Chapter 3: Chapter 3
HEARTLESS
Chapter Three - Eventide
Saint Ignatius Catholic Church, 9:15 p.m.
Catherine Kent glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. Damn, she thought, noting the time. It was well after nine o'clock.
She rose from her desk and walked toward the sole window in the small room that functioned as her office in the old, decaying church. She had to stand on her toes to see out the tiny rectangular casement, so close was it to the room's ceiling. Wrought iron bars protected the glass and served as a deterrent against break-ins. She had made an attempt to soften the dismal atmosphere created by the heavy black bars. Catherine had hung a cafe rod above the narrow space between the window sash and the ceiling, and thus a white, ruffled cotton valance draped itself cheerfully across the top of the window.
Brushing back a lock of dark brown hair from her eyes, she peered out onto the street. The view from the window was not inspiring; it was level with the sidewalk, and during the day afforded anyone caring to look a glimpse of scurrying feet, ankles and legs hastily rushing past the window.
Catherine frowned. There was no activity on the street at present. It was dark outside. In spite of her best intentions, she had lost track of time. She listened intently, hoping to hear the sound of others who might still be inside the building, but she heard nothing. Except for Geraldine, the mama cat, and her sleeping kittens in the crate behind Catherine's desk, Catherine was alone.
Turning from the window, a yawn escaped her. She was tired and shadows of weariness ringed her deep blue eyes. The day had been eventful. Though she had worked diligently, she had barely made a dent in the paperwork on her desk or addressed any of her many emails. She had planned to leave the office before sunset. Too many tasks, however, had prevented her from doing so. There were always so many things that required her attention: accounts to settle, food orders, inventory checks.
Then, too, were the appointments she had to schedule with the CEOs of large corporations; they were her best source for charitable giving. She had become quite proficient in the fine art of begging for contributions, and she did not shy away from using her family connections to get her foot in the proverbial door of Miami's wealthiest citizens.
She sighed as she considered the busy schedule that faced her the next day. Resigned to another night spent amongst paperwork scattered on her bed, Catherine began to gather up the papers on her desk. They would be going home with her.
She worked harder than many of the attorneys in her family's law firm ~ and that was no joke in spite of her family's condescending humor at the path she had chosen. Family occasions were rife with snide remarks at her expense. 'Little Ms. Do-Gooder' they called her, ridiculing her desire to help the less fortunate.
They never understood what it was like to feel vulnerable... to worry where one's next meal was coming from. They did not know the fear and anxiety experienced by those out of work, without resources. Her family and friends were isolated from such realities by fat bank accounts and aristocratic pedigrees.
Not so for Catherine. She might possess the pedigree and the trust fund, but she understood the feeling of being vulnerable, and the uncertainty when life unexpectedly knocked one for a loop.
A second, deeper sigh escaped her. Thoughts of her family always depressed her. Worse, thoughts of them often led to thoughts of him... frightful thoughts.
She pushed aside the unpleasant memories. She had long ago discovered the best tonic for fear and depression was hard work. It made her feel less hopeless. Several years ago, she had been lost and afraid, unwilling to step outside her wealthy condo in Coral Gables. She learned through experience that purposeful work kept the demons at bay. She finally gathered her courage and sold the condo, which had been more of a prison than a home... and now she lived in town, close to the aging church where her food kitchen was located.
Picking up the pile of paperwork, she began to transfer it to her leather satchel. She paused when a card fell from the pile and fluttered slowly to the floor. Bending down, Catherine rescued the errant rectangle and brought it closer to her eyes for examination.
It was the business card given to her by Lieutenant Caine.
A small smile played about Catherine's lips as she fiddled with the edges of the card and thought about the lieutenant. Against her will, he had extracted a promise from her that she wouldn't leave the office alone after dark.
It sure didn't take me long to break that promise, she thought wryly. Her mind turned to the murder of the young girl that had occurred not far from the church, and she cursed herself for her foolishness in staying so late at the office.
Recalling her conversation with Horatio and his stern admonishment that she not walk alone through the neighborhood after dark, she grew disturbed. Suddenly, she found herself wishing for a companion to walk alongside her as she made her way home. Without much hope, she abruptly walked out into the hallway and raised her voice in hopeful greeting. "Hello? Sister Mary-Martha? Father Ralph? Is anyone still here?"
