Cody McFadyen - The Darker Side

What's the message?

Simple words. He's said them in various ways; I hear them now like a bell: Don't lie to God.

There's a flaw in his logic, I realize, a huge, gaping hole in his argument: the people he's murdered had already confessed their sins. They'd done what he said they should, they'd knelt down in the confessional and they'd struggled with the words until they found the courage to say them.

Maybe he doesn't consider that his victims were flawed. Perhaps they weren't examples of what not to do, but examples of what should be done. Maybe the fact that they'd already confessed and were thus guaranteed a place in heaven let him kill without guilt, provided him with the system of rationalization he needed to violate that commandment we all seem to agree on: thou shalt not kill. Or maybe, I think, this is where the rubber leaves the road with him. Maybe this is where he stops making sense and starts making crazy. He's built himself a church of ideas, but it was built on murder, with the bones of his victims.

Maybe, I think, for all his speeches about truth, he's the one lying the most.

I smile at this idea. I like the idea of him failing himself and his principles. I like it a lot.

You're no different. I look at all these names, and that's what I really see. Just like all the monsters; you're not talking to God, you're not talking to me, in the end, you're talking to someone you used to know, and however much you scream, they'll probably never listen.

IT'S TEN O'CLOCK. EVERYONE ISback at Death Central, listening as James briefs us on the results of the phone calls.

"We were able to confirm specific churches for approximately ninety percent of victims killed within the last five years. Beyond five years the percentages go down because the priest running the church has changed."

I hadn't thought of this, but it makes sense. The Catholic Church has personnel turnover like anyone else.

"It's worth noting that of those we were able to confirm, the priest involved generally remembered them without much prompting. They were almost invariably hard-luck cases who made good. Some exceptions, of course, but true in most instances."

"It'd fit with his manifesto," I say. "Those who came clean reversed the course of their lives."

"He chose the churches well. The ones he went after, with few exceptions, were similar to the Redeemer here. Churches run by priests who tried to help those having the most troubles."

"The most likely to have bad shit in their past," Alan points out.

"Also least likely to be missed."

"Now for the bad news. None of the priests we talked to-not one-remembers anyone strange hanging around at the times our victims disappeared."

"Nothing at all?" I ask.

"No. We were very specific with our questions. 'Do you remember a man who would have left around the same time that particular victim disappeared?' for example. Not one answer in the affirmative."

I'm dumbfounded. It wouldn't have surprised me to find most saw nothing. He'd have been careful, people aren't that observant-

but no one remembers anything at all? That's very strange.

"What about cleaning people?"

"We asked, of course. Most of these churches are too poor to pay for someone to come in and clean. They do the work themselves."

I shake my head. "Let's break it down. He'd need access and he'd have to fit in. Especially in these environments. These churches would be small, the parishioners tight-knit. It'd be difficult for a stranger to come in and not stick out."

"He could have pretended to be a parishioner," Callie says. "A down-and-outer like the others."

"Then why wouldn't these priests remember that? He wouldn't have stuck around, he'd have left once he had his victims. Plus, based on Father Yates, I think we're dealing with priests used to keeping their eyes open. They know they're not preaching to a congregation of innocent little lambs."

"Frustrating," Jezabel observes.

James's cell phone rings.

"Yes? What? Okay. Thank you." He snaps his phone shut. "That was computer crimes. We have a new attempt by the Preacher to post a clip on user-tube. They intercepted it and are e-mailing it to me now. They said it's different."

"Different how?" I ask.

"There's no victim in this one. But he's letting us know there will be another one soon."

"I SEE THAT THOSE INlaw enforcement continue to work diligently to remove my video clips from the website I chose to share them on. That's understandable and certainly not unexpected. It doesn't matter all that much now anyway; the clips I posted have already found their way to hard drives around the world. They're being shared via newsgroups, e-mail, and other viral video websites. It's the nature of the Internet, and the reason I chose it as my first medium.

"From this point, I acknowledge, it gets a little more difficult. Law enforcement will likely be preventing my message from getting out at all. Again, not unexpected. For that reason, this particular clip is directed to you, to whoever it may be that is hunting me. I've given you everything you need to find me. If you do not, then sometime in the next forty-eight hours, I'll kill again." He pauses. His thumb stops moving on the rosary beads. "I'll say it again: I have given you everything you need to find me. You should know by now: I never lie, and I will keep my promise. Find me."

The clip ends.

"Why does he want to be caught?" Callie asks.

"It's the next step," I say. "You think he's got an audience now?

Wait till he's in prison. He'll be a bonafide celebrity. Soapboxing away till they put a needle in his arm."

"Which will make him a martyr. Something I doubt he'll mind,"

James points out.

"Back to the drawing board," I say, pacing again. "He told us we can find him with the information we have. He says he never lies. I doubt that as a generality, but in this case, I'm buying it because he wants to be captured. We're missing something. What is it?"

Alan sighs. "I was never any good at logic problems. Give me a list of suspects to interview and I'm happy to beat my feet all day long. This is your territory, Smoky. You and James."

"It will be something simple," James says, studying the everpresent list of names on the dry-erase board. "We'll be missing it because it's obvious. Like the confessional as the source of his knowledge. It was there in front of us, which is why we didn't see it at first; it was a part of the landscape."

" Too apparent," Jezebel says.

"Exactly. Hide it in plain sight, just a little disguised. It belongs where it is while we're looking for something trying to be secret."

I remember my original words to AD Jones about the Preacher. I'd said he would have used a disguise on the plane, something simple with perhaps a single striking feature.

Something shutter clicks inside me.

I've tried to describe this phenomenon to others, the thing that always seems to herald a sudden realization on my part. It's like losing time, as though some part of my consciousness grays out, for just a millisecond. I'm left wondering what happened in that millisecond. What did I miss? The answer is simple: the thing I needed to see came into view, but I was not yet ready to understand it. I regain that lost time when I do.

That's what just happened, and I'm left to wonder: What is it that I need to understand? What's that thing that wants to be seen?

"Talk to me, James," I murmur. "List out the component parts of the problem one by one."

He doesn't ask me why; we've been down this road before.

"He chooses his victims based on their confessions. He's able to do this because he's been bugging confessionals in churches that cater to the more troubled sections of society. The congregations of these churches tend to be tight-knit communities."