This Is How You Die Page 21

  He was stuck in the middle of the aisle, occasionally moving aside to let others through. At least a dozen police officers and forensic officers were in the church, with the majority swarming around the bodies on the altar and the blood in the confessional. At the back of the church, two officers kept guard at the door, keen to keep out the gathering crowd. The bodies had been discovered just a few hours ago by the mother of the boy beneath the cross. He had stayed behind after a family visit to church and when he was late, she got worried and returned. The church was locked and she assumed he had already left, but when she couldn’t find him hours later, she spoke to the caretaker and asked him to open the doors. By then they were already open, the killer already gone, and what they saw was enough to put her in the hospital with shock and to turn the caretaker into a shaking, mumbling wreck.

  “Are you not going to get a closer look?” Tenant asked, nudging Lester.

  Lester simply glared at him and eventually Tenant left him, his hands stuffed casually in his pockets as he approached the dead bodies. This was no doubt the first time he had seen a corpse in person, but he was trying to play it cool to maintain whatever modicum of respect he thought his colleagues had for him. Lester knew that when Tenant finished work, he would rush home, cry into his pillow, and drown his sorrows in as much alcohol as he could find. Lester didn’t blame him.

  The Masquerade, whatever he was and whatever he would become, finally got the recognition that Lester always knew he had wanted. Whitegate would once again be filled with macabre tourists and terrified locals. For the next few weeks at least, Herman and the town of Whitegate would become the center of the universe, but there was something else, another reason. It felt like more than a stunt, more than an orchestrated nightmare, and the more Lester stared at the human destruction in front of him, the more he felt he wasn’t seeing the whole picture.

  There was something there. The way it was arranged made Lester confident Herman was trying to tell him something. This was grand and showy, and he had done that for effect, there was no doubt about it. Herman loved to make a scene; he loved to strike fear in the hearts of the people and to give them a memory that they would never forget, but this, this …

  “I feel like I’m missing something,” Lester said, half to himself.

  “Me too,” Matthews said. He face was pale and his lips were blue. He looked like he was about to projectile vomit a sugary breakfast all over the already desecrated ground.

  “There’s a message here.”

  “Yes. That this guy is fucking nuts.”

  Lester shook his head slowly.

  “For He so loved his pathetic little world, that He gave his only begotten son.”

  Lester’s face creased as he looked up to see a woman approach, decked out in the white uniform of the forensic team.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your message,” she said, holding up a bible. “That’s it.” Her finger was pointing to a passage, parts of which had been crossed out and rewritten.

  He reached for the book but she pulled it away. “Evidence, I’m afraid. If you want to touch it, you’ll have to dress up.”

  “What else does it say?” Lester asked.

  “That’s it,” she told him. “It was open at that page when we found it. Oh, and there is this.” She showed him again. He could just make out a faint word that had been scribbled onto the end of the edited line.

  “And Devil?” he asked, a little concerned at the reference.

  “Look again,” she said.

  He edged closer, close enough to get a whiff of the scent of old leather and ancient parchment. This book had probably been in the church’s possession for more than a hundred years and yet in one instant it had been defaced.

  “‘And Daughter?’” He looked up into the eyes of the forensic officer and she nodded.

  “We have no idea what it means,” she confirmed.

  Lester ran the phrase through his head a number of times and then spoke it out loud; it was nothing more than a mumble, but it was enough to drive the meaning home. “For He so loved his pathetic little world, that He gave his only begotten son and daughter.” Lester felt every muscle in his body tense. He felt his heart stop and his lungs empty as the life in him froze.

  “That can’t be,” he said softly, his voice breaking, grating out of his chest, barely making it past his lips, which had turned dry. Sticky. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

  The forensic officer gave him a concerned glance. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  When he raised his eyes to meet her, she became frightened. He had changed from disconsolate to terrified in an instant.

  “I—I—” He shook his head and then pulled out his phone. They asked him questions, their voices growing louder and more concerned with each word, but he ignored them. He dialed the number he knew by heart, as if in that split second he didn’t trust the validity of speed dial.

  He waited, breathing heavily, beads of sweat popping on his forehead.

  The phone rang once, twice, three times. There was no answer, and with every chime he felt his heart sink lower. Felt the life drain out of him.

  How did he know?

  By the fourth and fifth ring, his surprise and his fear began to evolve into anger—anger at himself and anger at the man who had caused those emotions to stir inside him.

  By the seventh ring, he was prepared to hang up, but the sound of the voicemail message stopped him.

  “I’m sorry, but no one is home right now.”

  It was a standard message, but it wasn’t spoken by anyone who lived in the house. It wasn’t his mother, his son, or his daughter. It was a man, a man whose voice he had never heard, but a man whose featureless face had haunted his nightmares many times.

