The Messiah Prophecy Murders: Book I: The Unmerciful

By Charles LeRoy Janes

If Quentin Tarantino and Fyodor Dostoyevsky were to meet on a street in old St. Petersburg and agree to collaborate on a story, the Messiah Prophecy Murders is the story they would write: Deep in war-torn Poland in September 1939, a Red Army soldier, about to execute a wounded Polish officer, is brought to a trembling halt when he recognizes the officer as a boyhood friend's father, who had been deeply generous to his own father when he was in desperate need of help to feed his impoverished family. With the recollection of the father's acts of kindness, the soldier hesitates, fires a round harmlessly into the ground, and whispers to the officer to lie still so that nearby soldiers who heard the shot will think their comrade did his duty and finished off the enemy officer.

The consequences of that act of mercy then caromed through time and space and the lives of the combatants and their progeny to land in a courtroom in Newport, Rhode Island in a trial for murder in which the Polish officer's son, Piotr Zaborski, has been framed and betrayed by the soldier's son, Nicolay Speshnev, both of whom are naturalized U.S. citizens after having immigrated from Poland in their teens nearly thirty years earlier. In the aftermath of the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center, the posh resort community of Newport was convulsed by the slayings of the stunningly beautiful daughters of three of its ultra-wealthy Summer Colony families. The features of the murders and the evidence found at each of the crime scenes, most notably a handwritten prophecy of Christ's Second Coming, strongly suggest that the killer is driven by depraved religious compulsions and obsessions. Suspicion falls heavily on Zaborski who, years earlier while a novice at a nearby Benedictine monastery, was expelled from the monastery for mysterious reasons. Since his expulsion, he has become a fixture on the streets of Newport, known for his often homeless, destitute, and eccentric existence; for his ostentatious and frequent public displays of intense religiosity and aggressive Pro Life advocacy; and for his irrepressible habit of endlessly and seemingly aimlessly roaming the streets of Newport at all hours of the day and night dressed in filthy dumpster clothing embellished by an ever-present, outsized monk's rosary and crucifix draped conspicuously around his neck.

In the heated, nearly hysterical atmosphere of Newport in the weeks after the murders, the unsubstantiated accusations and inchoate suspicions directed at Zaborski harden into the conviction that he is the killer when law enforcement leaks to the media the text of the crime scene prophecies and the reports of forensic experts concluding that the prophecies were written in Zaborski's hand. With public opinion howling for Zaborski's neck and with the summer tourist season fast approaching, the city fathers mount a campaign of their own to pressure law enforcement into arresting Zaborski in the hope that with his arrest, Newport will be able to return to its customary celebratory and pleasure-seeking ways with crowded sun-dappled beaches, packed hotels, and boisterous bars and restaurants. The hope proves illusory, however, as the murder and mayhem continue even after Zaborski's arrest and incarceration pending trial. From his perch as the maitre d' of one of Newport's poshest waterfront restaurants, the psychopathic but Armani-sleek and charismatic Speshnev resumes his bloody siege of Newport which keeps the resort community in the grip of a crippling fear and dread.

Despite the further acts of violence while Zaborski is incarcerated the state relentlessly pursues its indictment against him. Eventually, it is only through the tenacious investigative efforts of Zaborski's pro-bono but celebrated Boston defense counsel Anthony Caro and Caro's local Newport co-counsel and love interest ,Maura Boyle, that the long ago events in Poland are unearthed that lead to the eviden

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781636924274

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The Messiah Prophecy Murders

Book I: The Unmerciful

Charles LeRoy Janes

Copyright © 2022 Charles Janes

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-63692-426-7 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63692-427-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

About the Author

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall. Frightful, sheer no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap may who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small durance deal with that steep or deep.

—Gerard Manley Hopkins

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.

—Franz Kafka

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

—William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun

I form the light, and create darkness; I make peace

and create evil; I the Lord do all these things.

—Isaiah 45:7

Chapter 1

The pulsating blare of electronic dance music shook the bar and dance floor as bodies swayed and writhed to its throbbing, repetitive beats. The ball had just fallen on New Year's Eve in Newport, Rhode Island; the year 2001 was now a memory. In trancelike unison, the dancers lost themselves in the cathartic music. At the packed bar, others lost themselves in shots of vodka and tequila. Good riddance to a year of horrors! someone shouted at the bar as the sickening images of the collapse of the Twin Towers appeared and then vanished on the TV screens above the bar. The leering, glassy eyes of young men in search of carnal escapes scoured the bodies of the female denizens of the club but returned again and again to three strikingly beautiful and statuesque women at the far end of the bar. Chicly dressed to reveal their long, sinuous figures, they were mesmerizing, yet oblivious to the stares and surrounding tumult. In staccato eruptions of anger, accusation, and reproach, they released their pent-up grievances against each other. Their conversation was interrupted only once: goaded by his companions, a tall, handsome man with a muscular physique approached the women with feigned bravado but was instantly rebuffed by their withering glares and punishing silence. Embarrassed by his summary dismissal, he retreated to the circle of howling, inebriated men who had emboldened his quest but now laughed mockingly at his rejection. The women's drunken conversation resumed, their voices straining to be heard above the relentless din. With each additional shot of Grey Goose and Patron, the exchanges became louder and more abusive. An empty bottle of Cristal floated in an ice bucket on the bar.

"So what are you saying—that we're supposed to pretend that it never really happened! Is that it! You're saying he didn't really rape and murder Magdalena! It was just an accident, right? She tripped and fell into the chasm while just happening to be pregnant! I can't fucking believe you!"

I didn't say that! You don't listen, Rachel! You never listen. You just hear what you want to hear. You're the one who's confusing everything.

"What am I confusing? Tell me! Magdalena was your little sister in everything but name, and now she's dead! You understand that, don't you? She's dead! She loved you, and now you're betraying her, and Dora and Ernie too! They practically raised you! You're an ingrate—a total fucking ingrate! And coward!"

"You always have to shout and be insulting. Why's that? Why! Just talk, you know, chill. We don't know what happened. That's all I'm saying. The police said it was an accident, so why should we think it wasn't? You don't know. Nobody knows."