Silence.
It was as she thought. Everyone had left for the evening. Well, there is nothing to be done about it now, she thought.
She glanced again at the card in her hands. She wondered how the lieutenant might react if she were to call him and ask him to walk her home. She had his cell number... and she would not mind holding onto his arm as they walked together in the velvety darkness of a summer's evening. He had made more of an impression on her than she liked to admit. It wasn't just that he was handsome, though God knows the red hair and bright blue eyes were striking. It was something more. He was strong in a good way. An honest way.
She had known another man who had also been handsome, who had been strong... but not in a good way. She felt a sudden chill run down her spine and she turned her thoughts away from that man. He was her past. He couldn't hurt her now.
Should she call the lieutenant? Play the damsel in distress? She laughed softly to herself. Not likely! He would think her a complete ninny ~ and rightfully so. A grown woman being afraid of the dark! This was her neighborhood; she would not live in fear. She started to shove Horatio's card inside her desk drawer, but then thought twice and instead tossed it inside her satchel.
Determined to cast aside her fears and the phantoms from her past, she closed the office door firmly behind her. As she walked down the dimly lit hallway and up the stairs toward the door that led out onto the street, she thought again of the murder of Theresa Lopez and the drawing of the suspect that Horatio had left with her. She shuddered to think that such a gruesome murder took place not far from her soup kitchen.
The fear escalated when she considered that the man in the drawing might have been one of the homeless men her kitchen served. She recalled again the uneasiness she had felt a few nights ago. She had mentioned to Horatio the creepy feeling she'd experienced, the sense that someone was watching her as she walked home alone in the dark. Yet, there had been no one there when she turned to look. At the time, she had dismissed the feeling as the product of an overactive imagination.
But now? Not so much...
She reached deep into her satchel and her hand closed possessively around the small object inside. Feeling the cold metal pressed firmly against her palm comforted her.
Catherine had not been speaking idly when she told Horatio that she could take care of herself. She had more than just a few self-defense moves to stop a would-be assailant... she had a small caliber pistol, and she knew how to use it. More important, she was not afraid to use it ~ if she had to.
She was no shrinking violet. She had learned a rough lesson years ago: stand up for yourself! Fight back immediately, and ask questions later. If she had to, she could use that gun.
He had taught her that lesson. It was a lesson she would never forget.
That was something the handsome lieutenant did not yet know about her. She was strong. Very strong. She'd been tested... and survived.
Before stepping outside the door, she looked up and down the street, her hand securely wrapped around the small gun in her bag. Seeing nothing, she relaxed her grip. She then stepped outside, and locked the door behind her.
Horatio's words about walking on the streets at night had flustered her. The gun, however, calmed her down. She again began to believe she had imagined that feeling of being watched a few nights ago. She had no such feeling now. As for the murdered young woman, it was a terrible thing and she hoped the lieutenant would capture the monster responsible. However, she wouldn't change her way of life because of one unfortunate girl... or for an overly cautious police lieutenant, no matter how attractive he was.
Miami-Dade Correctional Facility, 10:00 p.m.
The agitated racket pouring out of the cells abruptly stilled as Fat Jack Tolliver made his way down the long, harshly lit prison corridor. Accompanying his slow, menacing gait was the chilling sound of a large, hollow pipe, its iron heaviness making jarring contact with each of the solid metal bars it encountered.
Reaching the center of the passageway, Fat Jack paused and scanned the lengthy row of cells with casual contempt. Standing next to him was a younger man; however, the eyes of the cells' inhabitants fixed collectively on Tolliver.
Fat Jack was a force to reckon with, at least as dangerous as and ten times wilier than the convicts under his care.
He was dressed in a crisp, smartly ironed uniform and he wore it with dandified grace. The plump white hands that lovingly caressed the iron pipe displayed well-manicured fingers, with shiny, carefully trimmed nails.
He was a big man, almost corpulent, and he had a full head of thick white hair that quarreled with his lively, florid complexion. His shrewd eyes, as green as the Emerald Isle he hailed from, stared watchfully out of a face that wore an affable expression. It was only when a man looked closer at Fat Jack that he noted the cunning in those careful eyes, and how they contrasted with the mask of geniality he wore.
