Make them Cry (12 page)

“Okay, okay,” Peter interrupted, springing to his feet. “I’m standing up. What do you want me to do?”

Anton grabbed his hand and led him farther away from the ledge—toward the center of the roof. “Close your eyes,” he said.

“I don’t like this already,” Peter muttered. He pretended to shut his eyes, but he was merely squinting. He could see Anton—slightly out of focus—through narrow slits and past his own eyelashes. “Okay, they’re closed. How come I have the feeling I’m going to end up pizza on the pavement six stories below here?”

“Because you don’t fucking trust me, that’s why,” Anton grumbled. “Do you want to quit? Is that it?”

Peter sighed. “I’m just not in the mood for a big scare right now, y’know? Maybe you’ll get a kick out of it, but I won’t.”

“If you’d really put your trust in me, you shouldn’t be scared.” Anton started to twirl Peter around in a circle. “Now, keep your eyes closed and keep spinning.”

Peter went along with it, yet he felt sick to his stomach with dread. He had a hard time seeing anything with his eyes half-shut. It was all just a blur. “Hey, go easy, okay?” he said. “Want me to barf?”

Suddenly, Anton stopped and came up behind him. Peter flinched as Anton’s hand covered his eyes. Now, he truly couldn’t see. He felt Anton’s hairy chest—slick with suntan lotion—rubbing against his back. Anton’s other hand came around and held his stomach. He began walking in circles, and Peter had to follow along. It felt like some sort of strange, deadly dance.

Peter squirmed a bit. He was dizzy with vertigo. The wind pelted him, while Anton’s warm, oiled body still pressed against his back. He knew Anton was leading him toward the roof’s ledge.

“You trust me?” Anton whispered in his ear.

“Yes, I trust you,” he whispered, trembling. There was something about it that felt exciting, dangerous and sexual. But he wanted Anton to stop.

“I’ve got you, Pete,” he heard him say. Blindly, he followed along a few more steps. “You’re shaking. You shouldn’t be scared. Keep the old peepers shut.”

Anton took his hand away. Peter could sense the light against his closed eyelids. He felt the breeze on his face. Anton slowly pushed at him from behind until he was bent forward.

“Okay, Pete. I’m not going to let you fall. You can look now.”

He swallowed hard, then opened his eyes. He was staring down at Anton’s towel.

Laughing, Anton gave him a little push, and Peter fell down on the towel. A moment later, Anton was on top of him, tickling him. “I bet you thought I’d take you to the ledge.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t do that to you….”

Giddy with relief, Peter writhed beneath him. His head was spinning. Anton pinned his hands down and leaned over him. He suddenly stopped laughing and became very still. His face hovered directly over Peter’s. They were both breathing hard. “Guess what?” he whispered.

“What?” Peter asked.

The handsome senior rolled off him. “You were right earlier,” he said. “It’s beginning to rain. I just felt a couple of drops on my back. We can’t stay up here much longer or we’ll get soaked.”

Anton suddenly looked very serious as he reached for his backpack. “We better get down to business,” he said. “I’ve had a tense morning, It was good, blowing off a little steam just now.”

Still catching his breath, Peter sat up and wrapped his arms around his legs. “So…um, what’s going on?”

“It hit me a few days ago,” Anton explained. “I was thinking back to when we couldn’t get any of the padres at St. Bart’s to take our bait. Not one of them really fit all the criteria on that list you made. Besides, none of them owns a car. All they have are those two old station wagons they share. So, where did the blue VW come from?”

“You said last night that whoever attacked me must have borrowed the car from someone.”

“Right.” Anton nodded. “I remembered something during my freshman year. This bimbo from the town used to come around once in a while. She drove a pale blue Volkswagen beetle. She used to park it and wait in the employee lot.”

“Who was she waiting for?”

“For her on-again-off-again boyfriend,” Anton said, reaching into his backpack. He glanced up at the rain clouds for a second, then pulled out a document and handed it to Peter. “Recognize him? He’s been living in St. Bartholomew Hall for six years now.”

Peter stared at the slightly blurred mug shots on an arrest record for twenty-three-year-old Duane Ryker. St. Bart’s resident custodian appeared much younger in the police photos, taken twelve years ago, when he’d been arrested for armed robbery. “Where did you get this?” Peter asked.

