Robert Walker - Blind Instinct

“Read on,” suggested Richard.

The thirteenth and final victim was yet another young baby-sitter, but in her case, the disappearance caused an uproar in the entire village. A search for her had gone on for weeks when Houghton, under pressure from his accomplice wife to rid the house of the “hot” body, found himself spodighted by authorities, who had begun to watch him on tips from neighbors about strange goings-on in the Gloucester home where the girl had baby-sat from time to time.

Something about the case which Jessica couldn't let go of: The total devotion the killers had instilled in their children to keeping the family secrets, as grisly and as gruesome as they were. It harkened back to what Luc Sante had said about the group mind, the power of authority figures and peer pressure, the sort of brainwashing and conditioning, which in her estimation, never completely left a person, whether the conditioning was to the lifestyle of a survivalist, a KKK member, a prisoner of war, a wrestling fan, or a child taught that murder, under the right circumstances, was all right; this mentality or some remnant of guilt stayed with a person forever. She pushed on with the article, reading:

There were five children living under the same roof with Mr. and Mrs. Houghton besides Heather. When Heather disappeared and next the baby-sitter, too many unanswered questions went wanting. The additional five children, two of them young twin girls, were all taken into custody and placed in the care of authorities.

Jessica assumed these Houghton children had all been placed in child welfare and protective agencies, and later found homes. The two Houghton twins she'd met earlier, according to Father Luc Sante, were nowadays devoted to helping others in the cause of Jesus Christ, but each of the sisters lived behind big, onyx glass eyes, glazed over at that. They appeared drugged, at least on a mild sedative, she believed. Perhaps, even now, they must continue on a regimen of psychoactive drugs to hold back the horrors of their childhood, in order to not live a life condemning their own parents who, out of a core evil that included abuse, murder, incest, and forced sodomy on their own children as final insult.

Once again, Jessica must face Luc Sante as a possible suspect in the crucifixion murders. Obviously, he had access to various drugs and would know how to use Brevital. Jessica could not help but wonder just how traumatized the two grown children of parental abuse must still be, and just how long Dr. Luc Sante, as a psychotherapist had had them under his care and treatment. She further wondered just how far the two bug-eyed creatures might go to further their cause in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

She shared these fears with Richard, somehow relaxing them by putting words to her fears and sharing with another person.

The name Gloucester, too, sounded familiar, and a quick check of the birthplace of Theodore “Burtie” Burton came up Gloucester. Another simple coincidence? Britain was, after all, an island nation, and life popped full with synchronicity and coincidence every day here. Still, Jessica could hardly help questioning these two hounds, coming as they did on one another's heels, yipping away at one another.

Good Inspector Sharpe, too, had difficulty simply swallowing these two examples of chance at play in the fields of murder in one generation so unkind and cruel, and the crucifixion murders in this generation.

“What do we do with this information?” she asked.

“It all remains relatively circumstantial.”

“Agreed. I've lost cases on more evidence.”

They fell silent, each locked in thought for some time before Jessica blurted out, “I think it's time we got a search warrant for St. Albans.”

“St. Albans? A church? You want a sanctuary for evil tooops! — sorry, a Freudian, I suppose. Do you really expect that a sanctuary for any and all in peril-such as the Houghton twins-to be served with a search warrant? In London?”

“I realize this isn't the South Bronx or West Queens, but we are dealing with a radical situation here, and the timetable on the body count has risen and will only continue to rise if we don't do something.”

“I tell you, getting a court order to raid a Catholic church in London, or anywhere in Great Britain, will not do. I'm afraid we've not progressed too far in that area since Henry the Eighth. But what we could do is approach from the bridgethe canal, the end of that labyrinthine tunnel we saw on the map. That's public domain.”

“Are you suggesting we go it alone?”

“Everyone else is concentrating efforts elsewhere, looking in the wrong place, I fear. Convinced by Boulte and company that surveillancing the waterways is our best effort. It appears Chief Inspector Boulte has everyone out in force doing so. So, I'm afraid we're on our own.”

“That could be damned risky. I don't have a desire to find myself spread-eagle on a resurrection cross, Richard.”

“Do not tempt me. It presents a fairly juicy picture to this person, love.”

“Stop that.”

“I will not,” he teased further.

“All right, as soon as we have the maps in hand, we go,” she agreed.

Sharpe had not exaggerated Crider's gift for magic with film. The maps were sharp and clear and easily read. They took them in hand at 8:26 p.m. and left the Yard without anyone but Crider having known they'd been in the archives.

Sharpe made a detour along the route back to the Marylebone district, stopping off at the RIBA in search of someone familiar with the locks and canals of London. Someone who had the right know-how and tools to open a locked grate covering an ancient canal below the city, someone who knew a clapper bridge when confronted with one.

As luck would have it, Donald Wentworth Tatham turned out to be the ready “soldier” on the spot, as Sharpe referred to him. Together, Sharpe, Jessica, and Tatham traveled toward the far northern border of Marylebone, at the terminus of a canal no longer in use, serving only as a drainage ditch and locked away from the sight of men for some forty-eight-odd years.

Sharpe dug out large, powerful flashlights from the boot of his car, along with the Wellington boots he'd scavenged for the three of them. “The Wellingtons,” he told Jessica, “are the same as used by veterinarians when mucking about pigstys and cow sheds. You'll be glad you have them.” Now they approached the silent, sealed grate which had grown over with vines, weeds, and vegetation for birds to build nests in. It took a good ten minutes for Tatham to locate the lock in order to insert the key, and even unlocked, the grate, sealed now with layers of rust and tightly bound by tenacious, stalky clinging vines, refused them entry.

“Bloody 'ell,” moaned Sharpe. “It'll be dark before we're a foot through.”

The three of them, using their combined weight and strength struggled for some time, standing in the drainage ditch, to pry the grate open far enough that they could squeeze through. Skittering eels played about them here in the water.

“Well done,” gasped Richard. Turning to Tatham, he added, “Your job is done then. Off with you, Dr. Tatham.”

“You'll be lost inside an hour and never find your way back without me,” Tatham firmly declared. “Don't be a fool, Sharpe. I think I should accompany you and Dr. Coran to your destination… Which would be…?”

“Where's the map?”

Jessica, who held the map out of the water, said, “Here you go, Richard.”

“We want to come out below St. Albans, the church, somewhere about here, I should think.”

“The church, really? You suspect the church somehow involved in the murders?” asked Tatham.

“Not the church, but perhaps a churchman?”