SIXTY-TWO
When Christ appeared on Patmos, an island off the coast of Greece, he sent his disciple John to visit the seven churches in Asia, and said:
‘Write on a scroll what you see and send it to the seven churches: to Ephesus, and to Smyrna, and to Pergamos, and to Thyatira, and to Sardis, and to Philadelphia, and to Laodicea.’
Seven churches. She is the last.
Ruby sits in the final pew at St Gedeon’s, the same place her boy sat so many years ago. In her hand is a birth certificate, dotted with blood and tears. Now they would know his name.
Gedeon Mark Longstreet.
He would no longer be The Boy in the Red Coat. He would no longer be a cipher. When he died that day, in that clinic in Doylestown, she had spirited his small body away, and come to Philadelphia. She brought him to this church, the namesake of his patron saint.
She sat in the dark that night, sewing together the coat made from the Preacher’s vestment, the item Carson Tatum had gotten for her, vowing to one day return. She had specifically asked for the red vestment, the fire of the Holy Spirit.
Her lifeblood spreads on her white raiment. In the gloom of this final dusk she sees the men, guns raised, slowly approaching. They will never reach her. She glances down, at the bullet wound in her chest.
It is time.
Mary Elizabeth Longstreet closes her eyes and, like her son surely had so many years earlier, feels a peace blossom within her, and thus blessed, steps into the beyond.
REVELATION
Put your trust in the light while you have it,
so that you may become sons of light.
— JOHN 12:36
I
In the two weeks following the bloodbath at St Gedeon’s there were eleven homicides in the city of Philadelphia, more than sixty aggravated assaults, a score of burglaries.
Philadelphia moved on.
Both the Inquirer and Daily News ran stories for six straight days, with the first Sunday edition of the Inquirer devoting a full page to Mary Elizabeth Longstreet’s life and murderous rampage. The story chronicled what investigators found in the woman’s small South Philly apartment, specifically the dozens of bound volumes of medical histories and transcripts, including the highlighted records of six patients who had been targeted.
One of Dr Sarah Goodwin’s patients, a thief who had been to prison twice for armed robbery, was replaced in Mary Longstreet’s mad scheme by DeRon Wilson, a crime of both necessity and opportunity, police believed.
In the woman’s closets investigators also found a long black coat with a pointed hood — a coat they surmised Mary Longstreet herself wore in the surveillance video taken at St Adelaide’s — along with a number of full sets of clothing, outfits for a boy of ten, twelve, and fifteen. There was also one for a full grown adult. Each was a black suit, white shirt, and black tie.
None had ever been worn.
On the morning after being rushed to the hospital, Jessica underwent surgery to repair her shoulder. She was discharged five days later, despite her protestations that she was very comfortable in her room, especially with the part about having people wait on her hand and foot. Not to mention that fabulous invention called Percocet. She was released nonetheless.
The surgery, and recovery time, for Kevin Byrne was more serious. Having lost a lot of blood, Byrne was in ICU for five days, in recovery for a week. Jessica visited him every day, but on the morning of Byrne’s release she ran late and missed him, a trio of shiny Mylar balloons in hand.
Jessica later learned that Byrne went immediately from the hospital to the PPD evidence room, where he stayed until well past midnight, obsessed with the material collected from St Ignatios, the chapel in which Michelle Calvin had been found brutally murdered, her body posed on a bloodied mattress.
They say Byrne pored over the evidence for a long time, searching for a clue he was certain would be there, a pointer designed to lead investigators to the final church. He eventually found it. It was on the mattress tag:
UNDER PENALTY OF LAW THIS TAG
NOT TO BE REMOVED
EXCEPT BY CONSUMER
All but six of the letters had been carefully painted out with Michelle Calvin’s blood, leaving a single word.
GEDEON
A week later, when the crime scene was finally cleared by investigators, the demolition of St Gedeon’s began.
She found him at Holy Cross Cemetery in Lansdowne. Standing in a shaded area near Baily Road, he wore a dark suit and white shirt. As Jessica got closer she could see the bulk of the bandages that wrapped his stomach. He’d lost more than ten pounds, and his skin was pallid.
The services and funeral for the old priest, held a few days after the man’s death, had been well attended, with clergy and lay personnel coming from all over the tri-state area. The eulogy was given by the Archbishop of Philadelphia.
‘Hey, handsome.’
