Epilogue

And in the end, they really did set off to live happily ever after.

The evening after their discussion with Bernie and the psychiatrists about the case, Daryl asked Rachael to marry him. Happily, Rachael said yes.

Daryl quit his job as a detective three weeks later. A month after that he found a position with a Private Investigation firm. Most of the work was mundane; skip-tracing people who owed various debts, tracking down family members who were named in last wills and testaments, finding long lost lovers. It paid substantially less than his work as a homicide detective, but it was something to keep him busy and earning income while he went back to school to earn his teaching credentials.

He had always wanted to make a difference.

He got his teaching credentials the month they married, in April of 1999. They had a small, private ceremony in the backyard of his father's house in Cambria. They invited thirty of their closest friends and Daryl's family. After the brief non-denominational ceremony, a dozen white doves were released to fly over the ocean.

Among the guests who were invited were Rachael's friends from the Times, Daryl's former partner Steve Howe and his wife Jeanette, his former boss Hank Wilkeson, and FBI Agent Bernie Haskins. Some of the old members of the Butcher Task Force had shown up, too—Detectives Gonzalez and Espãna, Douglas and Rexer, and some others.

They tried to locate Father Glowacz, but the new priest at Our Lady of Guadalupe told Daryl that the priest had requested ??? Daryl didn't blame the priest for wanting to pack up and leave. A year after the events that led to Charley's arrest and suicide, the story was still getting ample press coverage. Three books had already hit the stands about the case, and a fourth, Rachael's book, was set to be released that fall in hardcover. There had been numerous television specials on the case, and Rachael's book had been optioned by a major production company. The money had been more than enough to set Rachael on the road to a new career—she started work on her next book a month after they returned from their honeymoon in Hawaii. It was probably for the best that Father John Glowacz didn't attend the wedding. No matter that he knew that his brother had been a killer and a sick man, he might still harbor feelings toward the events that resulted in the death of his mother and brother.

After a nice, lazy summer vacation in which Daryl didn't work at all, floating on Rachael's advances, which had been more than enough to tide them over for the rest of the next year if they wanted to, he found work in August teaching criminology at a community college in Seattle, Washington. This meant a move, which they hastily arranged over a three month period. By November they were settled in their new home.

Daryl fell in love with the city of Seattle immediately. Meanwhile, Rachael started her second book, this one about the Militia Movement and their ties with the far Christian Right.

In October they got the news that Rachael was pregnant, which was a miracle.

Rachael always believed that she couldn't have children. She had been told by her doctor that she was incapable of bearing children. Her pregnancy proved this diagnosis wrong.

And on May 1, 2000, Daryl was present in the delivery room when Rachael gave birth to a healthy baby girl. She weighed in at seven pounds, two ounces and was twenty-two inches long. They named her Catherine Shirley Garcia. For Daryl, it was the happiest moment of his life. Next to his and Rachael's wedding day.

Some stories have happy endings.

But then, some don't ... ?

May 12, 2000, 7:30 PM

Los Angeles, CA

Father John Glowacz had just been ushered into Father James O'Grady's private study when he started having the shakes.

He couldn't control it. He had been having them a lot lately, especially whenever he thought about his family and his role in their deaths. He just couldn't take it anymore.

He had to talk to somebody about it. He had to speak to Father O'Grady.

James O'Grady stepped into his study and closed the door behind him. The priest was still dressed for duties, his clerical collar still in place. Today was John's off day at his new parish, a nice little church in the South Orange County area. He had made the drive up to Los Angeles in a blind heat after debating and praying about his dilemma for the past few days. The more time went by, the more this was eating at him. He was beating himself up over this. He had to find absolvement for his sins.

“You sounded rather urgent over the phone,” James said as he stepped up to the bar. “Would you like a drink?"

“Please.” John said, taking a deep breath.

“Scotch okay?"

“Scotch is fine."

James O'Grady poured them both three fingers of Scotch in heavy tumblers, then carried them over to the sofa. He handed John his, and the priest took it in a shaking hand and gulped half of it down. James frowned. “I think we'd better talk."

“Bring the bottle over,” John said. “I think I'm going to need it."

James looked at him with a sense of curiosity, then went back to the bar for the bottle.

John filled his glass and took another gulp of scotch. He sighed. The whiskey was already racing through his system, calming his nerves. His hands were less shaky now, his stomach less fluttery. Soon his tongue would be looser, too. That would make it easier to confess what he had been wanting to for the past six years.