  “But if you would like to pay us a visit, then who knows, you might just get to see us. We haven’t been feeling very well of late, so to avoid doing us any harm, please come alone.” The voice changed at that point. Lester could almost picture the sadistic serial killer sneering as he finished. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  2

  Lester rushed out of the church, nearly knocking down the officers by the door when they tried to stop him. They yelled something at him, and he heard orders shouted from behind him as well, but he couldn’t decipher them. He barely even heard them. It wasn’t until he threw open the large doors leading into the church that he realized what they had been saying. As soon as the doors swung open, their ancient hinges screaming as the wood embraced the wind and parachuted backward, the crowd outside looked at him and at the scene they could now see behind him.

  “Shit,” Lester cursed under his breath.

  He had entered through the same doors, as had a couple of others first on the scene, but after that they had shut them, guarded them, and stopped anyone from coming or going through them. Everyone had used a small side door that led into the back of the church, keen for the crowd not to see the image that The Masquerade had painted for them.

  There were gasps, moans, squeals, myriad human vocal sounds, none of which produced coherent words. Then the flashes began. First from the dozens of photographers sensing their moment, then from the camera phones held by sickened but opportunistic locals. Before they had time to react and close the doors, social media was already gearing up to receive images of Herman’s latest massacre.

  It was just what he would have wanted, Lester knew that, and he knew it was his fault. Again. He tried to ignore those thoughts, to banish that guilt. He didn’t have time to dwell. He didn’t want to make it three catastrophic mistakes; he didn’t want to lose what was left of his family to this monster. His kids hated him, he may as well have been a cardboard cutout with ears as far as his mother was concerned, and he didn’t like any of them. But he did love them and knew that without them, he had nothing.

  The journalists and the public hounded him as he pushed through, swatting them away like a celebrity on his way to a film premiere. The questions rang in
his ears and boiled his blood. So mundane, so inane, so pathetic—didn’t they know there were people’s lives at stake? He was doing his best to ignore them and to swim through them, but then he hit a hurdle in the form of a six foot five, 240-pound iceberg.

  “Just one question,” the behemoth said.

  Lester was grimacing by then, his face red, his ears practically steaming. He looked at the big man, so cool and composed, and instantly he felt angrier. He saw Herman in that man’s body language. There he was, at a crime scene, surrounded by fear and death, yet he was calm, relaxed, only thinking about himself.

  The big man seemed to think he had won, that he had manipulated someone into getting what he wanted, just like he probably did every other day of his working week.

  “Can you tell us what is happening in there?” the behemoth said, a smug smile on his face as the other journalists stood and watched, reluctant to intrude on his prize catch.

  He took out a notepad and a pen, both of which looked tiny in his hands.

  “Smug, fucking sociopathic little prick,” Lester said through gritted teeth.

  “Excuse me?” Despite not being sure of what was said, the journalist scribbled on his notepad, at which point Lester reached forward and ripped it from his hand. The behemoth tilted his head to the side, a patronizing look on his face, as though someone were playing games, being mischievous. “Come on now, let’s play—”

  Lester put his hand under the notepad and pressed it up against the big man’s hand. The behemoth immediately cut short his condescension to give Lester a curious glance.

  Lester then drove the pen through the top of the behemoth’s hand and grinned with satisfaction as it sank into his flesh and wedged halfway between his palm and his notepad. The big man opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. Lester rubbed his hands together, gave a nod to the shocked and appalled onlookers, and then continued to his car, not failing to notice how quickly the throng parted in front of him.

  It was a fairly short drive, but not a good one to make when angry. He needed a release, he needed something to cling to, something to stop the fear and the worry from overcoming him. He hoped the radio would help, turning it all the way up until it drowned out his ability to think, but then the music cut off and a breaking news story cut in. He didn’t need to listen to it to know what it was. The world was about to be told about Herman all over again.

  He practically punched the radio, turning it off and leaving the car in silence.

  “Bastard!” he yelled, thumping the wheel. “Wait until I get my fucking hands on you.”

  The more he drove, the less anger he felt. The depression and the sadness crept in. He thought about his kids, about how hurt he had been when he lost his wife and how much more this was going to affect him. He also thought about how hurt they had been, about how Annabelle had tried to stay strong for her brother, who cried for two months straight, and that when she thought no one was around, she would break down herself. They had been through hell, and that, coupled with his inability to look after them, to stay strong and to be the father they needed, had turned them into the angry and rebellious children they were.

  He was nearly in tears, close to being pushed over the edge by the sight of festive houses—decked out in Christmas cheer, ready for the season. Christmas was different now, but his kids loved it now as much as they did when they were younger. He could still remember their smiling faces, their squeals of joy. He could still remember the way his wife looked as she watched her children open their gifts.

  “Please don’t let this be,” he whispered under his breath, his voice breaking. “Not them. Not now. Please.”