"No, Sierra, I do know! And you know! And Alex knows! She was pregnant! It wasn't the immaculate conception. Magdalena was raped! And don't tell me to chill! I won't chill about this—ever!"

We know this about you, Rachel. Why chill when you can rant? Nothing rolls off you, you know. You're the queen of remembering.

I have no idea what you just said. Interpret, Sierra. Fuckking interpret!

I don't have to interpret. You know what I mean. Sierra collapsed on a barstool. I don't want to talk about it. You need to move on. Rant at Alex, why don't you? She's here, too, you know.

Rachel sprang at the object of her scorn with fury in her voice: "‘Move on'? Is that what you said! Did you just say that, you bitch!"

Sierra turned away, but the onslaught continued.

"So all of this isn't about Magdalena being raped and murdered by your dealer slash lover boy. It's not about that! It's about me supposedly being jealous of the fact that you let that sewer rat get between your legs and knock you up. Is that what you're saying! You're disgusting—a disgusting, shameless slut! Glaring at the quivering face, she hurled a final insult: At least you killed the seed before it hatched! Congrats on saving the earth from your offspring!"

Stop it! said Alex angrily while motioning away the bartender, who had returned with a bottle of Patron. Observing the shaken face on the barstool next to her, she leaned over and spoke calmly but forcefully: We can't let him get away with this. We know he did it no matter what the police say. He's evil, Sierra. You know that.

Sierra cowered in silence.

A junkie never turns on her dealer, Alex! shouted Rachel jeeringly. But who knows, maybe the fourth rehab will be the charm!

Fuck you, Rachel! exploded Sierra.

No, fuck you, Sierra! You're a treacherous coward! Why don't you just excuse yourself and go to the ladies' room and do a little blow or stick a needle in your arm? Maybe you can pump a little courage into that spineless mind of yours!

Stop it! screamed Alex. Glaring at Sierra, she said, "She was your little sister, Sierra. Rachel is right—we have to do something. We have to."

Sierra's frightened eyes looked up. He scares me, Alex. He really scares me. You don't know everything…and she doesn't. Rachel can't keep doing this.

What do you mean? demanded Alex, shielding Sierra from Rachel, who was motioning to the bartender to return.

"When I was in rehab last summer—right after Magdalena's funeral—he was crazed by what Rachel was doing and the accusations she was making. Because of all the restrictions on me, the only way he could reach me was by sending a letter, so he wrote me and made all these threats about what would happen if she didn't stop, and he told me I had to write her and say that everything she was saying was a lie and she had to stop immediately or else. He said all the hate and discontent was hurting business because it was August and the middle of the season and he needed a copy of my letter to give to Conley to show him it was all about Rachel's spite over the breakup and that none of what she was saying was true. He was afraid Conley was going to fire him if he didn't get things under control. But I never wrote the letter. I pretended I never got his. Then 9/11 happened, and Conley's restaurant in the Bahamas had the fire, and he went down there to handle that, so it all died down. But now she's doing it again—all the shouting and public stuff telling everybody that he raped and killed Magdalena. He's crazier now than he was in the summer. He's afraid she'll go to the police. Rachel can't keep doing this. She has to understand."

Understand what?

Sierra's voice flared in disbelief: C'mon, Alex! Jesus Christ! He's not going to let this go on. Rachel can't be making these accusations just because she hates him for what happened with me.

This isn't about you! shot back Alex in a fury. It's about Magdalena! You're deluding yourself if you think it's about you. That's total bullshit! But you really hurt her, and you know how she is.

Sierra nodded. I know, I know…everything I did was wrong. I totally fucked up our relationship. She hates me now. But you've got to understand, he's not going to let Rachel destroy his life. He just isn't. And we can't bring Magdalena back.

But Rachel's not going to stop. Don't you get it? She's not.

Sierra glanced over Alex's shoulder at Rachel, who was staring broodingly at a full shot glass.

Please talk to her. She'll at least listen to you. I know I fucked everything up, but she has to stop… She has to.

Sierra's shoulders slumped, and her eyes fell to her shot glass. She twirled the glass slowly and then emptied the remnants. When her head lifted again, her eyes were fearful. I have a really bad feeling about this, Alex. You have to talk to her. You have to.

Chapter 2

C ome here, Daisy! Come here! cried a high-pitched voice over and over as a small dog raced madly up and down a walking path while its owner, a short, stout woman, trundled after it, helpless to catch up. Get back here, you crazy fool! Get back here now! There'll be no steak bone for you tonight! No bone for you!

Giving up on her chase, the woman returned to the fire she had built just off the path above a high and rocky cliff overlooking a crescent-shaped beach. A narrow cleft in the wall of the cliff was only yards away and threw off loud echoes from the bursting surf in the chasm below. Near the path where it skirted the cleft, a memorial was built: small pots and bouquets of dead or plastic flowers were mingled among crosses and personal remembrances. Fastened to a tree was a weathered photograph of the smiling face of a teenage girl.

Sitting down in a battered beach chair that sagged under her weight, the woman stirred the embers with a stick and threw additional twigs and branches into the fire until it roared. She smiled gleefully at the dancing flames and then moved her chair away from the sudden heat, nearly toppling over, which sparked an outburst of giggling and indistinct banter with an invisible companion. From time to time, she glanced down the path where her dog has disappeared and hurled futile cries into the night demanding the dog's return. Each time, she listened for the sound of the dog's scampering approach and then shook her head at the silence. When she heard rustling in the underbrush, she cried out again, convinced her dog is playing games with her, and chuckled at the thought.

As she poked absentmindedly at the fire, she was unaware of the car that pulled into the small dirt parking area beyond her view. The headlights of the car were dark as it came to a stop. A tall man in a leather jacket emerged from the car and walked slowly along the path toward the fire. Above the chasm near the memorial he stopped and watched the woman play with the fire. He grinned thinly as he saw her amuse herself with her dog's antics. Blinded by the firelight, she was oblivious to his presence. His eyes scanned the area, searching for the presence of others, and then he stepped out of the darkness and advanced toward her.

