Leviathan Read online

  “No more than the gay dude who lives next to me, smoking pot in his mom’s basement. Still, you don’t take fucking chances with God, Knox.”

  “Is your neighbour actually gay, or is that just macho bullshit I hear back there?”

  “Oh no,” Royce chuckles, “He’s full homo. Dresses like one, comes home with strange men who are three times his age. Kid is an assmucher, for sure.”

  Tim speaks in my rearview.

  “Must be nice to have so much time to concern oneself with the affairs of others,” he says, squinting out his window at nothing in particular.

  “You do seem like the type,” I tell Royce, agreeing with Tim.

  “Wait a second. What type?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Hardwick interrupts in the passenger seat, “Less focus on Royce’s cocksucking neighbour, more on the task at hand please.”

  “No, no,” the detective says, “Lady’s trying to imply something, so let it...be implied.”

  “Nah,” I concede, “I’m going with Hardwick on this one. Plead the Fifth, move on. Tell me about the church.”

  “Priest’s name is Lowe, or something,” my partner continues, “He was very helpful the first time, for as little as he actually knew.”

  “Could he be hiding something?” I ask.

  “Nah,” Royce offers, “Guy’s a fucking Boy Scout.”

  “But that said,” Hardwick offers, “go at him like you did Harry Quinn, might find a new angle.”

  “Okay,” I reply, looking at Tim in my rearview, but the man who calls himself Death has vanished from the back seat. “I’ll take lead on this one. You two stay here.”

  “Really?” Royce says, smacking the gum flattened on his lower right molar.

  Opening the driver door, my feet meet pavement. Close it, and Tim waits where it hung open. Never far, he walks me toward the church. Its facade is Catholic; the sign takes itself more seriously than the Anglican one near my apartment, which chooses to offer funny and inspiring messages over Scripture.

  Like my guardian angel, this sign is boring and straight-faced, inviting me in for weekly mass every Sunday at ten a.m..

  “I don’t like this,” I tell him, traversing up a flower-steeped path to the enormous structure.It looms over my lone shadow. When I was a kid, I used to imagine it had a personality; with the glare of my being engulfed in pall cast by the church, I’m very glad that’s not true.

  “Entering God’s house, or interrogating a priest?”

  Neither seem enticing. Wondering if I should have left my service weapon in the car, I pull on the door. We enter the nave; a giant cross affixed to the ceiling taunts my darkest depths, accusing me of sacrilege. The pews running all the way up the center aisle are empty, and I wonder why any priest would leave the place unlocked so late at night.

  The question is short-lived as a frocked elder appears from a door by the transept. He doesn’t notice us, inserting a key in the lock.

  Looks like we caught him just in time.

  “Excuse me?” I say, managing to startle the priest. Bifocals slide down his nose; he pushes them back up the bridge. The eyes behind them are beady and squinted, and the man is visibly tired. “Hi. Agent Knox, with the Bureau.”

  As the priest rounds the pew, rows of white flashing with his outstretched hand, I shake it. As was the case of Harry Quinn, I immediately know he is not involved.

  That hardly means he doesn’t hold pertinent information.

  “Father Lowe.”

  “I apologize for the hour, Father, but I had some follow-up questions about the Jordan West case?”

  The priest offers a smile.

  “Of course. The safety of youngsters is always the Church’s highest priority. And never you mind about the hour. I am always available to assist law enforcement in assuring it. Please,” Lowe gestures, “let’s sit.”

  I move into the closest row of benches with him. Tim, suffering obvious discomfort at his surroundings, excuses himself. Lowe and I sit side by side, hands in our respective laps, observed by Himself above.

  “I understand Jordan West was a deacon with your parish,” I begin.

  The priest grimaces.

  “Yes. Jordan West, for everything he has gone through, was one of my most fervent volunteers.”

  “Can I ask what you learned of him through your relationship? Look, I realize these are questions the Bureau may have already asked. I was only assigned to this case yesterday. I’m just trying to rack my brain as far as motive.”

