The Less-Dead (20 page)

“No, I can’t do that.”

“God, I wish you had listened to me in the first place and burned that damn book.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t. And I’m doing this for Will. Plus, if some other kid gets killed because I didn’t do the right thing, then I won’t be able to live with myself. So just do me a favor, okay? If Quindlan arrests me, go home and tell my parents. Tell them
everything
. And give Aubrey a call too.”

“Right. And we’ll make sure to visit you in jail. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

As we approach, Hercules barks and barrels toward Carson. “Whoa, hey, Hercules.” Carson bends down and scratches the dog behind his ears while Hercules jumps up and licks his face.

“What do you know? We’ve got company, Dooms,” Quindlan says. He sits up on his bedroll, yawns, and stretches.

Doomsday is leaning against the church door, smoking a cigarette and reading a collection of poems by Pablo Neruda. When he sees me, his eyes widen. Guiltily, he drops
his cigarette and stomps on it. “Oh, my. Sorry. Filthy habit. Hello, Noah. Did you come back to discuss end-time prophecy? I certainly hope so.”

“No, I didn’t. Actually, I need to talk to Quindlan. And Carson wants to hang out with you for a while.”

Doomsday’s eyes narrow at Carson. “Is that so?”

“Um, yeah,” Carson says. “You see, I’m getting baptized soon, and I could use some advice.”

A smile spreads across Doomsday’s face. He sets down his book. “When one sinner repents, all the angels in heaven rejoice! Come, tell me all about it. Will you have sprinkling or full immersion?”

Carson shoots me a look. “Well, I’ll be getting dunked in my girlfriend’s pool, so I guess you’d call that full immersion.”

“Wonderful. The best method.”

I give Carson a little push toward Doomsday. “Go ahead, dude,” I whisper. “And say a prayer for me. I’m gonna need it.”

As Quindlan and I walk down the church steps, Doomsday calls out, “Watch out for Mr. Quindlan, Noah. He’s a maniac.”

Quindlan laughs. “Okay, Dooms. Whatever you say.”

Inside the Thai restaurant, Quindlan shovels a forkful of noodles into his mouth and turns a page in Will’s book. I’ve dog-eared all the pages with poems written by the killer, and Quindlan is studying each one. There’s a plate of spicy,
steaming noodles in front of me, but I can’t eat. “So, what do you think?” I say.

“Well, this is certainly an interesting piece of evidence. Apparently the killer is quite intelligent. Very organized. Not a bad poet, either. And for whatever reason, he wanted you, or
someone
, to find this book.”

I wait for Quindlan to read me my Miranda rights, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Noah, I’d like to keep this. I’ll show it to the detectives working on the case. I’m sure the profiler will be thrilled to have it.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Um, yeah, of course. That’s why I came here. To give you the book.”

“Great.” He sets it on the table and motions toward my plate. “Now, please, eat. Your food’s getting cold.”

“That’s it?” I say. “You’re not going to charge me with anything?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, because I tampered with evidence. I found the book at Will’s campsite and didn’t turn it over to the police. Plus, I lied.”

“Well, yes, that’s true. You should have given the book to the police right from the start, but honestly, I don’t blame you for taking it. If I was in your position, young and stupid, I probably would have done the same thing. Will was your friend. The book was something he probably would have wanted you to have. You didn’t know it would contain clues to the murders.”

All of a sudden I realize I’ve been holding my breath for a long time. I let it out and suck in more air. “But what will you tell the other detectives? How will you explain it all?”

“That’s my business, Noah. Don’t worry about it. The important thing is that we have the book now. And we’re closer than ever to solving the case. Please, eat.”

It feels like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. “Gosh, I don’t know what to say, except, well,
thank you.”

“No problem. You were smart to come to me.”

I feel my whole body relax. Suddenly I’m hungry. The noodles are still warm. I eat a forkful and take more. When I’ve finished half my plate, I say, “Quindlan, can I ask you something?”

He’s still eating his lunch and flipping through the book. He looks up. “Sure.”

“Last time we spoke, you told me the police believed that Warren Banks killed Kyle and Paul, and that someone else, maybe from the Westboro church, killed Will. But don’t the clues in the book point to
one
killer?”

He nods. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t mention this before, but last week my father and I visited Warren Banks in prison. Banks told us that he was with Kyle the night he was killed, but Kyle left with someone else—a guy asking for spare change. A guy who was also carrying a
Bible
. And then yesterday I went to my father’s studio, and—”

Quindlan holds up one hand. “I know. I heard the show. I took a little time off last night, went to my apartment, and listened to the Internet broadcast. I thought you were very good, Noah.”

“So that means you heard the question the caller asked? About the woman caught in adultery, and what Jesus wrote in the sand?”

“I did.”

“And didn’t that freak you out? I mean, you said that was Will’s favorite Bible passage, and that Doomsday chose it for the chaplain to read at his burial.”

Quindlan nods. “Yes, it was alarming.”

“Do you think it’s possible … ?”