Byrne turned to see her. ‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘What are you doing here?’
Jessica held up the bouquet of lilies, and offered a look that all but shouted: Where else would I be on such a day as this?
Byrne nodded.
For the next twenty minutes or so they watched the cemetery workers set the headstone. Byrne had paid a monument company to craft the old priest’s marker out of one of the keystones of St. Gedeon’s. The inscription read:
THOMAS ANGELO LEONE
DEO, OPTIMO, MAXIMO
When the workers left, Jessica and Byrne stood in silence for a few moments. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and warmed their faces.
While Jessica had returned to duty, Byrne was still on medical leave. As much as he was missed, there was no pressure for him to return one minute before he was ready.
‘Don’t you have a shift?’ Byrne finally asked.
Jessica did, but she’d hoped Byrne wouldn’t notice. She was wrong, of course. She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You gonna be okay?’
Byrne hesitated, then said: ‘I’m good, Jess.’
Jessica said a brief, silent prayer, placed the flowers on the grave, then walked slowly down the path to her parking spot on Baily Road.
When she reached her car she called the office, and told her boss she would be a little late. She put her phone away, leaned against the car, studied the tall man silhouetted against the green expanse of the cemetery.
Although he couldn’t see her, Jessica was certain Byrne knew she was there, just as she knew he would always be there for her.
They were partners.
This was the life they chose.
II
The kid looked happy.
Considering the hell that had been his life before his path intersected with Detective Kevin Francis Byrne, and the insanity that followed, it was quite remarkable.
Since that terrible night at St. Gedeon’s, Gabriel had attended six counseling sessions with a child psychologist. When Byrne pressed for information he was told that, all things considered, the boy was doing well.
They walked through the parking lot at the Wells Fargo Center, neither of them anxious for the evening to end. Byrne had called in a few markers, and finally got them courtside seats for the Sixers, as promised. On a historic night – the 50th anniversary of Wilt Chamberlain’s 100-point game – the Sixers won, beating the Golden State Warriors 105–83.
Still sore from his injury, Byrne had to exert a little extra effort to keep up with the boy. He would be damned if he would show it, though.
‘Think you might play ball one day?’ Byrne asked.
‘Nah,’ Gabriel said. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be tall enough. My brother Terrell? He had a bomb diggity hook pass, man. You should have seen him.’
‘I would have liked that,’ Byrne said. ‘But keep in mind that being tall isn’t the whole game.’
‘It isn’t?’
‘Far from it. Look at A.I.,’ Byrne said, referencing Allen Iverson, the former Sixers point guard. ‘He’s only six feet or so.’
‘Even shorter than you,’ Gabriel said.
Byrne laughed. ‘Even shorter than me.’
They drove to North Philly in near silence, still feeling each other out in many ways. They never spoke of St. Gedeon’s. The cut on Gabriel’s forehead was treated at the scene that night, but did not require stitches. He would, however, have a small, crescent-shaped scar for the rest of his life.
Byrne pulled over in front of the foster home, put the car in park. Out of habit, he scanned the two side mirrors and rearview. No gangbangers on the corner. Maybe the word had gotten out.
‘I know it’s not your birthday for a few weeks, but in case I don’t see you, I wanted you to have this.’ Byrne reached into the back seat, brought forward the wrapped package. He handed it to Gabriel.
The boy beamed. ‘What is this?’
‘See, that’s kinda the point of the wrapping paper. You’re not supposed to know until you open it.’
Gabriel smiled, tore into the paper. Byrne watched the boy’s face as he turned the book over and saw the title:
FORGOTTEN PHILADELPHIA:
LOST ARCHITECTURE OF THE QUAKER CITY
Gabriel started thumbing through it. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘This is really cool.’
Byrne was a bit worried about giving an eleven year old boy a book on architecture. He seemed to genuinely like it.
Gabriel stopped on a page with a photograph of the original Chestnut Street Theater. He turned the book so Byrne could see the picture.
‘Maybe I’ll do something like this some day,’ Gabriel said.
‘Maybe.’
‘I mean, you never know, right?’
‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘You never know.’
With Gabriel safely inside, Byrne thought about their time together, and what the future might hold. He wondered when Gabriel would learn of the scholarship fund that had been started for him, a trust that, coincidentally, was opened for the exact same amount recently taken from a North Philly drug dealer named Carter Wilson.
