The Killing Vision (9 page)

Wade’s eyes were red-rimmed and tired, but she still
caught a flash of anger.  “Yeah, I guess I was.”

She brushed past him into the coolness of the house,
leaving the two of them on the porch. 
Just pushing the envelope,
she
thought.

* * *

1:35 PM

He had left early because he wasn’t sure how long it
would take him to find the church.  He didn’t have a need to go to Springfield
often, and though he knew where most of the major streets and landmarks were,
he wasn’t familiar with St. Thomas Church.  He spotted it, though, as soon as
he entered the city. It was a large rambling brick structure with an open bell
tower and stained glass windows.  He’d seen it before, but he supposed he’d
never paid any attention to it.

He was thirty minutes early, so he drove around a nearby
McDonald’s and got a Coke.  He sat in the parking lot of the restaurant sipping
his drink and looking at St. Thomas’ bell tower above the treetops.  He was
nervous.   His heart pounded in the pit of his stomach, like he was a teenager
on a first date.  He wasn’t sure what to expect.  What would these people be
like?  How weird would they be?  What kind of meetings did they hold?  He
pictured strange rituals where everyone wore dark robes and chanted, or where
they all cavorted naked in a circle.

He finally drove over to the church, circling around
it, looking for signs of life.  Behind the church proper was a new aluminum
building with a sign out front that said “ACTIVITY CENTER.”  There were several
cars parked in the lot.  This must be the place.

He parked his Explorer as close to the street as he
could, took a last-second glance at his face in the rearview mirror, and headed
out across the hot asphalt toward the building, his heart knocking a mile a
minute.  There were no windows in the building, and the glass on the front door
was tinted, so he couldn’t see inside.  Were they watching him now?  Watching
him trudging across the parking lot, sweating like some massive, frightened
beast?  He took a breath, grabbed the door and opened it.

A blast of refreshingly cool air hit him at once,
and at first he thought he was mistaken, that he had walked into a bridge party
or a bridal shower.  The large, open room was well lit and clean and smelled of
the fresh flowers decorating a buffet line full of snacks.  Several people
milled about, talking with one another and eating off paper plates, some
sitting at small round tables.  One of the men, Joel was startled to see, was a
priest.  Everyone looked so ordinary.  Surely this wasn’t right.  He turned to
go before anyone spotted him.

“Joel!”

He looked back and saw Deb coming toward him,
smiling broadly, and he felt a self-conscious grin appear on his face.  “Hi.”

“You came,” she said, clearly pleased.

He nodded.  “Thought I might check it out.”

“Not what you expected is it?”

He laughed, shaking his head.  “No.  I thought…” He
stopped, not sure how to finish.

Deb was nodding.  “I know,” she said, and he truly
believed she did.  She motioned him toward the others.  “Come on, let me
introduce you to some folks.” He followed her toward the murmuring group, and
nearly jumped a foot when she clapped her hands and said loudly, “All right,
everyone, your attention, please.”  They were all looking at him now, he
noticed, but not in puzzlement; they seemed to already know why he was there. 
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Joel.  He’s the one I told you about.”

They all greeted him, and Deb introduced them one by
one in a flurry of names and faces he knew he would never remember.  There was
a young blonde girl who appeared to be in her late teens, and an old gentleman
who looked at least eighty; everyone else fit somewhere in between, and seemed
to come from all ethnic backgrounds and social circles.  Deb introduced the
priest last, a distinguished looking pudgy man with thick gray hair and blue
eyes.  “This is Father Michael.  He’s not a sensitive himself, but he lets us
use the church’s facilities for our meetings.”

Father Michael nodded to him.  “Good to meet you,
Joel.  I think you’ll find everyone here is friendly and accommodating.” 

Gradually, everyone drifted back into their own
conversations, and Joel moved to take a seat at the table next to Father
Michael.  “So how did a priest get involved in something like this?” he said.

Father Michael smiled.  “Deb’s one of my flock,” he
said.  “I’ve known of her gift for years, knew her struggle with accepting it. 
When she found a few others like herself, I encouraged her to start a group. 
They met at her house at first, but as more and more people became involved,
she knew she had to have a larger place.  I told her to feel free to use the
church’s activity center.”

“That was nice.”

Father Michael shrugged.  “Whole purpose of having
the place.”

“So do you come here just to keep an eye on things
or what?”

“I have a real interest in it, in what the
old-timers call ‘second sight.’  I believe that it truly is a gift, though I
understand the people who have it would tend to disagree.”

“Yeah,” Joel said.  “Myself included.”

“Now, you take Joseph over there,” Father Michael
said, pointing toward the old man Joel had noticed earlier.  “When he was a
young man, his family was convinced he was a demon.  Or that he’d been touched
by Satan.  They were scared to death of him.  Especially after…” The priest
looked away.

“What?”

Father Michael looked back at him abruptly.  “Did
you ever hear of the big train disaster here in Springfield?  Happened in ’twenty-five
or ’twenty six.”

Joel nodded.  Everyone knew that story.  How a
locomotive had jumped the track one sunny April morning and plowed right
through Springfield Elementary School, completely demolishing the building.  No
one had even been scratched; all the students and teachers had gone to the town
common for a picnic that day and the school had been empty.

“Joseph had organized the picnic downtown,” said
Father Michael.  “He knew something was going to happen that day.  Saw it in a
dream.”

“Really?”  Joel looked at the man now, just a frail,
little man dressed in a natty sports jacket and droopy trousers.

“I’m convinced,” the priest continued, “that God
used Joseph’s ability that day to save those people.”

Joel stared at the wall, thinking about the train
that had snuffed out the lives of his mother and stepfather.  If he had known,
if he could have seen, would he have warned them?  Would he have kept them
alive, even though it would have meant who knew how many more years of violent
abuse from Clifton?  He didn’t know; it was just a dead end question.  Like
what would have happened had the school been full.  “What’s the point?” he
said.

