Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [674]
“She said sure, but when you get here, she said she’ll need to call your mom to tell her where you are. Sorry,” Timmy said as if that ultimatum would be a letdown or a deal breaker.
“I’m at Goldberg’s. Can you give me directions?”
“Hold on,” Timmy said, and then to his mom who must have been asking him something, he said, “He’s at Goldberg’s.” There was a long pause while Timmy listened to her.
Geez! Was she changing her mind? Was she telling Timmy to forget about it? Where would he go then?
“Hey, Gibson, my mom wants to know if you have any extra cash could you bring a couple orders of potato wedges and deep-fried mushrooms? She’ll pay you back when you get here.”
Gibson held back the sigh of relief and simply said, “Sure.”
CHAPTER 67
Washington, D.C.
It was almost midnight by the time he made it back home. Thankfully his flight had been on time. Even the cab ride from the airport had gone smoothly. Yet the thumping in his chest had not subsided one little bit. His heart banged and crashed against his rib cage until he swore he could feel bruises. Every muscle ached and screamed. Exhaustion seeped into his pores.
He turned on the TV and powered up his computer while he flipped channels, watching for any news from Boston. He pulled off his sweat-drenched polo shirt and tossed it in the corner, still disappointed that he had to throw out his Boston Red Sox T-shirt and his old Nikes. It was a good thing he had brought a change of clothes. He hadn’t been able to bring along enough plastic to contain the mess. And his frenzy was such this time that he hadn’t even realized how much blood had splattered on him and the walls of the gardening shed while he hacked Father Paul’s body to pieces. Pieces that fit quite nicely into three garbage bags. Sometimes the frenzy became almost a blackout, like he had no control over his mind or body. He could watch himself, looking down, suspended from a far corner of the ceiling, but only able to watch, not participate, not stop.
Later the calm returned, a calm after the storm instead of before. He had used the outside shower stall alongside the shed to wash himself, relishing the quiet of the afternoon and the secrecy that the six-foot wooden privacy fence, the huge oaks and flowering hedges provided. Despite the sticky, hot July air it reminded him of being in the Garden of Eden and finally he could wash away his guilt, his hatred, his sins. So why did the throbbing continue?
He stopped flipping channels, catching a glimpse of the old church on a Fox News Alert. He left the sound turned off, reading the crawl at the bottom of the screen. They showed Blessed Sacrament Church and the rectory while the crawl told that Father Paul Conley had been the victim of a brutal murder. They mentioned Mrs. Sanchez and the regret tugged at his innards. It still bothered him that he’d had to kill her. But the old woman had been in the way. He couldn’t help that.
There was no mention of the display he had left on the altar, using Father Conley’s key to enter the quiet locked church from the back. No mention that most of the priest was still missing. And he smiled. He had left the bags three blocks away in the back alley of Joe’s Seafood Grill and Bar where the week’s garbage had already piled up in smelly heaps falling out of the Dumpster. He’d tossed Father Paul Conley up on top of the heap, one bag at a time. It seemed an appropriate place for him.
Yes, despite the constant banging in his chest he felt quite good, satisfied.
He shut off the TV and turned to go to bed when he noticed an instant message flashing at the upper corner of his computer screen. It winked at him almost as if it knew his secret. He stared at it, a new wave of panic threatening to unleash itself. Without sitting, he clicked on the icon. It was from The Sin Eater and its one-line message had him looking over his shoulder and double-checking the locks on his door. The message read:
WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?
CHAPTER 68
Wednesday, July 7
District Police Department
Washington, D.C.
Gwen Patterson