Revelations (61 page)

Jane nodded, checking off the points in her head. She withdrew the charred black shirt protected in a plastic bag, that she found in the fire pit on his property.

Jordan furrowed his brow. “What in the hell is that?”

“A black T-shirt, small size. Similar to the type that Jake was known to wear. Found it in your fire pit.”

“Oh. So, you assume that because it’s
like
a shirt he might wear, it belongs to him? That would be thrown out of court, and you know it. Because once they got the DNA back from that
shirt
, they’d find out that it was a navy blue shammy cloth that I used to sop up grease from the kitchen. I discovered they made wonderful fire starters due to the oil in the material. Can’t you just hear the
Greenies’
collective assholes puckering at that thought?”

Jane lay the cloth to the side. “No Ace of Spades in that deck back at your house.”

“Did you count the cards, Jane?” She shook her head. “There were probably around seventy or eighty cards in that deck on the kitchen table. I don’t use them for playing cards. I use them for bookmarks. I use the face cards for history text and the Aces for books I especially enjoy.”

Jane removed the next item. “Like this book?” She handed him the thin volume that she got from Mollie. “Is that one of your favorites?”

He let out a long sigh. “Yes, it is.”

“Was it easy for the wind to carry it when you tossed it to Jake over the fence?” Jane removed a manila folder and laid the four highlighted photos of Jordan and Jake by the bridge in front of him.

Jordan examined the photos. “We’re all gonna get fucked by technology one day, aren’t we?” He sat up. “To answer your question, I didn’t throw the book to him. I handed it to him and he said, ‘Thank you.’”

“And therein lies the problem, Jordan. You always told me that you never had contact with him.”

“I never said that, Jane. I simply evaded the question when asked.”

“You said you read his thoughts by looking at his photo in the two newspapers. That was a lie.”

“Guilty,” Jordan freely admitted. “I felt a need at that particular moment to validate my intuitive feelings to you in a way that you could accept. So, I lied. But I didn’t lie when I told you that I could read his thoughts. He’s an open book. He’s tortured. I could relate. He had a million questions and he wasn’t afraid of me the way everyone else is. He found my truth-telling refreshing which, frankly, I found quite odd but also intriguing.” Jordan traced the edge of the cot with his finger. “He told me he hated his father, and I told him that I understood how he felt because I hated my father for what he did to my mother. But I also told him that the more you reject your parents, the more like them you’ll become.”

“You told him that?”

“It’s true, Jane. The more you say you don’t want to become like someone who gave you life, the more you attract their fate to you.”

Jane nodded. However, she realized that while this gem
of insight held water, Jake most likely took it to mean that
he
would become gay like his father.

“Emerson wrote,
People only see what they are prepared to see
. But sometimes when they see it, it’s too overwhelming for them because the truth—while necessary and enlightening—can destroy you if you’re still locked into your pretty illusions. I tried to warn him, Jane.” He looked at Jane with a sorrowful eye. “
Honestly, I did
. I tried to explain to him that he was too wrapped up in his ego and that his depression didn’t belong to him. But I kept forgetting he was too young to understand. I told him to start slowly and dig around his own family tree and maybe he’d find answers to his uneasiness there. But sometimes the uneasiness is so far back—sometimes, it’s been buried for so long that its expression is warped. But I said that often a simple act of illumination can trigger a domino of energy that shines the light on the greater Truth.” Jordan looked up at Jane. “I feel that he did find the truth and it destroyed him.”

Jane reached into the bag and removed another manila folder. She slid out the photo of the bloated, blackened dead body and handed it to Jordan. “That was delivered a few hours ago.”

Jordan took the photo and showed an obvious repulsion. “This can’t be, Jane.”

“Why is that?” She leaned forward, waiting.

“Because I still hear him.”

She nodded. “Like you hear the little kid you call,
Red
? The one who you’ve been seeing in your dreams these last couple weeks? The curly-haired, red-haired boy who stood at the back fence and never said a word but told you with his mind how no one listened to him. How he cried but no one cared?”

Jordan’s eyes filled with tears. He looked down at the photo, reading Jane’s thoughts. “Oh my God… I…I don’t understand…”

“Magnets, Jordan. That’s what you told me. We’re drawn to each other in the electric haze and, with a synchronistic aim, we shoot into each other’s lives. The more we try to run from
our secrets and hide our past, the more we encounter it and are forced to reconcile our sins.”