Suddenly, a thick, belly laugh bubbled up out of Fat Jack and escaped into the ominously quiet corridor.
"Good evening, dearies!" he called out, his slight Irish accent echoing down the long aisle. The accent's singsong cadence contrasted roguishly with the corridor's thick and heavy quiet. "And how are you, my darlings?"
He grinned as he heard the wave of low, surly mumblings begin to break from the bleak, gray cells.
"What's all this, dearies? Is the room service not up to your liking?" he mocked.
Turning his attention from the cells, Tolliver looked briefly at his companion, a too-thin young man whose uniform hung loosely from his body, giving him the appearance of a pallid scarecrow. More boy than man, the young guard had a sprinkling of acne across his cheekbones and forehead. He was forgettable. In fact, most times Fat Jack Tolliver did forget he was there. He frowned as he watched the young man's throat convulse nervously.
"You okay, Billy?" asked Tolliver, squinting at the boy.
Before Billy could answer, a mocking voice yelled, "Ol Billy, he be fine; he just chicken-shit. He looks so scared, I bet he piss his pants. Hey, boy - your mama know you're out this late?"
Guffaws of rude laughter erupted as the young guard cringed, causing Tolliver to look at him with contempt.
Another voice called out, this one an affected falsetto tinged with a Hispanic accent. "Hey, sweet boy, you want yourself some fun? You come inside here, spend a little quality time with Manuel - I give you some special fun, sweetheart - give you lots of love and romance. You beg for more. You like that, sweet boy?"
Tolliver's genial aspect faded as he watched Billy sway and blink his eyes nervously.
"For the love of Christ, lad, get a goddam hold on yourself," he whispered angrily in the young man's ear. "You let them mess with your head like this, you're never gonna last here."
But Billy was unable to respond. He tried to form a few words, but they wouldn't emerge. He looked helplessly at Fat Jack. The boy was not sure whom he feared more: the prisoners... or Tolliver.
"Go on, get back to the office," said Tolliver. "You aren't any good here." He shook his head with disgust as the young man almost scampered down the hallway to the crude sound of smacking lips and mocking invitations for romance.
T'is a goddam lightweight, he is, thought Tolliver, watching the retreating guard. Only got this job because he's the warden's idiot nephew.
"Hey, Fat Boy," jeered another voice as the laughter continued, "lose your little playmate?"
Tolliver turned his face toward the cells' inhabitants, and stood there quietly, grinning with seeming good will. Slowly, the laughter began to subside as the hecklers studied the beaming man before them.
When he was certain he held their attention, he spoke in a good-natured growl. "Okay, 'girls,' lights out in ten minutes - and then it'll be time for you to be taking your beauty sleep."
Tolliver laughed gleefully as a string of disgruntled insults and imaginative curses about his parentage and his mother's morals were bandied his way.
God! His lads! How he loved them!
Nothing gave him more pleasure than engaging in an exchange of insults with the losers under his watch.
As long as they understood who was boss...
A muttered curse about the questionable circumstances of his birth rose singularly above the general noise, and Tolliver approached the cell where the owner of that voice resided.
Inside, a tall, thin Black man leaned languidly against the heavy iron bars, and glared at Tolliver. Hatred leaped from hostile brown eyes to sly green ones.
Suddenly, the prisoner's face split into an insulting grin, displaying a gold crown over the front tooth that he had cracked several years back in a nasty fight.
"You're a mighty big man with that pole in your hand... How 'bout you let me outta here, we do a little one-on-one, Fat Boy?"
A sunny smile lit up Tolliver's face as he gazed at the inmate, and he replied amiably, "Well, well. And look who it is. Good evening, friend Cicero. The top of the evening to you, lovely."
The corner of Cicero's mouth turned down with hatred. He allowed his eyes to study Tolliver, making a slow visual journey of the length and breadth of the guard. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Tolliver's substantial lower belly.
"So... you piss your pants, Fat Boy? I smell somethin' rank. I think it's comin' from you... or maybe that be your natural smell." His voice lingered over the word 'natural' so that it came out with cheek as 'natch - ur - rel.'
Tolliver burst into laughter, and he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Ah, Cicero... such wit!"
Cicero tilted his head, as if considering. "You know, Fat Boy, you ever think that maybe you're usin' that pole 'cause you ain't got no real equipment inside your pants? Maybe you're compensatin' somehow for what nature ain't gave you."