It's late for you to be out here, Betty, he said abruptly and gravely. The boogeyman comes out at this hour.

W-what in the hell! she exclaimed in alarm as she jerked herself clumsily out of the chair, her coat snagging on an arm. You stay away from me, y-you hear! You s-stay away!

The man grinned tightly again as he watched her struggle to free her coat and right herself, grabbing the chair as a brace and then as a shield. You should be back at your cottage where it's safe and warm, he admonished, his grin vanishing. It's dangerous out here in the cold and dark.

You get the h-hell away from me! Get the hell away, or I'll sc-scream! I will, I t-tell you. I'll scream t-till the c-cops come!

Now, now, Betty, he replied evenly. Just calm down. There's no reason to throw one of your fits. I've only come to talk.

I'm n-not a jab-jabberer. I k-keep my mouth sh-shut.

I know you do, he said in a reassuring voice. That's why I'm here—to tell you in person that I know you're someone I can trust. So you behave now. No tantrums, please. Stepping closer to her, his voice hardened: Just say it one more time for me, Betty. I need to hear you say it so I'm certain. Say, ‘Betty didn't see anything. Betty never sees anything. She's always in the dark, just minding her own business.' Say it, Betty, say it again so you never forget.

Daisy! D-Daisy! cried Betty frantically, her face frozen in fear as he stared at her coldly. Daisy, c-come here n-now! N-now!

From down the path, the dog heard its owner's fear and raced toward the fire, barking at the stranger. The man looked at the maddened little creature and reached into his jacket to display a large dog biscuit. He squatted down and extended the biscuit to the dog, beckoning it to eat. The dog's barking grew quieter and intermittent as the gift was held just inches from its mouth.

Take it, my little friend. It's yours. I knew you'd be here with your mother, so I brought you something to nibble on—my treat for you. Don't be afraid. Eat up. Gobble, gobble.

You g-get away from D-Daisy! G-get away, or I'll sc-scream! I'll scream till k-kingdom c-comes!

That's a good dog, the man said calmly, ignoring Betty's threat. He watched as the dog grabbed the biscuit, broke it into pieces with a single bite, and then ravenously attacked the pieces on the ground. For a long moment, he stared at the dog as if intrigued by its single-minded assault upon the biscuit, and then, with lightning speed, grabbed the dog with hands that formed a vise grip around its neck. How was the biscuit, my furry friend? he asked, shaking the dog and grinning mockingly. Did you enjoy it? Can you say, ‘Thank you'? Don't be impolite now. I know you enjoyed it immensely.

The man rose to his feet and strolled toward the cliff, laughing cruelly at the dog's desperation, its legs racing pointlessly in the air while gasping for breath. Screaming hysterically at Daisy's plight, Betty lurched after her dog and its tormentor. At the cliff's edge, the man heaved the dog into the darkness and then turned with a malicious grin to see the shrieking, weeping figure shuffling toward him. At the sight of Daisy airborne, Betty's hysteria spiked to a state of derangement, and she forgot her fear, rushing past the man to find her beloved companion. As she did, she felt a boot pressed squarely against her back and then the powerful shove that sent her flying helplessly down the cliff. She screamed incoherently and then fell silent. The man peered over the edge to watch her body bounce and tumble down the stony face until he lost sight of her. His face was expressionless as his eyes searched the surf and boulders below. Moonlight shimmered across the water to aid his search. Finally, he saw her crumpled body, pinched between two boulders. For several minutes, he watched the body intently, searching for signs of life, but observed none. From somewhere in the darkness, though, the faint whimpering of a dog was heard. He snickered at the sound, muttering, You saw too much, Betty. It's not good to see too much.

As he walked back toward the fire, he gazed at its fiery brilliance and decided to sit down in Betty's chair. What a piece of shit chair, he thought as the chair creaked and bent to his weight. Why do people settle for crap like this? The stupidity of the masses is bottomless. He picked up the stick that Betty had been poking in the fire and did the same. For some time, he stared into the fire. His expression was relaxed but pensive as he ruminated on Betty's death and fate: Only minutes ago, she sat in this chair and held this stick in her hand, as fully alive as I am now. I even saw her laughing. But now she laughs no more. Her will to live succumbed to my will she perish. In an instant, her life was extinguished, gone as if she had never lived. Life is nothing more than a contest of wills. Everything else is a lie. How strange, though, that an idiot should mark the beginning. What fate would choose her before all others? But she was an expendable, like a billion others who trod the earth with nothing to do or offer. She had nothing to live for, so what difference does it make whether fate chose her or another? She really wasn't the beginning, either. Why would I say she was? She was only a prelude…an inconsequential prelude. Her death marks nothing. The true beginning is nigh, and those who have much to live for shall mark it well.

When he tired of the fire, he tossed the stick into the flames and removed a pine branch from a pile of dead branches that Betty had gathered. He thrust the branch into the fire and watched the needles ignite and then grabbed several more and did the same, creating a blazing torch. With torch in hand, he walked to the memorial and dropped the torch on top of the remembrances and then ripped the photograph of the teenage girl off the tree and dropped it into the flames. He watched the conflagration consume the memorial and then left and returned to Newport.

Chapter 3

In a cluttered and dreary room in a dilapidated apartment house, a large, raw-boned man with shoulder-length hair and an unkempt beard sits hunched over a wooden desk writing feverishly. His expression is intense and agitated. Only the pale light from two candles at the top of the desk illuminates the room; a fluorescent light on the ceiling and a plastic lamp on the desk are dark. Between the candles stands a small crucifix. As he writes, he stops frequently, his lips moving in silent unison with the pronunciation of every word drawn by his pen. A small wastebasket next to the desk is filled with crumpled sheets of paper that register his rejections. And with every failure, his face grimaces and darkens. Deep into the night, he writes and rewrites in a state of intense concentration, oblivious to the passage of time. Finally, he pauses and sets his pen down. From a battered sea chest at the foot of his bed, he removes a leather-bound journal. Even a passing glance at the journal and others like it in the chest leaves the impression of high craftsmanship and age. Each of the volumes is royal blue in color with intricate gold piping around the borders and on the spine. On their covers, centered in a red shield, is an embossed coat of arms composed of a stylized white eagle with a monarch's crown of gold and golden beak and talons. The rich, smooth leather bears the darkening patina of time and the repeated touch of their owner's hands.