Jordan stared at the photo in disbelief. “Yes…that’s it exactly. Magnets.”

“I have to find him, Jordan. I have to find that little red-haired kid so I can find Jake and bring him home.” She pointed to the writing on the edge of the photo that read,
May the Saints forgive me. Malo, Malo, MALO
. “You told me that you only needed to meet a person once and they were forever imprinted on your psyche. I need you to remember that little boy at the back fence and I need you to get inside his head and tell me where he is right now.”

Jordan turned to the side, eyes open but traveling to a distant plane of awareness. He looked back at the message on the bottom of the photo. “Saints…he emphasized it. Saint…Malo… Saint Malo. It’s Celtic.
Maclou.”
Jordan looked at Jane. “It has something to do with light. Shedding the light in the darkness.” He glanced at the photo. “That’s where
Red
is…but not for long.”

“He’s where?”

“There’s a church on the Highway, about twenty miles from here. It’s known as
The Chapel on the Rock
. But it’s called the St. Malo Retreat.”

Jane quickly gathered everything she brought with her and stuffed it back into the trash bag. But before she secured the bag, she removed one item and handed it to Jordan. It was his mother’s leather diary. His eyes shone first with surprise and then with gratitude. She called for the deputy and turned to Jordan.

“I got a riddle for you. What can you keep only after giving it away to someone else?”

He thought about it. “Your word.”

The deputy unlocked the cell. “And you have that, Jordan.”

Jane rolled into the small rock-walled parking area outside the St. Malo Chapel and got out of her car. She removed her Glock from the holster and stuffed it into the rear waistband of her jeans. She crested the uneven steps to the chapel and walked inside the tiny church. “Sam?” she called out, but her voice echoed back to her. Walking outside, Jane followed the flagstone pathway around the chapel that led to a wide-open forested area. Parked under a tree was a black Nissan pickup truck with Illinois plates. A soft mist fell from the sky as Jane walked into the wooded enclave, dotted with Ponderosa pines and the sporadic patch of old snow that lingered at this higher elevation. Along the path, she found the occasional picnic table or bench where people could sit and meditate with God. But as she approached the first bench, she found a small white envelope propped up addressed to,
To Whom It May Concern
. She opened it and read the handwritten suicide letter. It became clear to Jane that it was written by a man who was so deeply traumatized that he regressed at times into the body of the tortured child that still cried out in pain.

Jane folded the letter and stuffed it into her back pocket. She quickly trod through the forested landscape. “Sam!” she called out. “Where are you?
Sam
!!” The pathway rose slightly in elevation. To the side was a patchwork of snow with fresh footprints leading off the main trail. Jane followed the prints until the snow disappeared. From there, she followed the shallow imprints in the wet ground until she came into a smaller clearing. A picnic table stood in the center. A man was seated on the table with his back to Jane, slumped forward. She fought the flashback from so many years before that was still etched in her memory. Standing still, she called out to him. “Sam?”

There was slight movement.

“Sam?” Jane moved to the right and forward. “You still with us, Sam?” Jane cautiously crept closer. “Sam?” The mist turned into a soft rain. She stayed ten feet from the table but was finally able to see his face. He wore a long leather coat that
skimmed his calves. Underneath, was a pair of black jeans and a navy blue turtleneck sweater with small holes dotted around the fabric. Even though Jane figured Sam was in his mid-forties, he still had a bright shock of red curly locks that he’d let grow into a wild mane down his back. Jane moved a few feet closer. In Sam’s right hand, he held a knife, similar to the one he lodged in the front door of Town Hall. The blade was pressed against his right thigh. In systematic motion, he’d been rocking it back and forth, cutting through his black jeans and slicing into his flesh. Blood seeped through the open fabric and dripped down his pant leg. She took another step around the table and saw a revolver clutched in his left hand with the business end lodged in his trembling mouth. His, pale, almost ghostly white, freckled complexion stood out against his dark clothing, lending a stark look of death to his mien. Sam seemed to be in another world, although he was aware of Jane’s presence as he turned his head slightly to her and spoke in a tortured whisper. “Go away…”

Jane pushed the death scene from fifteen years ago to the back of her mind. “Sam,” she said gently, “my name is Jane Perry. I’m a cop. I’m trying to find Jake. You have my attention. I have your note and I want to hear your story.”