In response, Tolliver paused before speaking, a look of studied contemplation on his face.
"Well, now, Cicero... I did not realize you were reading Dr. Freud in your spare time. T'is a fine thing, dearie. A man needs to better himself. Help himself understand the human condition."
Slowly, a different smile began to materialize on the fat man's face, one a great deal less genial than the one he had been wearing. Cicero, despite being an alleged student of the 'human condition,' failed to notice the change in Tolliver's attitude.
"So, you jerk off while you be holdin' that pole in one hand and whatever it is 'neath all that fat in the other?"
"Cicero, Cicero..." began Tolliver, almost regretfully, his voice soft and menacing as he moved closer to the cell.
"You know, lovey, I must admit to always having had a certain curiosity about your sainted mother. Was she, perhaps, a student of the Classics?"
Confused, but on his guard at the mention of his mother, Cicero's face contorted with hatred. "The hell you say?"
"For example," continued Tolliver, as if Cicero hadn't spoken, "your name. 'Cicero.' T'is a fine name. Did you know, dearie, t'was the name of one of Ancient Rome's greatest orators. People would come from far away to hear the great man hold forth. Would you be knowing what an 'orator' is, lad? Well, darlin', t'is someone who speaks real pretty.
"Now, this Cicero of Ancient Rome, well, t'was assassinated, he was.
"And do you know why, dearie? T'was mainly because he didn't know when to keep his fat, fuckin' mouth shut. You'll want to be bearing that in mind, love."
The prisoner grabbed at the cell's bars, spitting out, "The shit you say, man!"
"Yes, I can see evidence of your brilliant elocution; t'is almost a laser-like connection to Rome's magnificent speaker, for sure." Tolliver laughed delightedly at the look of frustration on the inmate's face.
"Funny, isn't it? Thinking your sainted mother a student of the Classics! Rich, isn't it, Cicero?"
Loudly for the benefit of the other prisoners, Tolliver sang out, "I'm thinking our Cicero was most likely named after some road sign his dear old mother saw while she lay in the backseat of some beat-up old Caddie, her legs spread wide, and her heels pressed up against the roof of the car!"
Enraged, Cicero growled, "You let me out of this cell, dog, and I show you somethin' - won't be no fuckin' road sign either!"
With a panther-like grace that belied his stoutness, Tolliver moved quickly toward the iron bars of Cicero's cell and shoved his rosy face close. His eyes cold, he spat out, "You listen to me, dearie, and you listen good: you ever threaten me again and, by God, I'll be stringing your nuts into a necklace you can wear around your scrawny neck. Now, would you be having anything further to say to me?"
There were moments when Fat Jack Tolliver's mask of merry geniality gave way. This was one of those moments. Behind the good-natured façade beat a heart as black as most of those inside the cells he guarded, and a disposition at least as deadly.
When Fat Jack dropped the pose, a wise man knew to swallow his insults and his threats. It didn't take long before the smarter inmates learned this, and knew the signs to watch for. There were always a few, though, who needed to learn the lesson. And some, who needed a refresher course.
Cicero frowned at the white man and took his measure.
Crazy-ass pecker, he thought, and decided to leave the battle for another day. He gave Tolliver his best glare, and then he sauntered over to his cot and lay down, turning his face toward the wall.
Tolliver grinned with satisfaction and backed away from the cell. "Just as I thought. Now that's a good girl," he said dismissively, slapping the pipe against the palm of his hand, and continuing his way down the corridor.
It was silent now, and the gentle slap of the pole against human flesh sounded in the eerie quiet. Tolliver liked it like this, when one of his 'girls' got out of hand and he could use the strength of his will to force them back in line. He liked it when the corridor went silent; it was proof his girls had learned a valuable lesson.
He was Fat Jack Tolliver and he feared no one, and, by God, they would be wise to remember it!
His good humor once more restored, Fat Jack continued down the corridor, again dragging the pipe against the prison bars. The grating noise the iron pipe made clashed with the carefree tune Tolliver whistled. The subdued angry mutterings of the prisoners as he passed each cell delighted him. Nothing made Tolliver happier than seeing his darlings sullen and frustrated. He knew they hated him ~ and he reveled in their hatred.