He places the journal on the desk and then opens a drawer of the desk and removes a fountain pen and a bottle of thick blue glass encased in an ornate silver inkstand. He lifts the cap of the inkstand and opens the journal. As he leafs through the volume's thick, sturdy pages, his eyes search the pages intently, stopping momentarily on one page or another to read what lies beneath his critical gaze. Finally, he turns to a page which is blank. After dabbing the fountain pen in the ink, he tests the pen on a scrap of paper and then slowly moves his hand over the page and begins to write in a beautiful script. Meticulously, he copies into the journal the words he has written on the loose sheets of paper. As he writes, his eyes seem to burst from their sockets with concentration and care, riveted on the point where ink and paper meet. With each successful page of copying, he stops and rests, a look of nervous relief crossing his face as he pauses to read and reread his entries. Satisfied that they are flawless, he writes several words on the bottom of the page and then resumes his copying on an empty page. Periodically, however, he grimaces sharply and halts his writing; jarring, rupturing images pierce his mind to stay his hand as if it were gripped by another. He is helpless to bar their intrusion. The images are implacable.

When he finishes the final entry, he sets the fountain pen down, closes the cap of the inkstand, and places a letter opener across the top of the opened pages to allow the ink to dry. He reads and rereads the entry and then removes an envelope from a drawer of the desk. The envelope contains a handwritten letter and a photograph. The letter is dated "2 Listopad 1998 and begins Kochany Piotrze. At the bottom of the second page, the letter closes with Twoja kochajaca siostra, Krystyna. The black-and-white photograph captures the solemn-faced members of a family on the steps of a church. In the white border of the photograph is a faded notation, Wielkanoc 1963." He reads the letter and then gazes at the photograph, his eyes distant and searching. When he stirs himself, he puts the letter and photograph back in the envelope, closes the journal, and blows out the candles.

Now enshrouded by darkness, he breathes in the smoke from the smoldering wicks. The smoke calms him; and the distressed, anxious features of his face relax. He sits motionless, as if lost in a reverie. When the scent of the smoke vanishes, he turns on the desk lamp and returns the journal to the sea chest. The loose sheets of paper from which he copied his entries are collected and placed in a plastic binder, which stands alongside others in a metal bookcase. He puts on a long woolen overcoat and then walks to the apartment door and dabs two fingers in a holy water font which is nailed to the wall next to the door. After blessing himself, he leaves the apartment and descends two flights of creaking stairs to the house's barren foyer. Pushing open the broken entrance door, he sets forth into the night.

For blocks, he walks along the darkened fronts of restaurants and shops to a now-deserted intersection. The last business on the street is an all-night convenience store. Inside, the clerk is talking to two deliverymen while their trucks idle outside the entrance. As the man becomes visible under the floodlights of the store, the clerk glances absently at him. Lost in thought, the passing figure notices neither the clerk nor even the idling trucks.

For nearly a mile, he traverses a path that takes him through a thickly settled residential area to a road that winds through a sparsely populated, low-lying expanse of nearly impenetrable darkness. The night air is heavy and wet, dampening his face and filling his nostrils with the smell of the ocean beyond. In the distance, scattered at long intervals atop rocky hilltops, sit sprawling, opulent homes, their security lights piercing the night like ghostly beacons identifying the presence of their slumbering masters. Only the sound of heavy boots on macadam and the lonely night cries of invisible creatures break the road's deep silence. His steps are made quicker still by his thoughts, which, by turns, goad him and chide him, taunt him and provoke him, and hurl him hither and thither without answer or end. Amidst the night cries of the invisible creatures, his inner cries scream louder.

Far down the road, his thoughts are interrupted by the headlights of an oncoming car; he bounds off the road and crouches in a thicket. As the car passes him, he sees that it is a city patrol car, its officer's eyes fixed on the road ahead. Moments later, the patrol car vanishes, and the man resumes his journey. The blackness that engulfs him is no impediment to the sureness of his steps, as if he knows the road by rote.

At last he comes to a halt at a dirt lane that leads away from the road and up the rise of a hill. Facing the lane between the road and the hill is a stone carriage house, the guardian a century ago of a grander house atop the hill. The carriage house is nearly dark; only a TV's flickering light on the second floor breaks the darkness. A late-model SUV is parked outside. For some time, he peers intently at the house, his expression a shifting façade of grim resolution and tremulous doubt. Twice he edges closer; but each time, he stops, indecision catching his feet like a snare. When he halts the second time, his boots grind irritably against the dirt beneath them; and his large, muscular hands move restlessly, clasping and unclasping in uneven rhythm to match the doubt within. His entire being is roiled by an angry inner dialogue that maddens and paralyzes him. Abruptly, he turns away, slouching down the road toward the boulder-strewn shoreline.

The wind rises as he walks along the shoreline road. The rhythmic sound of crashing surf is a tonic to his distress. For some distance, he follows the road's snaking route and then breaks off and climbs a stony embankment. Beyond the embankment, he works his way through the underbrush and stands of trees until he is standing on a ledge from which he can see a shingled Victorian mansion in the distance. The mansion is wreathed in darkness. Nearby sits a much smaller shingled cottage, which is also dark. Below an eave of the cottage, however, a floodlight breaks the darkness to illuminate the turnaround of a driveway, where a luxury sedan is parked in front of a pickup truck and passenger van.

