snow, and fat flakes drifted across the beam of Aaron's light.

“Hey! Help me!”

Even before Aaron noticed the dim figure standing in the path, he recognized the voice as Franklin's. It occurred to him that Franklin was his brother-in-law and it made him wince, not from dislike but from something like embarrassment.

“Help!” called Franklin. He could see Aaron's light approaching him.

Aaron kept the light on Franklin's face, so that Franklin was forced to turn away. He was standing on one foot. Like a duck, Aaron thought.

“Franklin,” he said.

Franklin held up a hand to shield his eyes from the light. With his other hand he was leaning against a tree. “Aaron? I've sprained my ankle. I can't walk.”

Aaron approached. “Donald Malloy shot Ryan,” he said.

“Jesus, did he kill him?” Franklin stumbled and had to grip the tree with both hands.

“I don't think so. Malloy ran into the woods.”

“He's looking for Sadie. We've got to find him,” Franklin said in a panic.

“He won't find her.” Aaron moved the light away from Franklin's face. “I've got her.”

Aaron had taken Sadie to the Aurelius Motel. Harriet was with her. He had done it to protect Sadie. He had hoped that the delivery of the hands would force the killer to show himself, but first he wanted to make sure that Sadie was safe. And then he had thought of making her disappearance look like another abduction. Wouldn't that also provoke whoever was guilty to think that someone else was trespassing on his crime? After Aaron had learned about Barry's brief relationship with Donald and how Donald had scared him, Aaron had been almost certain that Donald had killed his mother and abducted the girls. But he wasn't entirely positive. He wanted to make the person act, to reveal himself publicly so there'd be no doubt about his guilt.

“But somebody saw her being carried into the park. They called the police. Is she really safe?”

“That's what I just said.” Aaron felt angry with his brother-in-law.

“You've got to help me down the hill.”

“I have to find Malloy.”

Franklin grabbed Aaron's arm and nearly lost his balance. “Aaron, I'll die up here. I'm freezing.”

“He's the one who killed my mother.” Aaron's voice was flat, as if he were reporting the weather.

Franklin was silent. Then he said, “I know.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Aaron, pulling away.

Franklin fell onto the path and groaned. Aaron stood without moving, his light focused on Franklin. Neither of them spoke. Franklin tried to sit up. His sheepskin coat was covered with snow and there was snow in his hair.

Aaron thought of leaving him. He thought of Franklin freezing into a block of ice so that when he broke he would break into thousands of pieces.

Aaron reached forward and grabbed Franklin's wrist. “Pull,” he said. Franklin pulled himself up onto his left leg and Aaron grabbed him around the waist. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”

Franklin hung on to Aaron's shoulder and hopped forward. It was slow but they kept moving.

“Once I was going to kill Ryan myself,” said Aaron, “but I wasn't sure.”

It took ten minutes to get out of the woods. They didn't see anyone, but when they reached the edge of the park they found two state troopers. The Salvation Army wagon had gone. The troopers helped Franklin down the hill. Aaron watched him go, their lights bobbing. He thought of how he had let Donald get away and tried to tell himself it had been for the best. He thought of Donald's standing trial. It wasn't punishment enough.

—

Donald Malloy only ran through a corner of the woods and soon he was out on the street again. It must have amused him to think of the police searching the woods when he was running down the alley between Juniper Street and Spruce. He carried his pistol in one hand and his attaché case in the other. He wore a dark-brown overcoat that reached just past his knees. He'd lost the cap he'd been wearing. There were cars on the street but the alley was empty. In the past month he had gotten to know all the alleys and backyards of Aurelius.

Donald entered Barry Sanders's yard from the back, then he waited by the corner of the house to make sure no one was around. It was snowing again. He waited a couple of minutes for the street to clear. He must have known that the police were looking for him, that his name was on all the radios. He climbed over the railing and walked heavily across the front porch. He hammered on the door.

When Mrs. Sanders opened it a crack, Donald heaved his shoulder against it, knocking her aside and entering the hall.