“A friend of mine from the King County Hall of Records owed me a favor. An E-mail with this attachment was waiting for me when I got back from the woods last night.” Anton nodded toward the paper in Peter’s hand. “I printed that up. Besides a five-year stint at Clark Penitentiary for armed robbery, good old Duane also served time for passing a bad check. And he was arrested for statutory rape, assault, and indecent exposure, but none of the charges stuck. He has two strikes against him. I often wondered why someone who seemed so slick with the chicks and so full of smarts would let himself get stuck in this nowhere janitor job—at a seminary no less, here in Boring Town, Dullsville, U. S. A. Now it makes sense.”

Peter studied the document. “With a record like this, why would they have hired him on here?”

“Some do-gooder in administration probably thought he deserved another chance. What I’m wondering is how well Johnny knew him. Did he ever talk about Duane with you?”

Peter shook his head. “We never discussed him, at least not in any significant way. He knew Duane pretty much the same way I do.”

“I was thinking last night—Johnny could have seen Duane doing something that would have given him three strikes. You said Johnny used to sneak out at night. Unless Duane has changed his ways, he always has one late-night date after another. Johnny could have witnessed something.”

“Like what?” Peter asked.

“Well, I figured, with Duane’s history of assault and rape, Johnny could have seen him attack one of his girlfriends—or worse. Another possibility I considered has to do with Duane’s five years in prison. He’s probably been with guys. Maybe he’s a switch-hitter. He could have gone after Johnny, or maybe even had a secret thing with him.” Anton sighed. “But that’s all theory, speculation. Until this morning, I couldn’t really connect Johnny with Duane. I had no evidence.”

“What happened this morning?”

“I broke into Duane’s room.”

“My God,” Peter murmured.

“I remembered Duane always used to go to the Ham and Egger for Sunday breakfast. So this morning, I waited around and watched him walk down Whopper Way. I picked the lock to his room and went through the place inch by inch. The bad news is I didn’t find a damn thing connecting him to Johnny.”

Peter frowned. He felt raindrops hitting his shoulders and back.

“What I discovered,” Anton continued, “connects him with you, Pete. How tall was that guy who attacked you?”

“Around six feet.”

“Look at the height in that description of our janitor friend.”

“Five-eleven,” Peter read out loud.

“Duane’s right-handed, too. I was watching him this morning. He fits the physical description. That’s strike one.” Anton reached into his backpack and pulled out something wrapped in tin foil. “I got this from the ashtray on his desk.”

He carefully peeled back the foil. Peter stared at the used book of matches from the Lakeside Inn Grill. He picked up one of the three cigarette butts and read the brand name printed by the filter:
Marlboro
.

“That’s strike two,” Anton said. He dug deeper into the backpack. “And here’s strike three, Pete. I found it in his closet. Look familiar?”

Anton showed him a black ski mask.

“Jesus,” Peter whispered.

Anton squinted up at the rain, then he started loading the evidence back into his bag. “You mentioned the guy had a knife,” he said. “Duane had some knives, but I wasn’t sure what to look for. Was it a switchblade?”

“I think that’s what it was,” Peter said, reaching for his shirt.

“Well, I didn’t see one in his place. So I decided to try that ugly van of his, the one always parked in the employee lot. I figured maybe I’d even find Johnny’s missing clothes or something. But I can’t identify Johnny’s clothes. I barely knew him.”

“Well, I could do that,” Peter said.

“Really? I didn’t even have a chance to try. I’d just gotten the van’s side door unlocked when I saw Duane coming back from breakfast. So I got the hell out of there. I’ve been sitting here, trying to figure out if I should go back or not. I think the van is still unlocked.”

“I could search through it,” Peter whispered eagerly.

Getting to his feet, Anton stepped into his cutoffs. “Not a good idea,” he said. “Too dangerous. Duane’s sure to know something’s up. I tried to cover my tracks when I went through his room, but he might have figured out someone was in there. It’s only a matter of time before he discovers his ski mask is missing. He’ll be on his guard today.”

“Then we’ll create a diversion,” Peter suggested. “Duane has a phone in his room, doesn’t he?”

Anton stopped dressing. “Yeah.”

“You can make an anonymous call to him, saying that you have the jacket. Tell him if he wants it back, he’ll have to come meet you on the other side of the lake. Tell him to walk over, otherwise no deal. While he’s gone, I’ll go through the van.”