For several minutes, his eyes search the houses and their grounds. In front of him, at the edge of the expansive lawn that slopes upward to the mansion, is a row of giant beech trees, shorn now of their foliage but standing like guardians of the property. The lawn is dotted with patches of ice and snow. He navigates his way down the ledge and then abruptly stops, as if stricken, his expression tense and troubled. Suddenly, his body stiffens, and his eyes freeze in a vacant stare. Tremors course through his body, and he falls heavily against a beech. Half conscious and disoriented, he struggles to regain his footing but slips and falls again, emitting strange, guttural sounds. Instinctively, he thrusts a hand into his overcoat to find a medicine bottle and then fumbles confusedly with its cap. Finally, he separates the cap and presses the bottle to his lips to swallow a tablet. But as he jams the cap back on the bottle, the bottle slips from his grip and disappears into the darkness. On his knees, he sweeps the ground again and again in wild, desperate arcs of futility. His cries of anguish split the night air, and he collapses entirely. The bottoms of his trousers and overcoat are soaked and filthy; cuts leave his hands bleeding. He is at the very edge of consciousness. Fear races through him, and he prays for a surcease to the seizure's attack. For an indefinite time, his body is curled between the massive roots of the beech. When he finally experiences the sensation of control, he rises uncertainly, using the tree as a brace. Concentrating his mind, he gropes his way back to the ledge and then around it. He rests for a minute and surveys the darkness before him and then retraces his path to the road.

As he nears the road, his foot snags on a briar vine, and he falls for the third time. Woozy and woebegone, he lies motionless for some time and then struggles to his feet and clambers out to the road. He trudges along the road's meandering route until he reaches the tightly packed and flattened boulders of a man-made breakwater jutting into the ocean. At the end of the breakwater, he lowers himself into a pocket of cold wet stone and wraps his overcoat tightly. His refuge are nearly enclosed, but an aperture remains. Out of the watery blackness, the wind blows with sharp, bone-chilling force, penetrating his coat like a knife. He tightens into a ball of shivering, melancholy silence, his eyes peering through the aperture to search the ocean's infinite darkness as if it were a puzzle, and then closes his eyes until the pink and lavender fingers of an icy dawn reach out from the horizon and lift him to his feet, exhausted.

Chapter 4

T hey were some bodacious, beautiful bitches, exclaimed the well-dressed drunk as he leaned heavily against the bar amidst a scattered crowd of late-night revelers. This place is a fucking old-age home since they stopped comin' in.

No shit, agreed his equally well-tailored and similarly inebriated companion occupying the adjacent barstool. "That pussy was sweet, like cherry, dude. They set this place on fire every time they walked in, you know. Then they're gone. What the fuck was that about?"

The first drunk shrugged. They got into some shit with Nick. I heard he was bangin' two of 'em at the same time. Can't do that shit for long before there's consequences. He snickered.

Spot on, man. The second drunk chuckled. Shit has consequences. But they could be bitches. You know that, right? If you didn't drive a Bentley and live on fucking Bellevue, you were pond scum. So fuck 'em, you know. They thought their shit didn't stink. Everybody's shit stinks.

Yeah, you're right, but no way you ain't eatin' that pussy if the opportunity presents itself, so don't go gettin' righteous on me. You know, you'd be lickin' your chops at that shit.

You're right… Just sayin'.

How long we been comin' here, like what, ten years, maybe fifteen? Fuck. I've been comin' here forever, and there ain't never been any pussy like them on the waterfront.

The second drunk chuckled. "Let me tell you something, bro. They turned this fucking place upside down when they walked in. I remember one night they came in here with these ass-tight, nasty-lookin' club dresses on, identical fucking dresses, you know, just different colors—green, pink, purple…whatever. They were fucking hot, man, hot!" he exclaimed boisterously.

Raising his shot glass, the first drunk shouted, Here's to hot fucking chicks, man! May the three beautiful bitches return to give every swingin' dick in this place a righteous fucking hard-on!

The drunk's words had barely escaped his tongue when he was straightened by a stabbing pain in his shoulder. He instinctively grabbed at the hand that squeezed him and then looked up into the calm but severe gaze of the manager of the bar. The drunk immediately released his grip, and the manager slowly did likewise.

Hey, man, you don't have to do that shit, protested the drunk.

You need to settle down, Buckley, warned the manager. "Patrons have complained, so you need to stop, now."

Damn, man. Buckley winced, rubbing his shoulder.

The price of unacceptable behavior.

That shit isn't necessary, Nick. I'm no fucking trouble.

My name is Nicolay.

Whatever.

"No, not whatever. The correct reply is, ‘I'm sorry, Nicolay.' You can say that, can't you, Buckley? Say it—‘I'm sorry, Nicolay.'"

Yeah, I got it. Sorry…Nicolay.

You see how easy that was, replied the manager, his tone now relaxed but mocking. You wouldn't want people to call you ‘Buck,' now, would you? That's not your persona, Buckley. You're no rodeo boy or backwoodsman. He stared at Buckley, who dropped his eyes. "All patrons of this establishment must be respectful patrons, so you need to conform your behavior—if you wish to remain a patron. Why don't you call it a night and go up the hill to Max's little sanctuary? I'm sure he can provide the stimuli your peculiar tastes require."

Buckley motioned to the bartender for the check, his eyes still averted. The manager stared at him for a moment longer and then turned away.

Asshole, muttered Buckley. This isn't the only fuckin' waterin' hole in this shitbucket town. He strained to read the check. The night's on me, bro. He offered, spreading bills across the bar to count them.

The second drunk raised his glass. Righteous, dude. Your generosity is much appreciated.

Buckley pushed his way through the milling patrons and left the bar. A short distance away, scattered sailboats rolled gently in the water while their rigging clanked against the masts in lonely, repetitive refrains. He walked past the bars and restaurants that dotted the wharf until he reached America's Cup Avenue, the main thoroughfare running along Newport's waterfront. Before crossing, he placed a cell phone call and had a brief conversation. When he finished the call, he crossed America's Cup and climbed the hill overlooking the harbor and then wove his way along narrow, deserted streets lined with colonial-era homes. Finally, he reached a dark-gray house which was nearly invisible from the street, enclosed by a tall, impenetrable hedge and untamed honeysuckle. When he walked through the archway of trellised vines onto the property, he entered a small courtyard filled with wrought-iron tables and chairs that were useless now in the winter chill. No sign announced the business transacted within; only a dull purple light illuminated the small porch leading to the entrance door. He climbed the stairs of the porch and heard faint voices inside the house, obscured by music. He slammed the door knocker twice and waited. An eye peered through the peephole, and a second later, the door opened.