Father Michael looked at him.  “Excuse me?”

“What was the point of giving Joseph a vision, of
making him responsible?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“If God could do that, then why not just keep the
train from derailing in the first place?  Why not just make it easy?

Father Michael smiled crookedly, looking away. 
“It’s not our purpose to question God,” he said.  “Perhaps it was a test.”

“A test?  For who?”

“For Joseph.”

Joel glanced at the others, and his gaze fell on the
young blonde girl.  She was talking animatedly to Deb, holding a cookie in one
hand and a Diet Coke in the other.  “Who’s the kid?” he asked.

Father Michael smiled.  “That’s Dana West,” he
said.  “She’s only been aware of her gift a couple of years, but Deb says she’s
exceptionally strong.”

“How old is she?”

“Older than she looks.  Twenty-one.”  Father Michael
pointed to a nondescript couple sitting nearby.  “That’s her parents there. 
Frank and Bonnie.”

“So they…?”

“Yes.  The whole family.”

Joel looked at the three of them, incredulous. 
“This kind of thing tends to run in families, doesn’t it?”

“So I’ve been told.  It sometimes skips a generation
or two, but it’s not rare that parents and children share it.”  Father Michael
took a sip from his foam cup.  “They live in your neck of the woods, by the
way.”

“Cedar Hill?”

“Yep.  Dana attends the college there.”

Joel glanced around and caught a red-bearded guy
looking at him.  The other man quickly turned his attention to the floor. 
Something about him gave Joel the creeps.

Father Michael followed Joel’s line of vision. 
“Barry’s had a very troubled life.  Tried to commit suicide.  Bounced around
from job to job, city to city.  This is the first place he’s ever felt
comfortable with himself and his ability.”  He looked at Joel.  “I hope you’ll
feel comfortable here, too, Joel.”

* * *

A little while later, the group gathered the folding
metal chairs into a circle, and they all sat facing the center.  Deb led the
group as they discussed the various events of their lives the past month.  Most
talked of their feelings of self-doubt and guilt, of their loathing for their
abilities.  Some, he was surprised to discover, regularly used drugs in an
effort to deaden their feelings, to “desensitize” themselves.  A few, including
Barry, spoke of past suicide attempts.  All, however, seemed open and honest;
no one appeared to be lying or secretive.  Joel had never been to a meeting of
Alcoholics Anonymous, but this is how imagined one would be.

Finally, Deb turned to him.  “So, Joel, what do you
think?  Are we all crazy?”

Everyone laughed, and Joel smiled.  “You’re all
nuts,” he said, and they laughed louder. 

* * *

6:45 PM

Halloran sat in his office, sipping stale black
coffee from a foam cup, letting his thoughts drift in the quiet.  There had
been no sign of Carmelita Santos.

A massive search party organized of people from the
neighborhood, the police, and other volunteers had meticulously combed through
the park and surrounding streets, looking everywhere.  They searched behind
every building, in every ravine, under every bush.  Nothing.  Carmelita had
vanished without a trace.  Finally, in the middle of the afternoon, a canine
unit was brought in from Springfield; that, too, failed to turn up any clues.

Mr. and Mrs. Santos were nearly incapacitated with
grief and worry.  Now, more than yesterday, they eyed Halloran and Chapman with
suspicion, as if the police were somehow to blame for their daughter’s
disappearance.  It was understandable, but these days Halloran found it harder
not to take such things personally.

Chapman stuck his head in the door.  “Hey.”

Halloran sat up.  “Hey yourself.  Come on in.”

Chapman flopped his lanky frame into one of the
chairs opposite Halloran.  “Don’t guess there’s anything new.”

Halloran shook his head.  He held up his cup.  “Want
some coffee?  I think it’s only about eight hours old.”

Chapman gave a strained laugh.  “No, thanks.”  He
rubbed his eyes.  “Long day.”

“No kidding.”

He looked at Halloran.  “You think these two cases
are related?  Sarah Jo and Carmelita?”

Halloran took a swig of coffee.  “I’d bet money on
it.  Same circumstances.  Both girls about the same age.”

Chapman licked his lips.  “I think we’ve got a
serial offender.”

Halloran nodded grimly.  “I agree.”

“What do you think our chances are of finding the
Santos girl alive?”

Halloran stared at the wall.  He drained his cup and
plopped it onto the desk.  “Between you and me, almost none.” 

* * *

10:47 PM

Wade lay beside Marla, listening to her steady
breathing and staring up into the nothingness of the dark room.  Boy, he had
really been fucked up yesterday.  He barely remembered getting up.  Barely
remembered Joel pulling in and talking to him.  Barely remembered getting
dressed and heading back into town.  All he could recall clearly was sitting at
the Wild Horse later with a beer and a plate of cheese-drenched potato skins,
listening to some old geezer next to him ramble on drunkenly about his dog.

When he was finally feeling alive again, he left the
bar and drove across town to the cable office.  He was still tired.  God, was
he tired.  In the lounge of the office was a large sofa, and he stretched out
on it and slept for a few hours.

He awoke slightly achy but clear-headed a little
after eight o’clock.  He splashed some water on his face and ran a wet hand
through his hair.  Straightened the collar of his shirt.  Refreshed, he headed
back out to the truck and took off toward the other side of town.

The Capitol was already bustling, even at this early
hour.  Once inside, he scoured the dancing mob for Shelley and Abby, and when
he didn’t see them, he grabbed a table and watched the dance floor, nursing a
beer and filling up the ashtray.  The crowd was about the same tonight—lots of
attractive women, all young and lithe, but no one he felt he could connect
with.