“Right. Oh, this is interesting,” she said, still reading.“‘A high percentage of all stigmatics—perhaps over eighty percent—are women.’ So the killer must be a religious nut, right? He leaves the bodies at a former Catholic retreat center. And now this.”
“And the phone call,” I reminded her. “Mentioning what a good Catholic Shannon was.”
“Jeez, this is adding up to be pretty freaky.”
“Any word on cause of death for Amy and Page?”
“Nothing yet.”
We asked for more coffee and batted theories back and forth for a while longer, but I could feel myself growing restless, eager to be in a setting where I could think without old songs by Foreigner and Bon Jovi pounding in the background. I also wanted to settle back in my motel room, with the dead bolt firmly in place, before it grew too late. I flagged the waitress for the check.
“Bailey, I know I’m in danger of becoming a nag, but please be extra careful,” Alice said when we stepped out onto the sidewalk. I appreciated her concern. I kept telling myself I’d served a purpose for the killer, and he might want or need me to continue in that role, which meant my life wasn’t in any danger. But the news Alice had revealed tonight had unnerved me.
Our cars, it turned out, were in different directions, and before parting, we embraced in a hug. As ugly as the day had been, it had bonded the two of us.
Two minutes later, I was headed north on Route 9N. The road was nearly deserted except for the occasional car coming south. My high beams picked out the motels and fast-foodstands closest to the road, but everything else was swallowed by darkness.
As I drove, I let my gaze dart regularly to the rearview mirror. Just once, a vehicle appeared behind me, but it pulled off after a couple of minutes onto a side road.
When I swung into the parking lot of the Breezy Point, a light was burning inside the office, but I didn’t see anyone moving around in there. Surely there had to be a clerk on duty someplace.
I maneuvered into the parking spot in front of my unit, killed the engine, and twisted in my seat, scanning the lot. There was only one other car, parked way at the other end, in front of a unit with a faint light seeping out from the edges of the window shade. Well, at leastsomebodywas around. I jumped out of the Jeep and quickly let myself into the room.
After flicking on the lights and shaking off my jacket, I checked Twitter for alerts from a variety of news sources. With the discovery of the three bodies, the Shannon Blaine story had exploded and was now online everywhere—including CNN,PeopleCrime Watch, and the network TV websites. By tomorrow the area would be flooded with fresh troops of reporters. Maybe the killer would reach out to one ofthem. As much as I’d been creeped out by the call, the idea of another reporter securing a fresh clue from him didn’t please me.
Next, I scrolled through a few vaguely scholarly articles about stigmata, including one that claimed that most historical cases of stigmata were likely either self-inflicted or psychosomatic.
None of which explained why the killer would want to mark his victims in that manner.
I toyed with a few possible motives for his actions. He might have been mistreated by a parent with extreme religious beliefs. Or he’d been abused—sexually or otherwise—by a member of the clergy. Since there was a possibility he’d gone to a retreat once at the Sunset Bay center, he may have even been abusedthere.
Surely the police would be combing through whatever records still existed from the center and following up with attendees, as well as with people who had supervised, instructed, or counseled there.
They wouldn’t be sharing that info, but there was one person who might at least help me understand the killer’s mental state: Marc Horton, a former FBI profiler who was always kind enough to take my calls. Though it was too late for a conversation now, I shot him an email asking if we could talk tomorrow.
This new development also added urgency to my desire to follow up with Tom Nolan. In addition to wanting to learn if he’d informed anyone about our brief conversation, I was eager to hear what he knew about the retreat center. Had he ever heard a parishioner mention having been there when younger? HadShannonever been there? I’d have to swing by the parish center at some point tomorrow.
A few days ago, I’d wondered whether Shannon had been experiencing a spiritual or emotional crisis that had led her back to the church and then spurred her to go on the lam. It hadn’t played out like that at all, but I still wanted to knowwhy she’d gone back, because it might factor into the killer’s motive.
There was still the chance, of course, that Shannon had been abducted randomly by a sexual predator who’d spotted her jogging, one who just happened to have a religious obsession. He might have learned of her faith only after reading about her disappearance in the news. The fact that she had recently rejoined the church could be nothing more than coincidence. But as Buddy, my old newspaper colleague, used to say, believing in coincidences was on par with thinking that stuffed animals came to life when you weren’t looking at them or that pulling the blanket up around your neck in bed kept you safe from harm.
Perhaps J.J. might have insight worth sharing. I needed to grab more time with her, and with Kelly, too, if I could ever manage to dislodge her from Doug’s side.
I stretched my weary arms and legs and then turned my attention back to my laptop, rereading thePost Starcoverage about the two campers. I found nothing I hadn’t noted the first time. I also searched for anything I could find about Page’s family, who were reportedly from Florida, but I had no luck in that department, either. Hopefully Amy’s friend Kayla would prove to be a valuable resource.
My eyes, I realized, were strained from being in front of a screen for so long, and every muscle in my body begged for rest. I was also desperate for a break from the thoughts churning endlessly in my brain about the contents of those black contractor bags.
I double-checked that the bolt on the door was in place,and after slipping into a T-shirt, slid between the sheets. Warm air whirred from the heating unit. Normally that kind of sound would have annoyed me to death, but tonight it managed to act like white noise, and before long, I felt myself drifting off to sleep.
And then I was wide awake again. I sensed a sound had woken me and I strained to hear. Nothing at first. I scooted up in bed. Okay, there it was—footsteps on the walkway not far from my door. My heart bounced inside my chest.
I reached for the lamp but thought better of revealing I’d been awakened. Instead, I froze in position listening. It was silent outside again, and I wondered if my imagination had gotten the better of me. But then, soft as a whisper, more footsteps, coming closer.
I fumbled for my phone on the bedside table and grasped it, just in case. The footsteps ceased again. Whoever it was must have stopped directly in front of my door. My eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, and I stared at the doorknob, waiting to see if it jiggled.
The knob never moved. But I could have sworn that the door itself shifted ever so slightly, as if someone were leaning lightly against it.
Chapter 10