Once inside, Buckley was taken by the greeter into what had once been the home's living room. Several men congregated on stools in front of a makeshift bar while others talked at dimly lit tables. The bartender was a thickly muscled man with a shaved head, diamond stud earrings, and an impassive face. A long, sheathed knife hung conspicuously from his belt. He went about his tasks wordlessly. In a corner of the room sat a burly man with a full beard, a black woolen cap, and a sleeveless black leather vest that revealed enormous arms covered with tattoos. With a nod from the burly man, the greeter directed Buckley up the stairway to the second floor. When he reached the landing, he straightened himself in front of a mirror and then walked down the hallway to the room at the end.

He entered, and on the bed sat a delicate-looking man in his twenties wearing only white bikini briefs. Gold rings pierced each of his nipples. His skin was smooth and unblemished, the color of caramel. Makeup had transformed his face into that of a beautiful nymph. His narrow shoulders and head were thrown back, as if in a gesture of pride, while his hands rested on the bed, awaiting their instructions. An antique lamp on a side table cast low, soft light across the room. Dark, maroon-colored wallpaper and ancient wood flooring, nearly black with age, weakened the light further. Music from below seeped through the flooring into the room. Buckley closed and locked the door.

You've been away, haven't you? said the nymph coyly. We've all been wonderin' where our Buckie boy went. Someplace warm, I'm sure. I think I'll place my marker on St. Bart's…or maybe Los Cabos.

Don't call me fuckin' ‘Buckie boy.'

I do apologize, Mr. Buckley, sir, replied the nymph, feigning sincerity. May I ask where the gentleman sojourned to escape our frigid clime?

Mustique…hate fuckin' cold.

"Very impressive, the nymph remarked, his tone exaggerated, and then giggled when the drunk fell against a dresser and struggled to right himself, finally coming to rest by leaning against the dresser. I understand Sir Mick Jagger himself and Keanu Reaves have playhouses on Mustique. You truly do rub shoulders with royalty, Mr. Buckley."

Buckley gazed at the nymph with dead, drooping eyes, opened his mouth to speak, and then collapsed in silence.

You're wasted, love. The nymph snickered. How am I to comfort a man in such a sorry state?

Buckley eyed him blankly, provoking further snickering. While still leaning against the dresser, Buckley grappled fitfully and then angrily with his clothes until the nymph, laughing at his futility, removed the clothes himself. The nymph lit a joint, which they shared as they sat on the bed. When they finished the joint, the nymph snuffed it and handed Buckley a Trojan. As Buckley struggled with the Trojan, the nymph turned over and raised himself on all fours, anticipating the ritual to come. Buckley's booze-addled neurons failed to respond to the fire in his senses, however, and he knelt flaccidly behind the nymph, humiliated. Feeling his john's futility, the nymph chuckled and pushed Buckley over and then followed the urgings of his own imagination, which Buckley satisfied. At the end of the hour, the nymph wiped and dressed him and then led him to the door and watched him carom down the hallway. Once downstairs, Buckley fumbled in his wallet for cash and handed it to the greeter and then staggered into the night.

In an apartment on the third floor of the house, which can only be reached by a private staircase, Max sat watching each room of the house on surveillance monitors that were connected to peephole cameras and listening devices. After the last customer left, he descended the stairs to collect the night's receipts from the greeter and bartender. When the greeter left, Max sat in the living room and talked briefly with the bartender and burly man. After a few minutes, he handed Milo and Brute some cash, and they left as well. The house was now empty. Max looked through the peephole in the front door and scanned the courtyard and then bolted the door and activated the security system.

After climbing the staircase back to the apartment, Max opened a safe behind the false façade of a dishwasher in the kitchen and deposited the cash. From the freezer of the refrigerator, he removed a bottle of vodka and collected a glass from the counter and then reentered the surveillance room to turn off the monitors. Before leaving the room, he removed the surveillance tapes and stored them in a massive library of tapes in an adjoining room, accompanied by a log of the services rendered. The door to the room was secured by two deadbolts, which he locked upon leaving. In another room, he located a joint and turned on the TV to an adult movie channel. Collapsing into a recliner, he lit the joint and smoked and drank until he was high and then muted the TV and put on a set of headphones, cranked up the volume, and listened to alternating tracks of Metallica and Black Sabbath.

Chapter 5

In the darkness of early morning, a man walked purposefully along an empty road. The road cut through a desolate expanse cloaked by drifting fog and blanketed with wild, untamed hedgerows and choking underbrush. A pockmarked covering of wet snow lay heavy and gray to deepen the bleakness of the landscape. His face was taut and focused, as if meticulously rehearsing each movement of an intricate plan. The cold of the night invigorated him and sharpened his thinking. His nostrils flared with the wet, pungent smell of ocean air; his senses felt acutely alive. This is the first. It must be perfect. After her, there will be the other two—a triumvirate of pampered, preening bitches who thought they lived in a world without consequences. They will learn that theirs is a world of consequences too . He yanked angrily on the straps of his backpack to make it one with him. He hated slackness. Everything must move as one. From the stocking cap pulled low on his forehead to the sleek bodysuit that hugged his frame to the climbing shoes in which he walked, he was covered in black. He was invisible. His stride quickened as his thoughts grew ferocious.