Allegedly taken, Byrne amended.
After sustaining his near fatal wounds, Byrne had been unconscious for eighteen hours, his mind misted with dark dreams, dreams that told him the visions – the premonitions and intuitions that had haunted him for more than two decades – were not quite done with him. Beneath it all he heard the echo of those five words, spoken by a madwoman.
You are the last saint.
Byrne eased into traffic, then turned onto Sixth Street, the glow of Center City before him like an armor of light, thinking:
No, Ruby Longstreet, I am not a saint, not by a long shot. Saints are blameless and pure. Saints are people like Father Thomas Leone.
I am just a man.
I am a guardian.
Acknowledgements
With deepest gratitude to:
Meg Ruley, Peggy Gordijn, Jane Berkey, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency;
Dominic Montanari, Kathleen Franco MD, Sergeant Joanne Beres, Detective Eddie Rocks, Rick Jackson, Brian Zoldessy, Ramon Alvarez, Robert Kaminski, and Lou Baldwin;
Mike Driscoll, Pat Ghegan, Dominic Aspite, and the rest of the Philly crew;
My new family at Little, Brown;
The city and people of Philadelphia. While the places of worship mentioned in this book are based in fact, their names, locations, and dark secrets revealed within, are fiction.
Read on for an EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT from
Richard Montanari’s terrifying new thriller
The Stolen Ones
Out July 2013
1
In the city beneath the city, through these hollow black halls where dead souls murmur and the seasons do not change, he moves, silent as dust.
By day he walks the city above — teacher, salesman, con man, cop. He is the man in the shabby overcoat on the bus, the man in the bright scarlet vest who parks your car, the man who holds the door for you, touching a finger to the brim of his cap if you are a woman, offering a tactful dip of the chin if you are a man.
There is something in his manner that whispers of another time, something formal and reserved. It is not politeness or courtesy, nor could it be described as politesse — although most people who met him would, if asked, comment on his courtly manner.
It is by night he has seen the very heart of human vice, and knows that it is his own. It is by night he moves through his warren of long-shadowed corridors and shabby rooms, bearing silent witness to assignations in cold basement chambers.
His name is Luther.
He first killed a man when he was twelve years old.
He has never stopped.
On this frigid morning in March, five days before the ground will tremble beneath the weight of the giant machines, he stands third in line at the Super Fresh Market on Frankford Avenue. The trade at this store is lively: young mothers shopping for the week; lonely single men lingering over the frozen dinner racks, each defined by the content of their carts.
The old woman stands in front of him. He considers her purchases: Five boxes of Jell-O, various flavors, a quart of Half and Half, angel hair pasta, a jar of smooth peanut butter. Cancer food, he thinks.
There is a small hole at the back of her cardigan, a starfish of threads peeking out. Through it he can see a tear in the fabric of her blouse. It is where she cut out the label, perhaps because it irritated her skin. Her shoes are sturdy, round at heel, tightly laced. Her fingernails are scrubbed and clipped short. She wears no jewelry.
He watches as she scrutinizes each entry on the cashier’s LCD monitor, oblivious — or, more likely ambivalent — to the fact that she is holding up the line. He remembers this about her, this obstinacy. Transaction completed, she takes her bagged groceries, walks a few steps toward the exit, scanning the register receipt, making sure she has not been cheated.
He had watched her over the years, watched as the lines furrowed deeper on her face, watched as spots blossomed on her hands, watched as her gait slowed to an arthritic shuffle. What had once passed for regal comportment, an imperious manner that shunned intimacy or acquaintance at any level, has now become a scowling, ill-mannered dotage.
As the woman walks to the door, she puts down her bags, buttons her coat. She is being observed, but not just by the tall man behind her.
There is a boy of seventeen or so standing near the Red Box video rental machine — loitering, witnessing, looking for some sort of opportunity. He is just a few feet away.
When the woman picks up her bags she drops her credit card onto the floor. She does not notice.
The boy does.
Träumen Sie?
Yes.
Where are you?
Tallinn. In the Old City.
What is the year?
It is 1948, nine years adrift from the first independence. It is five days before Christmas. Food is scarce, but there is still joy in the twinkling lights.
Where will you go?
To Lanamäe, in the eastern section of the city, to one of the Soviet hostels. I am to meet a man.
Who is this man?