“Pete, it’s dangerous. You make the phone call. I’ll search the van.”

“You just said you couldn’t identify Johnny’s clothes. I’m the only one who could do that. It has to be me.”

The rain started to come down heavier. “Okay,” Anton said, nodding. His shirt fluttered in the wind as he put it on. “We have to move fast. C’mon, shake a leg before we get completely soaked.”

It started raining as they walked back to Maggie’s car. “We shouldn’t stay here,” she said in a shaky voice. “Garcia might still be around. Could you drive, Jack? It doesn’t matter where, anyplace we don’t have to worry about someone seeing us.”

Jack got behind the wheel and drove just outside town. He pulled into a dead-end road he’d discovered during one of his runs. It was on a bluff overlooking the lake. The rain had become heavier during their brief drive. They didn’t say anything to each other. Most of the time, Maggie just leaned toward the window, her face turned away from him.

He parked the car, then switched off the wipers. Directly ahead of them was a low guardrail, and beyond that, the lake. Rain pattered its silver-green surface. Jack listened to the tapping on the car roof. He could also hear Maggie, sobbing quietly.

He reached over and put his arm around her. Maggie let out a grateful little cry, then buried her face in his shoulder. He gently stroked her hair—and even dared to kiss her forehead.

After a while, Maggie pulled back, then she dug a Kleenex from her purse. “Sorry about the tears,” she said, wiping her eyes and nose. “It’s like finding out all over again that he’s dead. I just can’t accept it.”

Her red-rimmed eyes wrestled with his. “Jack, I know I haven’t gotten the whole story about Johnny. If you’re holding back on something, you might as well tell me. Dump it on me now, one big load.”

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“I keep thinking about that money Johnny had hidden away. Did you ever find out about that?”

He nodded. “Yes. I know how he got the money.”

“Does it have anything to do with Father Garcia’s cover-up?” Maggie pressed. “Did Johnny do something—pretty bad?”

Jack glanced out the rain-beaded windshield at the lake. “John was a good-looking young man, and a very sweet kid, but I don’t have to tell you that.” He sighed. “John’s good looks weren’t lost on some of the guys at Our Lady of Sorrows. A few of them even offered to pay him for sex, and John went along with it. That’s how he got the money.”

Maggie squirmed, then took a deep breath. “So these people who…um, paid my brother for sex,” she said, an edginess in her voice. “Were they priests?”

“No,” Jack said. “They were sophomores at the college, three very closeted seminarians. I think they were paying Johnny for his secrecy as much as they were paying to be with him. And he kept their secret. I didn’t find out about it until a few weeks ago.”

Maggie rolled down her window. The cool, wet spring air wafted into the ear. She wouldn’t look at Jack. She rested one elbow on the car door and rubbed her forehead. “You and Johnny were supposed to be close. You had no idea any of this was going on?”

“Not a clue,” Jack answered. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was. Johnny was my responsibility.”

“Well, I’m not holding you accountable.” Maggie stared out the window. “Maybe if I’d been a better provider, Johnny wouldn’t have had to resort to such measures for money.”

“Now who’s trying to take the blame?” Jack said quietly. “I’ve struggled with it, too. It all boils down to this: Johnny probably did what he did out of some sort of need—money, affection, or validation, or whatever. I don’t think he meant to hurt anybody. My feelings for Johnny haven’t changed. I still love him like he was my own son.”

Maggie continued to stare out the window. She wiped her eyes, then bit down on her fist. “Listen, do you think any of these seminarians were involved in his death?”

“No, I looked into that already,” Jack answered. “Whoever killed John, his territory goes beyond this seminary. Lucy is the key to proving that. It sounds gruesome, but we need to see if her death was like the others—down to the last detail. There must be some way we can find out if any of her teeth were gone, or if she was missing any fingers or toes.”

Maggie grimaced. “Well, I know someone who could look into that for us,” she said. “He’s a journalist. He used to work the police beat in Juneau, Alaska. His name’s Steve. We’ve gone out a couple of times. I know he likes me. He might have some connections with the Seattle police. I’m sure he’ll do whatever he can for me.”

Jack nodded soberly. He was surprised that she’d started seeing someone. Then again, why shouldn’t she? He had no claim on her. He had no right to question what she did with her love life.