“Normally I don't recommend using alcohol as a crutch when it comes to confession,” Father O'Grady said, sitting down in the easy chair opposite John. “But I think we need to make an exception in this case. You tell me whenever you're ready, John."

John nodded, taking another sip of scotch. He was feeling better already. “What I have to talk to you about is very personal,” he said. “Some of it concerns my life ... before I took the oath. The rest concerns some of my past sins. I may be committing a sin just by telling you some of this stuff, but ... by keeping it secret, I may be sinning as well. It's such a—"

“Take your time,” Father O'Grady said. “Tell me all you want to tell me. I'm here to listen as a friend, not as a priest."

John looked at the older man. “Are you serious, James?"

“If that is what you wish, yes."

“Good. Because it's very important to me, James. Very important. I ... I may need to talk to you at a later time ... after I've told you what I've come to talk about ... I may need to see you as a priest. But now ... for this ... I need to talk to you as a friend."

James O'Grady leaned forward, his smile warm and caring. “I'm honored that you've chosen to speak to me as a friend, John. I've always thought of you as a friend. I'm only too happy to be able to help you in whatever is ailing you."

John nodded, took another drink. He set the glass down on the table. Then, speaking slowly, being sure not to leave anything out, he told James O'Grady.

Everything.

When he was finished two hours later, John asked Father O'Grady. “Now I'm asking you advice as a priest. What should I do?"

And James O'Grady, the horror still on his now waxy face, could only shake his head. He looked at John with reddened eyes. “The two of us will go to confession tomorrow morning, here at St. Mark's. You will confess that you have revealed the sins of one of your penitent's, that you have discussed it with me. Then we say nothing."

“Nothing?"

“If you wish to remain a priest, you say nothing! ” Father O'Grady's voice was stern for the first time.

John Glowacz thought about it. His fingers caressed the empty glass of scotch.

The near empty bottle sat between the men on the coffee table. “I just want my life back,”

John said, his voice trembling.

“Then make your confession tomorrow and make a good act of contrition and penance,” James O'Grady said. “And give the burden to the Lord.” The older priest's features were set, stony in his seriousness. “It's the only way."

John nodded. Yes. It was the only way.

God help him.

September 5, 2000 1:02 PM

Seattle, Washington

George Castro couldn't wait. He simply had to call Alfonso DiMartini now, even though he was due in a development meeting in five minutes. George punched Al's number in by memory, hoping his old friend wasn't making rounds. Alfonso had surprised everybody in their clan from high school by becoming a physician, graduating in the top ten of his class at UCLA Medical School. He now practiced medicine in Ventura County, specializing in Family Practice, while George had wound up in Seattle as a Software Engineer for Microsoft.

Alfonso picked up the phone on the third ring. “Yes."

“Al,” George said, eyes glancing at the clock on a cluttered shelf in his cubicle.

“It's George. I don't want to keep you, but you are not going to believe who I just ran into today—"

“Make it quick, George, I've got a patient coming in three minutes."

“Okay. Remember Stacy Temple?"

“Yeah."

“I just ran into her today at lunch near Pioneer Square."

“Really? You sure?"

“Positive. I'd never forget that face. She looks a lot different. Shit, I always thought she was pretty but she must have, I don't know, gotten help or something. Gained some confidence in herself or something, because her hair is styled real nice, and she dresses nice, and she actually wears make-up. Not too heavy, just enough, you know, and—"

“Did you talk to her?” Alfonso sounded just as eager to hear about this as George thought he would be.

“Well, I tried to,” George said, still puzzled and confused over the encounter. “I recognized her right away, you know? She still looked basically the same, she just looked better, you know? Same height and all. She was in front of me in line at Carl's, a take-out place I usually like to go to at lunch, and I knew it was her. Only when I stopped her and asked if it was her, she was different."

“What do you mean different?"

“She was heading back toward the exit of the restaurant and I intercepted her,”

George said. “And I said, ‘excuse me, but aren't you Stacy Temple? From Gardena?’ And she looked at me, and I knew it was her. I knew it! But—"

“But what?"

“She told me I had mistaken her for somebody else. And her voice ... it was all weird and shit."

“Weird? Like how?"

“It was deep. Like a man's. It was like she was purposely speaking in a deep tone, trying to disguise it or something. It reminded me of the last time I saw her, when she showed me that tape. Remember?"

“Wow."