He turned to her, gun still in his mouth as tears rolled down his pasty cheeks. “It’s too late,” he choked out.

“I promise you, it’s not.”

“My life is ruined now because of what I did.”

“Please take the gun out of your mouth, Sam.” It took about a minute but Sam finally removed the tip. “Could I ask you to set the gun on the table, Sam?” Sam complied, tears flowing freely now. “And the knife? Please stop cutting yourself and let go of the knife?” Sam looked down at his leg as if it didn’t belong to him. He released his grip and let the knife fall to the seat of the picnic table. “I’m going to walk in front of you but I’m not going to touch you or hurt you.” Jane slowly moved around the table so she could face Sam. She leaned against a tree about six feet from the table and gradually slid down onto the earth, taking a
seat on a bed of pine needles.

“How did you find me?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“You told me… on the photo of the body? I’ll admit I had some help deciphering it. But I did figure out some of what you sent us. You took a lot of time to put all that together. I know how smart you are.”

“I’m not smart,” he said, hanging his head.

“
Yes
, you are. Maybe a little ambiguous but you’re very smart. I understood it was a story from almost the beginning but nobody would believe me. The police chief basically ignored me.”

He looked at her. “Why?”

“People want simple answers to complex questions and if they can’t get that, they don’t pursue it further.” Jane extended her legs demonstrating an easy, comfortable, nonthreatening posture. “And then there’s denial. You know? It can’t be real. It can’t be true? It’s all in your imagination.”

Sam hung his head as her words rang in his heart. “Yes, yes, yes,
yes
.” He sobbed like a child. Jane realized at that moment that the crying on the two voicemail clues was indeed Sam, reverting to his childhood alter. “No one pays attention to you, no matter how much you tell them you were hurt.” His lip curled in a sudden show of anger. “They just throw money at you and tell you to leave…dirty, filthy money! They tell you to shut-up and never breathe a word of what happened to you.”

“I know what happened to you, Sam. And I know who did it.”

He looked at her with pleading eyes and leaned forward. “You believe me?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“It
did
happen! He
did
take me in his Packard! And I was crying, ‘Bawy! Bawy!’ because I didn’t know how to say Bailey. But he just stood there. And I had my hand pressed against the glass of the car and I was screaming, ‘Bawy! Help me!’ But he just turned away. He was eight and I was six and he could have
said something. ‘Tell her what you saw!’ I yelled at him before we headed toward the road that led to the highway. He knew that son-of-a-bitch was taking me to their vacation house on the coast of Maine. It was January and nobody would be looking there.” Sam shook as the flashback overwhelmed him. “And he did things to me that no man should ever do to a child. When he raped me, he would grab my throat and choke me until I thought I was a breath from death. But then I’d always wake up and he’d be looking at me with those cold, crazy eyes and the hell would start all over again. I’d puke on my bear and he’d laugh at me. He’d call me a baby. But I was just six for God’s sake!! I
was
a baby!” Sam looked off in the distance. “When he finally took me home, we first went to his house. And his wife saw me. He told her to give me a bath and clean the shit and piss out of my clothes. She did exactly what she was told. But all she said to me while she was doing it was, ‘So sad, too bad. So sad, too bad.’” His tenor rang with an eerie, singsong quality. “She was as weak as he was crazy. And then, he had her drop me off in front of my house and she just left me there… shattered, lost, terrified. When I told my mother what had happened, she was scared to say anything and refused to go to the police. Being from Russia, she didn’t trust the police and she didn’t want to get in trouble. Everyone was making sure they were taken care of… everyone except me! When the couple my mother worked for showed concern about where I’d been, I blurted out Mr. Webber’s name to him. The next day, my mother found an envelope on our stoop. Inside was a thousand dollars and a note that said,
Leave or be deported.
It was Mrs. Webber’s writing. So, we left and I was told by my mother to forget about everything…
to pretend it never happened
. That we had to move on and that, thanks to that thousand dollars, we could move far away. We ended up in Chicago and I could never speak about what happened to me again. As far as she was concerned, the book was closed.” Sam looked at Jane. “But
I
never closed that book! I never forgot! I was obsessed! The anger ate away at me until I knew I had to do
something about it. When my mother died, I was finally free to take action. I wanted revenge and I wasn’t going to stop until I got him and got him good.”