When he reached the end of the road, it merged into a city street. For some blocks, he walked along dark side streets that were empty except for occasional carousers arriving home from Newport's waterfront bars. It was Saturday morning, long after the bars had closed. He would have preferred to execute his plan on a Monday or Tuesday, but today was the nineteenth, so it had to be done. When he arrived at the street of his destination, he walked rapidly to its end where two stone posts and a gravel lane signaled the beginning of a private refuge of luxurious homes whose grounds sloped downward toward the faint, rhythmic sound of surf crashing against a shoreline. For several minutes, he crouched in the darkness next to one of the posts. From his backpack, he removed a ski mask and a length of metal wire with rubber grips securely fastened at either end. He took a grip in each hand and stretched the wire taut, pulling strongly on the garrote to test its makeup once again. He took off his stocking cap and pulled the ski mask down over his head, adjusting it carefully. As his eyes restlessly searched the night, he tugged repetitively on his thin black gloves and then snapped their wrist locks shut. He returned the garrote to the backpack and slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, readying himself. Adrenaline coursed through his body; his entire being surged with the straining, pent-up need to act. The planning is over. The rehearsals are over. The time of execution is now. In the deathly quiet that surrounded him the sound of his heart's furious beating was a tocsin, signaling the moment of truth.

A moment later, he loped down the lane and then disappeared into a stand of pine trees that bordered a Georgian-style brick mansion overlooking the cove below. At the bottom of the service driveway stood the property's carriage house, shrouded in darkness except for a weak yellow porch light. A pickup truck was parked in the driveway. The main house had ground lights along the stone steps leading to the entrance doorway, which cast the front of the house in a soft white glow. The rooms within the house were dark. His eyes peered out from behind his mask with the fierce, concentrated gaze of the predatory animal consumed by the sight of its prey. He surveyed the lane that ran along the crest of the estates a final time but observed nothing except a black, impenetrable stillness.

Finally, he sprang into action, moving swiftly through the pines to a point well below the carriage house. He paused for a moment, glanced at the house's darkened rear windows, and then ran across the icy grounds to a row of bushes at the rear of the estate. The bushes bordered thick trellising that extended from the ground to a height just below the stone balustrade of a second-story open-air porch. He rested beneath the shutter of a tall window abutting the trellising. The shutter rose to within inches of the balustrade as well and was secured to the brick exterior by heavy metal hinges and bolts. His mind knew from countless imaginary enactments the path he would take to the porch. A minute later, he hoisted himself over the balustrade, landing lightly. He listened intently and then crossed the porch to the French doors leading into the house. His hand gripped the lever and then hesitated. A rush of anxiety surged through him as he pressed down. The door was unlocked! Fate was with him! Exhilaration washed over him as he entered the house.

Once inside, he paused again, allowing his emotions to calm. Finally, he placed his backpack on the floor and removed from it two surgeon's booties and then pulled them over his climbing shoes. With a gloved hand, he brushed the area where his shoes had stood. For a long moment, he listened to the silence of the house and then picked up his backpack and crept noiselessly down the hallway to a corner room, where the door was partially open. He stopped outside the door, laid the backpack on the floor again, and removed the garrote. He draped the garrote around his neck and for several minutes listened to the faint stirrings and murmurings of someone sleeping. A nightlight in the bedroom's bathroom illuminated the room faintly. He gently opened the door further and slipped into the room and then stationed himself against the wall facing the foot of the bed; his eyes darted around the room before coming to rest on the person sleeping. He removed the garrote from his neck and clenched a grip in each hand. His heart beat madly, so madly he feared its very pounding would awaken his prey. He cleared his mind of everything except a ferocious intensity of purpose.

The sleeping figure stirred slightly, shifting her head on the pillow so that her beautiful, youthful face caught the dull light from the nightlight. He watched her intently, allowing her sleep to settle again, and then moved silently to her side. For a long moment, he seemed lost in a reverie, and then his face darkened, and he concentrated his mind to focus on the precise position of her head on the pillow. He lowered the wire to the pillow just above her head… Then struck! He jerked the wire violently downward and around her neck as he brought her to consciousness. When she instinctively raised her head in disoriented shock, she unwittingly allowed him to whip the wire around her neck a second time, doubling his stranglehold on her throat! Now he had her in a choking, gasping fit of terror! She kicked madly at the bedding, and her hands clawed at her neck to get under the wires. She twisted and turned violently to escape, but the wires choked her in their remorseless grip. As he yanked on the garrote, she turned violently one last time to free herself and fell off the bed to the floor. In gagging desperation, she struck at him blindly and convulsively and then clawed again at the wires. He felt the strength of her writhing body test the strength of his, and in her agonizing failure, he experienced a savage joy. This is a consequence anyone can understand! he exclaimed in fury. Even you, Rachel! Even you can understand this! He strained with all his might to break her resistance and drive the very breath of life from her. Mounting her from the rear, he pulled on the grips of the garrote until his arms and shoulders burned with pain until, finally, her body fell limp. He released his grip, and she collapsed to the floor. Euphoria swept through him. My will be done! Yours has perished!

After turning her body over and checking her pulse, he paused to admire her sculpted beauty: the shimmering perfection of her long black hair, her flawless porcelain skin, her voluptuous and toned body, clad now only in panties. She had always been the magnificent one, the one with fire and spirit and will—the will of a tiger. It was essential that she be the first. The others would be easier, easier by far. The desire to ravish her surged through him in a rush of erotic craving, but he resisted the impulse with a single decisive thought: I must be perfect, flawlessly perfect. Only stupid people leave DNA. He retrieved his backpack from the hallway and removed an array of items, which he arranged neatly next to her body: a pair of latex gloves, ziplock bags, three steel nails, a fingernail file, sheets of paper, a box cutter, and a hammer with a thick piece of cloth pulled snugly over its head and secured to the handle with electrical tape.

He knelt next to the body and slipped on the latex gloves and then placed a sheet of paper on the floor above her head. Lifting her arms, he arranged her hands atop the sheet and scraped her fingernails. When he finished, he walked into the bathroom and flushed the scrapings down the toilet then tore the paper into pieces and did the same with them. At the sink, he removed his ski mask and washed the file and then stared into the mirror to examine his face and neck for cuts or scratches but saw none. He wet a washcloth and returned to the bedroom. Kneeling beside her again, he examined her body. What a demon she had been in the gym, molding her body into this perfect physique. Her fierce commitment was worthy of praise, but she had proven untrue and vengeful, and by her betrayal, she had forfeited all right to forgiveness and to mercy… Why didn't she see the fate that awaited her? Hubris…the hubris of the stupid rich. They think they're invincible.