  ——

  Lester was a wreck by the time he arrived at his mother’s house. That short journey had transformed him, adding years to his face, scars to his mind.

  The sun had set so he killed the lights as he pulled into the driveway, not wanting to announce his arrival. The house was in darkness, none of the lights had been turned on, and as he clambered out of the car, he felt his knees going weak. He had to pause, resting on the hood, gathering himself, telling himself that he needed to be strong and reminding himself that if they were still alive in there, he was the only person who could save them.

  This was the house he had grown up in, the house in which he’d drunk his first beer and, while his parents were away, the house in which he’d lost his virginity. It was also the house he had been in when, at age fourteen, he had learned about the death of his father following a road accident. There were good and bad memories, and he knew the next few minutes could create memories that would surpass all that had gone before.

  As he gripped the door handle, he had flashbacks to his youth, to the times he had tried to sneak in or out when his mother was asleep. He remembered the time when he had crept out, stayed out for most of the night, and then returned, sedated with beer, only to find his mother waiting for him with a stern expression, a lecture, and anger that didn’t subside for weeks. He wished he could open the door now and find her sitting in the living room like she had been all those years ago. He was happy to let her lecture him, to let her shout and bawl, if it meant she was alive and well enough to do so.

  He breathed deeply, his hand sweaty on the cold metal handle. He opened the door and was both surprised and concerned to find it unlocked. There were no lights on in the hallway or in the rooms beyond, but if anyone could sneak into the house unannounced, then it was him. He knew every turn, every obstacle, and every squeak in the floorboards. If Herman was waiting for him then he would need to be paying attention, because Lester wasn’t going to make a sound.

  He doubted Herman would appreciate him sneaking around, but he had done what was asked of him. He had come alone. If he was caught, then he could worry about how to talk his way out of it; if he wasn’t, then he was going to use whatever chance he had to take Herman down and save his family.

  He went to the kitchen first, the closest room to the front door and one in which he could prepare himself. The old kitchen cupboards and drawers had been noisy. She had since refurnished, though, and the cutlery drawer didn’t make a sound as he opened it and removed the biggest knife he could find before allowing it to roll shut on its magnetic rails.

  He checked the living room and dining room, making sure the first floor was covered. But his search was quick, inattentive. Something within told him there was nothing to find here. And that something was dragging him away, toward the stairs and toward the bedrooms.

  Something was worrying him, had startled him: it was the realization he was too late, that it didn’t matter if he did or didn’t make a noise; it didn’t matter if he called the police, because Herman had already done what he had threatened to do.

  Annabelle’s room was first, but he froze as he reached out. He felt his heart sinking with every beat, felt a slimy film of sweat all over his body, gluing clothes to his skin, hair to his forehead.

  “Please, no,” he mouthed into the darkness. “Please, don’t be—”

  He opened the door and instantly it hit him. The smell that had irritated his nostrils on his ascent up the stairs, the smell that he had become familiar with throughout his career. His words choked in his throat.

  It was dark in the room, but the curtains were open. Through the orange glow of the streetlights and the stark moonlight, he could see his daughter on the bed.

  She was balled up, holding her stomach. It was the same position she had been in when she was seven and had suffered with a bout of gastroenteritis. She had been in agony for days and he had stayed by her side, stroking her hair, promising her everything was going to be okay. Back then everything had been okay, but he could no longer make those promises to her and she could no longer hear him if he did.

  The bed was saturated with her blood, which had also spilled on the floor. In this light, it looked like a shadow had enveloped her room, spreading toward her before blanketing her in its dark embrace.

  He stayed and stared f
or a moment. He wanted to cry, to let it all out, but he knew that he had to bite it down for the sake of his son and mother. He quietly closed the door, leaving his daughter to her peace, before heading for his son’s room.

  There was more light in there, spilling out from a television that showed the faded image of a video game menu screen. Damian loved his games, forever lost in a world of make-believe and graphic violence. He preferred the simulated worlds of gangsters and soldiers, people whose lives couldn’t be further removed from his privileged teenage middle-class existence.

  Lester moaned. It wasn’t an intentional sound, but one that seemed to just spill out of him, coming from a deep, dark, terrified, and hopeless place. He covered his mouth, pressing his palm hard against his face until his fingers crushed his lips against his teeth, until the noise stopped and the physical pain took some of the mental pain away.

  His son had been sitting on the bed playing a game. His final moments had been in virtual battle, before his life was lost for real. His throat had been slit, his blood showered on his clothes and on his bed. He was keeled over, looking like he had merely fallen asleep playing a game, as he so often did.

  The stench of death was strong, ripened by the heavy and sweet stench of stale cigarettes and cannabis. Lester closed the door, blocking as much of that smell and that image as he could. With one hand still holding his mouth, he rested the other against the door and used it to support his weight. He remained like that for several moments, breathing deep, trying to clear his mind, to stop the emotions from coming.