“Where's your son?” he demanded. There was snow in his thin sandy hair.

“Get out of here,” said Mrs. Sanders. “Get out of my house.”

Donald hit her hard across the side of her face with his pistol so she fell back again. “Where's Barry? Where is he?” His shout was very high, almost a squeal.

“He's not here.” Mrs. Sanders knelt and touched her bleeding face.

“You're lying. Don't you know how bad he is?”

“He's not here,” Mrs. Sanders repeated. She tried getting to her feet.

Donald hit her again with the pistol and she fell to her knees. “Don't you know it's bad to lie? You can be punished. Don't you know I'm in charge of punishment? Look!” He knelt down beside her. Taking a small key from his pocket, he unlocked the attaché case. The two shiny latches clicked upward.

Mrs. Sanders began to scream.

Donald closed the attaché case and ran into the living room. “Barry!” he called. “I'm coming.”

Barry was upstairs. He hurried and locked himself in the bathroom. Donald must have heard him because he ran up the stairs. Mrs. Sanders continued to scream. Barry thought she had been hurt and he wanted to help her but he was too frightened. He hid inside the shower with the curtain drawn. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished he could disappear.

“Barry, you're a bad boy!” shouted Donald. Doors slammed as he ran into different rooms. “I'm going to make you clean! I'm going to make you a church!”

Barry jumped out of the shower and ran to the window. Donald tried opening the bathroom door and found it locked.

“Barry, I don't want to hurt you. You have to be healed and made better.”

Barry tried to open the bathroom window but it was stuck. The window led onto the roof of the side porch.

“Open the door, Barry, and I'll only hurt you a little bit.” Donald threw his weight against the door; the panels of wood cracked. He grunted, then kicked the door, breaking the lower panel, so that Barry could see his large yellow boot.

There was a stool in the bathroom where his mother sometimes sat and brushed her hair by the mirror. Barry picked it up and smashed the glass out of the bathroom window.

“Barry!” screamed Donald. “I'm going to have to hurt you terribly!” He again threw his weight against the door, but it held. He threw his weight against it a third time. Then he shot through the door. The bullets ricocheted off the sink. “Barry, you are very wicked!”

But Barry was already out on the porch roof. He crawled to the edge and looked down. It was a drop of about fifteen feet. Barry sat on the edge with his feet dangling over the side. The wind blew against him and he was cold. He tried to make himself jump but he couldn't do it. Just then he heard the bathroom door smash open as Donald hit it again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Donald's huge shape staggering across the bathroom. Barry jumped. He hit the ground with his knees bent. He rolled to his side, hurting all over, but managed to stand.

“Barry!” shouted Donald. He was halfway out the window. The snow flicked around his face.

Barry ran.

Donald didn't jump. He hurried back downstairs and out the front door. Mrs. Sanders was hiding in the kitchen and she heard the door slam. Donald ran across the yard toward town. He was still following Barry's tracks but he lost them at the street. By that time Barry had reached the next block and was cutting across a back lawn toward the alley.

Donald ran across the front yards toward downtown. His footprints in the snow showed a straight line. It wasn't clear where he was going. Later some people suggested he was going to the police station. Others said he was going to the Friends' storefront, where his car was parked. Several people saw him run through their front yards. They said he was hunched over as if following a trail. They said how big he looked with his coat open and blowing around him. They mentioned the attaché case and how it banged against his leg.

Sheila Murphy was standing in the entrance to Bud's Tavern. She had no customers except for drunk Tommy Shepherd and she'd gone out to the doorway to look at the snow. She was wondering where everybody was. Then she saw a man running down the center of the street, half bent over, “as if he was sniffing something,” she said. She realized it was Donald. The street was covered with slush but fresh snow was falling hard.

Then Sheila saw a pickup truck coming down the street behind Donald. She squinted her eyes at its high beams. The lights swung across Donald and the driver braked abruptly, causing the truck to slide sideways until its rear wheels hit the curb.