He looks at me. “That Doomsday is the killer? No, I don’t. But it could be someone else who was close to Will.”

I hesitate for a moment. “Hawk?”

Quindlan doesn’t answer. He sets down his fork and takes out paper and a pen. He begins to write, and when he’s done, he hands the paper to me. It reads:

The words the caller used. What he suggested Jesus might have written in the sand. A prediction of Jesus’s death. Clues to a future event.

“I suppose we could make several guesses as to who killed Will, but here’s what I think,” Quindlan says. “If our theory is right, those must be the final clues. There’s an abandoned warehouse on the east side, about five miles off Manor Road. It’s marked with a huge skull and crossbones spray-painted on the outside wall. Not too long ago I busted a bunch of guys cooking batches of meth out there. I found
out the dealers called the warehouse Golgotha, which means ‘place of the skull.’”

“And Golgotha was the name of the hill where Jesus was crucified,” I say. “So you think that’s where the next murder might take place? Inside that warehouse?”

“It’s possible.”

“And the sixth hour,” I say. “That was the time Jesus died.”

“Right. According to the Aramaic calendar, that would be three in the afternoon our time.”

“I guess that makes sense, but”—I glance at the list—“what about crucifixion? That’s crazy. I mean how—”

“Not so crazy, Noah. When the Romans crucified their prisoners, do you know how they actually died?”

I think this over for a moment. “Yes, I do,” I say, remembering one of Pastor Simpson’s sermons. “They died by asphyxiation.”

“Exactly.” Quindlan spreads out his arms like he’s on a cross. “After they were beaten, bloodied, nailed, and left hanging for a while, they just didn’t have the strength to breathe. So instead of a cross, our guy uses a rope.” He drops his hands. “You might say he crucifies his victims in a more civilized way.”

“Oh, God. And what about the word
kiss
?”

“Hmmm. That’s the one that really troubles me. The one that makes me believe the killer is a friend of Will’s.”

My heart begins to pound. “Quindlan? The caller said something to me off the air. He said, ‘Remember this: Jesus was betrayed by a friend.’”

Quindlan nods slowly. “Noah, it’s important for you to realize that for you, this is over. You don’t need to be involved anymore. You’ve done all you can, and now you need to move on. Look, I know you didn’t get to resolve things with Will, but you can’t dwell on it. It’s over. Think about other interests: school, your friends, your music—and what about Aubrey? Did things work out with you and her?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“Good. Spend time with her. Hang out with your friends. Try not to think about any of this. I’ll be there, at the warehouse, on November tenth. I promise. And I’ll have a team of officers with me. A big backup crew. If all of this is true, we’ll get the guy. The murders will end. There’s no need for you to worry anymore.”

“Okay.” I turn the paper over, slide it to Quindlan, and hand him the pen. “But will you do one thing for me? Draw me a map to Golgotha?”

“Noah, you can’t go there. It’s dangerous.”

“I just want to drive by. Today, in broad daylight, before I go home. I just need to see the place with my own eyes. It’ll help me put everything to rest.”

Reluctantly, Quindlan takes the pen from my hand. He taps it against the table a few times, then begins to draw.

He hands me the map. “Don’t do anything foolish, Noah.”

“There it is,” I say. “There’s the warehouse. I see the skull.”

Carson parks the Lexus on the side of the road. We’re in
no-man’s-land, a big barren field in the middle of nowhere. The eye sockets of the spray-painted skull seem to be staring directly at me.

“So that’s Golgotha?” Carson says.

“That’s it.” We sit there for a while, staring at the building. A farm truck carrying huge bales of hay passes by. Cows are mooing in the distance. “Come on, let’s go inside and check it out,” I say.

“What? Are you crazy? Going inside wasn’t part of the deal, Noah. I said I’d drive by. That’s all. Quindlan gave you a get-out-of-jail-free card. If you were smart, you’d take it and run.”

I open the car door. “Fine. I’ll go alone, then.”

“No! Wait!” Carson gets out. “You’re not going alone. Just … hold on.” He heads to the back of the car and opens the trunk. “Here, take one of these.” He tosses me one of the DPCP’s prosthetic legs and takes one for himself. “If we’re going in, we’ll need weapons. Good thing I didn’t drop these off at the factory yet.”

I grip the leg. It’s as heavy as a baseball bat. “Good thinking, dude.”

We walk across the field. The air is still. It’s deathly quiet.

I try several doors before I find one that’s unlocked. “Carson, come here. This one’s open.” Slowly, we walk inside. It’s dark and musty. Carson walks through a huge spiderweb. “Gross.” He spits and sputters. A rat scurries across the floor.

“Okay, are you happy? Can we go now?” Carson says. “There’s nothing in here. It’s just an old, empty warehouse.”

“Wait.” I open a dirty window and sunlight pours in. As my eyes adjust, I begin to see words spray-painted on the wall. “Carson, look over there.” Several lines are written in bold red letters. “Oh my God. It’s another poem,” I say.

Carson stares and reads aloud.