A blind man, a Baltic German. He is a thief. He preys upon the elderly who have little to begin with. He stole something from a friend, and I will have it back this night.
How is this possible? How would a blind man be able to do this?
He does not yet know of his blindness.
Luther shadows the thief at a discrete distance, down Frankford Avenue to Mark Street, then east. Most of the buildings on this block are boarded up, abandoned.
Before they reach Eastland Avenue the thief ducks down an alley, shoulders open a door.
Luther follows. When his shadow darkens the wall opposite the splintered doorway the thief notices. He spins around, startled.
They are alone.
“You have something that does not belong to you,” Luther says.
The thief looks him up and down, assessing his size and strength, perhaps looking for a telltale bulge that might signal possession of a handgun. Seeing none, he is emboldened. “D’f*ck are you?”
“Just a ragged stranger.”
The thief looks to the doorway, back. Recognition dawns. “I remember you. You was at the store.”
Luther does not correct the thief’s deplorable grammar. He remains silent. The thief takes a step back. Not a defensive move, but rather a gauging of range. He slowly drops his hands to his sides.
“What you want, man?” the thief asks. “I got business to tend.”
“What business would that be?”
“Not your business, motherf*cker.” The thief begins to move his right hand toward his back pocket. “Maybe I take what you got. Maybe I cut you up, pendejo.”
“Perhaps so.”
Another few inches toward the pocket. “You talk f*cked up, man. Where you from?”
“I am from everywhere and nowhere. I am from right beneath your feet.”
The thief looks at the ground, as if the answer might be there, as if there might suddenly appear a dog-eared Baedeker.
When he looks back up, the man before him removes his overcoat, takes a felt cap from his back pocket, slips it onto his head. What had only moments ago been curiosity becomes something else, something of nightmares. The thief’s eyes roam the man — the tattered brown suit, the frayed sleeves, the patch pockets crudely sewn, the missing button.
The blood stains.
In one fluid motion, the thief reaches into his back pocket. He retrieves a butterfly knife. Before he can get it open, the knife is slapped from his hand, and he is spun around and slammed into the wall.
Seconds later the tall man has taken everything from his pockets and thrown the contents across the room. With a frightening strength the thief is turned back around, and brought to the floor.
Luther takes a few steps away, picks up the butterfly knife. With a flourish — slick and practiced — he has it open.
“What were you going to do with this?” Luther asks.
The thief has yet to catch his breath. When he does, he says, “Nothing.”
Luther flips the knife. It sticks into a wooden pallet on the floor.
“My name is Luther,” he says. “I think it is important for you to know this.”
The thief says nothing.
“I say this because I know, from experience, that what happens in this room will be a turning point in your life, a story you will repeat many times over, and that people will ask you: ‘What was this man’s name?’”
“I don’t need to know who you are.”
“Well, this is merely what I am called,” Luther says. “It is not who I am.”
“Just take my shit man. I didn’t mean what I said before. I wasn’t going to cut you.”
Luther nods. “Let me ask you a question.”
The thief just stares.
“When you sleep at night, or when you nap in the afternoon after a particularly good meal, do you dream?”
“I don’t … yeah. I dream.”
“Some people say they do not, but the truth is we all dream. What these people mean to say is that they do not remember their dreams.”
Luther crosses the room, leans against the wall. The thief glances at the knife sticking out of the pallet. His eyes say he will never make it.
“Let me give you an example,” Luther says. “Do you know how sometimes, when you are dreaming, it begins as one thing, and then magically — for dreaming truly is in the realm of magic — it becomes something else? Something … other?”
The thief remains silent.
“In the dream you are, let us say, a famous matador. You are in the ring with the beast, being cheered by thousands. You wave the muleta, you ready your espada for the kill.
“Then, suddenly you have the ability to fly, to soar above the crowd, to cast your shadow on the countryside, to taste the salt of the sea. Such dreams, I suggest to you, are difficult to leave behind. For most, it is such a disappointment to awaken, to relinquish such godlike powers, only discover that were we are still, simply, ourselves. Still bound by this mortal coil.”
Luther takes a few steps toward the door, glances into the alley, continues.
“When I left the house today, this situation — this unfortunate state in which we find each other — was not my dream. I suspect, however, that it was yours.”
“No, man,” the thief says. “It wasn’t. Just let me —”
“And yet you brought with you this knife.”