Finally, he came to a cell at the end of the corridor and stopped. He looked at the man inside, sitting quietly on the edge of the prison cot. His posture erect, his hands resting lightly on his knees, the man stared unseeingly at a spot on the gray wall facing him. He seemed oblivious to both Tolliver and his surroundings.
Fat Jack tilted his head, studying the inmate's profile.
He was a handsome man. His nose and brow were well formed, his chin strong, his hair thick, black and wavy. He was tall and powerfully built, and wore his prison jumpsuit with certain panache.
Aye, but he is a weird one, thought Tolliver, who found the prisoner enigmatic. Fat Jack had no trouble figuring out most of his darlings, but this fellow was different, and Tolliver found himself both repelled and fascinated by him.
He reminded Fat Jack of a King Cobra. Tolliver remembered watching an old National Geographic special about the deadly animal; he was a magnificent beast, truly worthy of the royal title.
The imposing reptile was known to position himself silently, and remain as still as a statue. Patiently, he'd wait, watching his prey approach. When his prey was fully in sight, the animal would then rise up a good third of his body, his neck hooding out on both sides, and strike suddenly and repeatedly at the creature foolish enough to approach.
Tolliver chuckled to himself; it was a good comparison, the snake and the inmate.
Determined to get a reaction out of the man, Fat Jack rapped his pipe twice against the iron bars, and the sound rang out loudly in the silent corridor.
"Hey, dearie, Avon calling!" He laughed at his own feeble joke, but grew quickly annoyed at the inmate's continuing lack of response.
Frowning, his amiability now gone, Tolliver snarled at the prisoner. "Hey, dearie, did you not hear me? It's good evenin' I'm sayin' to you. Do you not have ears that work? Is it a kind word you'd be denying your host?"
Finally, there was movement inside the cell.
The man slowly turned his attention away from the wall and directed a basilisk gaze toward his tormentor. A chill went up Fat Jack Tolliver's spine as he looked into the eyes of the inmate. His were arresting eyes - pale blue, almost devoid of color, and fringed with thick black lashes. The contrast of the black lashes against the nearly colorless eyes was disconcerting: the eyes appeared almost blank, as if there were no soul behind them.
A dreadful smile stretched across the inmate's face. Softly he said, "Good evening, Mr. Tolliver. I've been waiting for you."
Horatio's House, 11:00 p.m.
Horatio unlocked the door to his house after taking a keen look at his surroundings. Experience had taught him to take nothing for granted, especially this late at night. He entered the house and walked straight through the living room and into the bedroom, dropping his badge on the bureau as he passed by.
God, it's late, he thought, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto a side chair.
He carefully removed his weapon from its holster, and then placed it on the nightstand near his bed. His weapon was never out of reach, not even when he was sleeping. There was always the chance that he might quickly have need of it - even in the middle of the night.
That, too, he had learned from experience.
He sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes and removing his socks. Damn but he was tired! He and the team had worked until 8:30, trying to get caught-up on the several cases they were working. Afterward, Calleigh and Eric suggested they grab Frank and get a bite to eat at the local watering hole known for its Mojitos and burgers. Calleigh was the Mojito girl; the rest of them had nursed beers over the grease-plate special.
Horatio had tried to pay attention to the conversation around him; he was usually pretty good at turning off the events of the day. This time it was different.
Memories of the sight of the murdered Theresa Lopez had stayed with him all through the evening, intruding upon his time with his friends. The murder creeped him out. It had all the signs of being a cult murder ~ a particularly nasty one.
Rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, his thoughts drifted back to his brief session with Catherine Kent.
Calleigh had classified Catherine as the 'wonky' member of her family. Well, he could see it. There was something odd about a woman who would leave behind the money and prestige associated with a family like the Kents. And for what? To hide out in some cubbyhole in a nearly deserted church in a rundown part of town? It was wonky. Certainly it was odd.
There was something odd, too, about the way Catherine Kent had affected him.
Once he had gotten past the Plain Jane façade, he found himself attracted to her. She was a pretty woman who chose for some reason to downplay her assets. What was her story? And why did he care?
Schoolmarms, Sunday school teachers and do-gooders had never been his style. Still weren't. But she had a back-story; he was certain of it. And a part of him very much wanted to discover what it was.
To be continued.