  Lowe nods.

  “Are you a believer, Agent Knox?”

  I chuckle. “No, not really.”

  “No judgement. I only ask because I would assume you have not studied the Old Testament.”

  Again, I tell the priest I have not; somewhat wishing I would have lied instead.

  “The Bible mentions a creature of the sea called Leviathan. Some have said the description fits Satan, others might tell you it’s the Mesopotamian equivalent of a crocodile. In any event, the Book of Job says, ‘Behold, the hope of him is in vain; shall not one be cast down even at the sight of him?’”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Jordan,” Lowe sighs, “for all his carefully crafted public image, had a troubled youth. He never divulged much. What I can tell you, is his faith was challenged at some point. God put a trial in front of him- a Leviathan, so to speak. Something which would make him doubt his creator to no end.

  “Obviously, he has lost his way,” the priest continues, “but for the time he was here, that faith seemed unshakeable to those he interacted with.”

  “And Jordan never gave you any indication what this chain of events might have consisted of?”

  “No. I encouraged him to confession, but it is not something which can be forced. Confessing is an intimate act, and should only be taken voluntarily.”

  Dammit. There are no leads here. Hardwick was right, and I’m chasing my tail.

  There has to be something.

  “Was Jordan close with anyone, that you ever observed? I don’t know, someone from the congregation or clergy you might have known of?”

  Lowe shakes his head.

  “Jordan was always an extremely private person. He would take the concerns and troubles of others upon himself, but never asked anyone to do the same. His relationship of greatest value is that with God, and I don’t believe another human being could ever trump that.”

  Can’t exactly interrogate West’s creator. Standing, I thank Father Lowe for his time, apologizing again for intruding at such a late hour.

  The priest waves it off.

  “As I said, this church is my life. Its reputation is my responsibility. To that end, Agent Knox, if you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  I nod. “Thank you, Father.”

  “There is one other suggestion I might offer you, though, if I might be frank.”

  “What’s that?”

  Lowe stands with me between the benches; we shuffle into the main aisle before I turn to face him. Cross over his shoulders, I am happy to be nearly finished here.

  “Jordan was a valuable member of our clergy for many years, but he didn’t start here. He was from Los Angeles, where he was also a contributing member. If the references he brought me are any indication, you might want to revisit his former clergy there.”

  “Would you happen to still have those references?”

  The priest says the Bureau already has them. I thank him once more, shake his hand a final time. Turning my back on God, I exhale, knowing my own confessions are intact.

  Outside, Royce has traded gum for a cigarette- Newports. Leaning against the facade as I exit, he accompanies me back to my SUV where Hardwick waits.

  “Get anything?” the detective asks.

  “Really, Royce? You’re on church property. Have some damn respect.”

  Pitching his lit cigarette on the flowered path, Royce chuckles, asks if I believe in God. I don’t know why
this keeps coming up tonight.

  “Seems a little outside professional lines to be asking, doesn’t it, detective?”

  “Hey, you did!”

  “I asked if you go to church, Detective Royce; not if you actually believe. Bet you most congregations are pretty passive about their creator these days.”

  “Well how about I take you to dinner, and we can make it…less passive?”

  Unbelievable.

  “Sorry,” I reply, reaching the car, “I don’t date people I work with.”

  I’m not entertaining being the office eye candy. Royce and I may work for different branches of law enforcement- his municipal, mine federal- but I’m more than tits and ass. Grumbling, the detective climbs in the backseat as I rejoin Hardwick in the front.

  When I look up to my rearview mirror, Tim is there once more, sitting quietly beside Royce.

  “So?” my partner asks, “Get anything?”

  I smile back at it, but the corners of my mouth feel heavy to lift, knowing the bleakness of my grind toward the truth has few good ends.

  “Yes.”

  Hardwick’s eyes light up.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense there, rook.”