“It’s for protection.”
“Against whom? Old women with credit cards?”
The thief looks at his hands. “I was going to give it back.”
“I understand,” Luther says. “In the broadest sense, I believe this to be true. And that is why this may end well for you after all.”
A light returns to the thief’s eyes. “What I gotta do?”
Luther approaches him, again crouches down. “There is a dream about a blind man. Do you know it?”
The thief shakes his head.
“They say to dream about blindness means that there is a truth about yourself you refuse to accept, or that you have lost your way in life. I believe this applies to you.”
The thief begins to tremble.
“I am here to help you find your way,” Luther says. He picks up the thief’s knife, then reaches beneath his jacket and pulls out a long, bone-handled knife.
“No,” the thief says. “You can’t do this.”
“You are right,” Luther replies. “That is why you will do it to yourself. You will take your eyes, as the matador wields his espada, and by this you will see.”
“You’re f*cking crazy, man!”
“That is not for you or I to determine,” Luther says. He reaches down, finds an oily rag on the floor, hands it to the thief. “For the blood.”
“No, man. You can’t —”
“Now, this is a subtle undertaking. Extreme care must be taken. If you push the knife in too deeply, you will sever the optic nerve, yes, but you may run it into your frontal lobe. The truth is, if you do it, there is the possibility — quite a good possibility as I understand it — that you will live. If I do it, I fear you will not. I cannot make the choice for you.”
Luther stands, holds the butterfly knife by its blade.
“Do you see that old calendar on the wall behind me?” he asks.
The thief looks over. There is a yellowed calendar hanging on a nail. It is from January 2008. “Yes.”
“Do you see the date for January 15?”
The thief just nods.
Without another word Luther spins quickly around and throws the knife. It hits the small square for January 15 dead center. Luther crosses the room, retrieves the knife. He steps back over to where the thief sits, hands him the bone handled filet knife, handle first. He steps away.
“So, tell me. Which dream do you choose?” Luther asks. “To live many more years as a blind man, or to die in this terrible place?”
Luther smells the sharp tang of urine as the man fouls himself. In the chill of this unheated room, steam begins to rise from the thief’s lap.
“If … if I do this, you won’t kill me?” the thief asks.
“I will not,” Luther says. “You have my word.” He glances at his watch. “But you must do this in the next thirty seconds. Beyond that, I cannot make any promises.”
The thief takes a deep breath, releases it in four or five small gusts. He slowly turns the knife toward himself.
“I can’t do it!”
“Twenty-five seconds.”
The thief begins to sob. The knife shakes in his hand as he brings it closer to his face. He raises his other hand to steady himself, and stares at the blade as a man might consider a burning rosary, the abacus of his sins.
“Twenty seconds.”
The thief begins to pray.
“Dios te salve, Maria.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
“Llena eres de gracia.”
“Ten seconds.”
“El Señor es contigo.”
“Five seconds.”
At the moment the tip of the blade descends, the 11:05 train on the Frankford line carrying eighty-one passengers roars to a stop overhead. The thief’s screams are swallowed by the whet of steel on steel, plumed inside the release of hydraulic steam.
Twenty seconds later, when the knife falls from the thief’s hand, there is only silence.
The thief — whose name was Ezequiel “Cheque” Rivera Marquez — had always thought that when death came it would be accompanied by a bright white light, or the sound of angels singing. When his mother died at the age of thirty-one in an osteopathic hospital in Camden, New Jersey, it was what he wanted to believe. It was possible that all eight-year-olds wanted to believe this.
For Cheque Marquez it wasn’t anything like that. Death wasn’t an angel in a long flowing gown.
Death was a man in a tattered brown suit.
One hour later, Luther stands across the street from the old woman’s row house. He watches the woman sweep the leaves off her small porch, marveling at how small she is, how big she had at one time seemed to him.
He knows that the next time he sees her it will be in her bedroom, her ruched and cloying boudoir with its peeling wallpaper and brown mice and generic powders, a visit during which he will replace her credit card in her wallet.
Nothing can be out of place over the course of the coming days. Everything must be as it has always been.
He’d already visited her home, three times sitting at the foot of her bed as she fitfully slept, chased by what demons he could only imagine. Perhaps he was one of those demons. Perhaps the woman knows that when her time comes, it will be him.
In the end, someone always comes.