As his eyes remained fastened on her sculpted features, a tidal surge of desire flooded him anew, commanding him to ravish her. For a moment, he was immobilized, uncertainty blanketing his face with distress. Then he ripped off her panties, which inflamed his senses further. For several minutes, he fondled her breasts and rubbed her clitoris while his face remained a roiled mass of indecision. Then abruptly he halted, and his eyes hardened. The men with shiny badges feast on stupidity and error…and weakness. I despise each. Perfection alone is acceptable. Perfection is all.

Angrily, he resumed his tasks. He extended her arms horizontally and bent her legs at the knees and then placed one foot on top of the other so that her body was configured in the shape of a cross. He drove a nail through each of her palms and one through her mounted feet. After a moment, the nail in her feet popped out of the wood flooring, and he hammered it even deeper. He then used the damp washcloth to remove the blood from the ligature cuts on her neck and from her hands and feet, patiently repeating the swabbing until the bleeding stopped. He rose and stood over her, gazing thoughtfully at his work, and then seized the box cutter and dropped to his knees again to make bone-deep diagonal cuts across her forehead and to carve a cross between her breasts. He was surprised by how little blood was shed but then realized her heart had stopped pumping when she expired. Her blood was pooling in her body, not flowing. That was simple physiology. Think. He walked into the bathroom again to soak and wring the washcloth and then returned to wipe her body. With fastidious care, he continued the cleansing ritual until all traces of her body's scourging had been reduced to the sanitized scars of its violence.

When he was finally satisfied with the appearance of the body, he stopped to examine his work. It's clean, precise, aesthetically perfect. Only the camera of Robert Mapplethorpe could do it justice. A thin, twisted smile curled his lips. He took the remaining sheets of paper and planted one sheet on the nail in her right palm and three on the nail in her left, carefully puncturing them so that the writing on each was not marred. These will tell the world why she had to die. The wages of sin is death, saith the Lord. The thin, malicious grin returned.

From a side compartment of his backpack, he removed an oversize rosary. He draped the rosary around the woman's breasts and shoved the crucifix into her vagina. Finally, he plucked several strands of hair from her head and dropped them into a ziplock bag with her panties and then returned everything to his backpack, zippered the compartments shut, and slung it over his shoulders. When he reached the doorway, he surrendered to the impulse to turn and gaze upon his work a final time. A sensation of triumph coursed through him again. She was truly a tiger, a magnificent, willful tiger. But my will was stronger, and strength is truth. There is no other.

Outside on the porch, he pulled his ski mask over his face and then dropped to his knees and swept his gloved hands back and forth across the icy snow to erase the shoe impressions marking his path into the house. He did the same when he dropped to the ground beneath the shutter. Still wearing the booties over his climbing shoes, he departed as he had come, retracing his route from the pines and scuffing the impressions he had left in his approach. The snow is icy but soft and wet. The lawn faces east. It will all be gone before anyone knows she won't be down for breakfast!

When he reached the protective cover of the pines at the edge of the property, he was engulfed by an exhilarating feeling of freedom. He yanked the ski mask off his head and felt the cold night air brace his sweaty face. He searched the darkness all about him and marveled at its quiet and then looked at the darkened upstairs windows where his prey now slept the eternal sleep of the dead. The contemplation of her beautiful body provoked the sudden and hot arousal of his senses yet again, which screamed at him to return and satiate himself. But his mind screamed back its rebuke, even louder, I was perfect. I must be perfect again, and then again.

Chapter 6

Stefanie Manion entered the spacious office of her boss, Patrick O'Malley, Rhode Island's attorney general, and was greeted by O'Malley and his two most senior special assistants in the criminal division. O'Malley and the assistants bore somber, intense expressions while Manion's face was expectant but calm. The attorney general led the attendees to a set of Queen Anne chairs that encircled a coffee table at one end of the room. Lying conspicuously on the table was that morning's edition of the Providence Journal , Rhode Island's newspaper of record. The banner headline read, Third College Student Murdered in Newport. The subheading read, Salve Regina University Reels from Killings. Beneath the headlines were photographs of the victims' faces.

I assume you've seen today's paper, Stef, began O'Malley, his voice and face betraying distress.

I have.

"As you might imagine, things have gotten a bit testy with some of our state representatives and their constituents over the situation in Newport. Over the course of the past twenty-four hours, I've been barraged with phone calls from the usual suspects. I've also received calls from the congressional delegation about our progress with the investigation. It seems that the father of the student murdered in January, Rachel Goldwin, is a major money manager in Toronto and New York with significant political connections in Washington. I've been informed that he's hired a former federal prosecutor and a team of detectives to conduct their own investigation. They're in Newport as we speak. Apart from his understandable anger at losing his daughter, Mr. Goldwin is also apparently an impatient man who doesn't suffer fools gladly. The upshot is that the situation in Newport has become untenable. We need to act, and act now. The narrative has to change. So early this morning, I got together with Warren and Bill to talk through the situation. I've made the decision to organize a task force which I want you to head. You'll be given carte blanche in choosing your team, subject to my agreement, of course, but I don't expect any problems. I intend to hold a news conference at one o'clock to announce the task force's formation, and I want you there with me, so clear your afternoon. The first order of business, though, is to pick your team. We'll meet later this morning to discuss it. Whatever needs to be done with your other cases or those of the team members will be handled. This will take precedence over everything. I know this is catching you on short notice, but hopefully you can make it work."

I'll need some help on pending cases, but it will work.

Good. You'll get whatever help you need. That's not an issue. O'Malley paused momentarily and then leaned forward and looked intently at Manion. As you're aware, this office and law enforcement generally are being pilloried by the media, so we need to really get after this. Having to compete with private investigations organized by the parents of the victims is not only a recipe for chaos, it's humiliating—in the extreme. We have to get in charge of the situation.

The higher the hurdle, the more motivated I get. It will get done.

"And that's why you've been chosen, Stef, so buckle up and get after it. Any immediate