  But I smile, knowing justice may linger among them; knowing I am closer to bringing Emily Rickard, and so many others like her, home.

  “We’re going to Los Angeles.”

  Chapter Six

  I have never been a fan of flying, nor Los Angeles. Just as I have never rooted for baseball teams or enjoyed pizza, rendering me an outcast from so many social gatherings; the idea of airplanes makes my stomach roil. Mention California, and its constant, insufferable heat, I want nothing to do with any of it.

  Which meant, after getting the green light from Hazel to join our colleagues in L.A., a trip to my doctor was in order. She assigned me tranquilizers to survive the turbulence and I made my way to Reagan to rejoin Hardwick.

  Upon seeing me, adorned in a black pantsuit and sunglasses over my face, he frowns.

  “Okay there, rookie?”

  Cupping a paper coffee cup for security, I sip it and tell him I hate flight as a form of travel. What I don’t say is Emily Rickard’s life depends on getting the fuck over myself and surviving three hours in the air.

  Hardwick chuckles.

  “Finally, the woman has a weakness.”

  “I have lots of them,” I snipe back, “They’re just camouflaged well.”

  “Well, I look forward to discovering the rest. Come on, we should get to the gate.”

  I oblige, and we move through the busy terminal. People from all walks of life who can afford to even consider such a form of transportation suffocate me in numbers. Arriving at the boarding area, Hardwick hands over my ticket.

  Considering how many people I will be cramped next to in economy class ignites claustrophobia further, and I thank God for tranquilizers.

  When we have passed the accordion hallway, a stewardess guides us aboard the aircraft. Hardwick and I shuffle to the plane’s rear, finding our seats on the right side.

  “Want the window?” he offers.

  “Fuck right off,” I reply, and my partner squeezes in first. I take the aisle. Another stewardess informs me she has to take my paper cup, where all my mental peace remains.

  “We will bring you a replacement when the plane has taken off,” she promises. Begrudgingly, I pass it to her, and she disappears with it.

  Bitch.

  “Didn’t even let me take my pills.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I tell Hardwick. Resting my head against the seat, I close my eyes; trying not to think of all these people suffocating me, and the violent velocity which will envelop us shortly.

  I hate flying.

  I have only been to L.A. once, to visit Maya’s cousin. We drove there; it took an eternity, yet all I can remember is smog and heat. My recollections of Hollywood and the greatest cultural melting pot in America are all but forgotten next to the blistering September warmth.

  “You survived!” Hardwick exclaims as we exit the plane into the terminal. Still groggy from tranquilizers, we step out of the airport into overbearing sunshine and a stampede of people and cars.

  I don’t even want to think about it. It is hard to imagine having to do the return trip.

  “I’ll rent a car,” Hardwick says, and tells me to stay put. He is gone for several minutes; in my hangover, the seconds run together.

  No idea why Tim didn’t accompany me to Los Angeles, but Royce was unable to get the go-ahead from his Captain. I am not sorry for the detective’s absence, but do miss my guardian angel. Floating in and out of awareness, I am eventually rejoined by Hardwick.

  “Sorry that took so long. Guy at the counter was a fucking idiot. Trying to upsell me a gas guzzler.”

  “It’s fine,” I reply, not really caring.

  “Ready to get out of here?”

  “After you.”

  The four-door Toyota rented on Hardwick’s own dime makes me miss the space of my SUV. The low roof and non-tinted windows add to my claustrophobia, and I fear the tranquilizers will wear off at the scenery beyond me.

  The church West used to serve as a clergy member is located in Wilmington, which is a short drive from the airport. Hardwick knows the city better than I do, and easily navigates its streets. Sights and sounds of a foreign city flash by my window until my partner breaks the awkward silence.

  “Thing about your parents true?”

  The question stuns me. I didn’t think Stephen Hardwick gave a damn about my personal life in any way, shape or form.

  “What?”

