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It was the puns that annoyed him the most.Because they weren’t clever.They relied on a simple substitution of one or two words, and the end result didn’t really work, but the sort of people who read theNew York Timescover-to-cover treated them as if they were spun gold.“Religion is the O.J.Simpson of the masses.”What did that even mean?
Tonight, there would be justice.
The smug academic, with his deliberately ruffled hair, his corduroy jacket and his hipster jeans, would face judgment and pay a heavy fine.And he would be witness to the moment, when Whitman realized that it was all true, and that all of his scoffing and his word-plays and his clever, clever arguments had merely bought him a one-way ticket to hell.
After this class, Whitman would be marking papers in the common room.After that, he would jog or cycle into town, buy two empanadas – one pork and sweet chili, one cheese and beef – and eat them in the park, sniffing the air oh-so self-consciously, so that everyone could see how he was in the moment, appreciating the small things in life.Didn’t need God or heaven to be happy with his lot.
Given the day of the week, he’d also buy some sushi to take back for his dinner, because Wednesdays he worked late.Lord in heaven, everything about the guy was a walking cliché.Right down to his personalized little pair of chopsticks.
Whitman would belate.Twice over, tonight.Now there was a pun.
He ran through his checklist again.The key.A set of picks in case the copy was no good.Mask.Gloves.The accelerant.A disposable cigarette lighter.A student ID – in case that security guard, the one who was obviously a moonlighting cop – should stop him.
The knife.
He had his dark clothes on underneath the shirt, jacket, and jeans he was wearing currently.The outer clothes would go in the sea; he had the bag and the rock in the trunk of the car, but now he wondered if he shouldn’t set light to them instead.He had several hours to work it out, but it troubled him that he was still tweaking the plan at this stage.Failures were always down to poor planning.
And he found it hard to shift his thoughts now.It was like having a tune trapped in your mind.What are you going to do with your clothes?He decided to stick with the original plan.Setting light to his clothes created one more opportunity for someone to notice him.And he’d have to wait, and make sure that the whole outfit was completely incinerated, at a point when he should be devoting every spare second to getting away from the campus, and from the scene of the crime.The sea it was.
Feeling better, he continued with his list.A signed copy of Whitman’s latest book –Fundamental Folly.He smiled and shook his head at his own folly.Back in the planning stage, he’d intended to leave the book at the crime scene, just as he’d done with the hymn sheet at the back of the church.But Whitman’s office was minuscule.The book wouldn’t survive the inferno, and there’d be no message for Her.
And there had to be a message for Her.So, he’d found a way around it.But that was no surprise.He did, after all, have God on his side.
CHAPTER EIGHT
According to its website – all soothing blues and earth tones - The Sanctuary offered a “person-centered pathway approach to addictions and unhelpful habits,” a phrase that tickled Marcus a great deal on the drive over there.
“So can I get cured of picking my nose?That’s an unhelpful habit.”
“I guess it means there are things that might not be a straightforward addiction, but are still not doing you any good.”
“Like following the Yankees.”
“I don’t know,” Kate said, not in the mood for jokes.“I’ll be interested to know what Mr.Sullivan checked in there for.”
A search of Ray Sullivan’s records had revealed an assault charge – seemingly involving a stranger in a bar – a scattering of police call-outs to his home address, with no further action taken, and, in wake of the assault, completion of a court-ordered anger management program.
“The bar fight suggests booze was involved, no?”
“There’s more to it,” Kate said.“Someone must be watching Ray’s back.He’s been signed off from his job for health reasons, for most of the past year.You’d have thought the education department would have washed their hands of him.”
“That’s public departments all over, Vee.It’s impossible to get rid of people.The guy’s Deputy Chief Inspector of Schools for the whole state.And this is someone who gets in bar fights.Probably knocks his old lady around, if all the call-outs mean what I think they mean.And his employers just sign him off as sick.”
“Shall we maybe not decide we know everything about the guy before we’ve met him?”
Marcus grunted, which meant that he didn’t agree but wasn’t going to push it.Kate gripped the steering wheel, counted backwards from five.Reminded herself that it wasn’t Marcus’s fault.It wasn’t her fault either.Mood swings and irritability were part of the whole delightful palette that was PTSD.What was her fault, however, or at least her responsibility, was the way she dealt with the problems that the condition brought up.She could – sheshould– have caught an early night last night.Instead, after a quick bite with Marcus, she’d returned to her motel room and sat up until the small hours, ostensibly working on the case, but in reality churning around the same handful of thoughts and doubts, without reaching any clarity.She still didn’t understand what the killer wanted from her.She still wasn’t sure if Father Thomas’s fairly ordinary human failings were a sufficient motive for the savage revenge inflicted on him.The only concrete difference between yesterday and today was that, today, she was considerably more tired and fragile.
She pulled off the road onto a long, tree-lined driveway.The Sanctuary had a look of the Old South about it: shuttered windows and a broad verandah.A small group was practicing Tai Chi on the manicured lawn, while on the opposite side, an old, gray donkey chewed grass in an overgrown field.
“And you realize it’s the tax-paying citizens of Maine who’ll be paying f-”
“Marcus.Please.”
She sensed him looking at her, part-offended, part-concerned, but she ignored him and concentrated on parking the car, close to the steps.A gardener looked like he was about to say that they couldn’t park there, but he saw Kate’s face and returned to his pruning.
The reception area was full of flowers, and behind the desk was a nervous young man in faintly medical clothing.They showed their IDs and asked to see Ray Sullivan.
“Um, I think he kinda checked out.”