  “Read it in your file. Gotta say, Knox, you impress the hell out of me. I didn’t think you could handle a tomato, let alone Harry Quinn.”

  Is he complimenting me?

  “I’ve been doing this a long time,” Hardwick says; his eyes twitch between the road in front of me and the window to his left. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. I’m not sure he does with anyone but suspects and John Hazel. “God fucking dammit, I’ve never seen anything as depraved as this guy.”

  “Kind of makes you think what you’d like to do to people like that,” I reply.

  “Much as I’d like to- beat West to a pulp, I mean- we have to be better than that, Knox. We have to set the right example.”

  “I said the same to Hazel.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. He asked me to break the rules of engagement. I refused him.”

  My partner chuckles, squinting at surface streets, sweating in the humidity bearing down around us. Air conditioning does little to combat it.

  “John Hazel is a good man. He did not make that request lightly, believe me. But after what happened to Jim Partridge, he’s all out of good options.”

  I say nothing as Hardwick steers the Toyota onto the street West’s old church is located. Everything about it is the opposite of what I expected. Doors are boarded up, stained glass windows covered in time and neglect. Graffiti plastered across one wall is symmetric in position to a giant display of male genitalia across the other.

  It’s been a while since I saw a penis; clearly its artist has never seen one at all, least of all his own.

  Outside the abandoned church, a small group of local agents greet us. They all wear corresponding Agency jackets, which seems like torture in this weather. The lead agent among them is shorter than both Hardwick and I, wearing a fedora and horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Agent Hardwick?” the agent asks. Exiting the vehicle to a backdrop of sweltering suburbia, the house of worship acts as a blight on the scenery. People go about their day, stopping to cast stares and crane their heads at the small armada of federal authorities gathered outside it.

  “Agent Richard Tomlinson.”

  “Agent,” Hardwick says, “This is my partner, Ramona Knox.”

  Tomlinson greets me with an outstretched hand. Stifling sickness behind the shades, I reach out, accepting it. When our hands
release, I can’t help wondering why every man tries to crush mine.

  “Might have been nice if you told us the church was decommissioned, Dick,” Hardwick snipes.

  “Not decommissioned. Abandoned. It’s been a problem for years. Some people want to get rid of it, others want it preserved as heritage, or outright re-opened.”

  “What caused it to be abandoned?” I ask.

  Tomlinson shrugs. “One day, clergy just stopped showing up to work. The congregation went elsewhere. No one sent a replacement from Rome, I guess. City had to board it up to prevent hooligans from desecrating it.”

  “Great. What a waste of fucking time,” Hardwick says. Placing hands on hips, he squints up at the dilapidated church, trying to glean some pathetic scrap we can bring back to Hazel.

  “Maybe not,” I tell him, removing the glasses shielding my sensitive eyes. “We need to get into that church.”

  “Impossible, ma’am,” Tomlinson replies, “Those boards are on tight.”

  “A young girl is missing, Agent Tomlinson. I wasn’t asking permission from a slat of wood. I’ll be right back.”

  Walking over the church’s sloping lawn, I stop on the way to retrieve a large rock from the garden. Before my colleagues can protest, I hurl the object through one of the stained glass windows. The image of Mary, mother of Christ which once looked down on this Wilmington street, collapses at the frame. Only a gaping hole remains.

  “Knox, are you fucking crazy?”

  Hardwick’s exclamation does not deter me. Stepping through the shattered frame, I am careful to avoid the jagged edges in crossing the threshold between guardian and sinner, though that line was smudged long ago. Shards of technicolour glass are strewn across the hardwood floor, painting a picture of hazardous edges around the rock I used to gain access.

  Greeted by a nave like the one in which I sat with a frocked priest and he told me about monsters of the depths, I certainly believe in the monsters more than the God I have just crossed.

  Advancing into the church, there is little but dust on the pews, the abandoned organ to the right of the transept and the floor creaking under my careful paces.

  Even Jesus himself was left to rot by those who claim to believe in him.