“Yeah. And her face, that was weird, too."

“How so?"

George paused, shuddering at the thought of that face again. He could have sworn that it was Stacy Temple he had seen. He was positive. The woman that had been standing in front of him, the woman that had walked out of the restaurant with a confident stride in her walk, had been Stacy Temple all right. Simply add eighteen years, dress the Stacy Temple he had known back in high school in nicer clothes, make her hair and face up, and the woman he saw today at lunch would have been her. But that voice, that face—

“What about her face, George?"

“Her face ... her expression, it wasn't her. It was ... it was like it was somebody else. It was like watching somebody you used to know, that you haven't seen in years, and then you see them for the first time in years and they're ... not the same people they were before."

“Well, Christ, George, we all go through that—"

“This was different.” George finally had the right descriptive word choice for Stacy Temple. He swallowed, still feeling spooked by what he had seen. “I was looking directly into Stacy Temple's face. I knew it was her. But the person inside Stacy Temple was a completely different person. And that person, whoever it was, was completely insane."

September 5, 2000 5:31 PM

Seattle, Washington

He caught the bartender's eye as the man wiped down the far end of the bar. He motioned to his empty glass and the bartender plucked it off the table, refilling it with what he had been drinking—Jack Daniels, on the rocks. It had been a long time since he sat in a bar. It was a nice feeling to be back among people.

The television perched on the top shelf behind the bar was tuned to the news. He had been watching it disinterestedly for the past twenty minutes, calmly sipping his drink and chilling out. He had stopped by the bar on impulse, driving into the Sea Tac strip quite easily and cruising around till he found a bar that looked right. And it was, too.

Plenty of people milling around, talking over pitchers of beer and food, a couple of barflies spaced intermittently at the bar with him, a couple of guys playing pool, the faint melodic strains of Eric Clapton coming out of the jukebox. It was a peaceful, relaxing place.

He took a sip of his drink, aware of the motion of somebody sitting on the stool next to him. He stole a sly glance toward his left and let it linger. It was a young woman, thin, lithe body dipped in black tights that hugged every curve, a skimpy halter top, and a black suede jacket with fringes. Her brown hair was long and hung straight down her back. She had large brown eyes and features that might be attractive if she hadn't buried them under the make-up. Otherwise her features were strong; high cheekbones, full lips, small nose. She caught him glancing at her and smiled. She was chewing gum. Judging by the way she was dressed in this particular neighborhood, it was obvious what she did for a living. “How ya doing tonight?"

“Fine,” he replied.

“You work around here?"

“I suppose you could say that?"

The woman paused, checking him out. “You work the classy places, right? That's why I haven't seen you before."

He laughed. “Oh, I can see where this is going, young lady."

The woman's smile faded slightly. “Young lady?"

He turned to her, the crucifix he was wearing in plain site. “I work up the street, at St. Anthony's. I do missionary work."

The woman looked shocked. She sputtered. “Christ, I'm sorry ... I ... I hope I didn't offend you."

He laughed and his put drink down on the bar. “I'm fine. Really. Let me buy you a drink."

The woman accepted the offer. He ordered another JD and the woman ordered a Tom Collins. “So that's why you're here then,” she said. She was already starting to look relaxed. “You can drink. They probably let people like you, missionaries, drink, right?"

He laughed. “That's funny. You think priests and nuns have some sort of ban on the Catholic community when it comes to drinking?” He took a sip of his drink, set it down. “You must not be Catholic."

“Oh, I'm Catholic all right.” She brought out a pack of cigarettes from the small, black purse slung over her right shoulder, extracted one, lit it. “Or was. Actually I am, but I haven't been to church in a while.” It was amazing how she was already starting to act guilty around him when he hadn't even proved to her that he worked for the church. All he'd done was told her. He had dressed casually today when he set out to run his errands and was wearing a clean pair of blue jeans, a blue and red sweater with a brown leather jacket over it and his white Nikes. He smiled as the woman said, “And I never seen priests drink in bars before."

“Well, Miss ... er?"

“Giacomini. Rita Giacomini."

They shook hands. He introduced himself. “Nice to meet you, Rita. And yes, priests and nuns are allowed to go to bars on occasion, even indulge every now and then in a glass or two of spirits. So are bishops and missionaries. Some of us smoke. Not very healthy mind you, but then we're only human."

“So you're really a missionary, huh?” She asked, lighting a cigarette. She smoked calmly, regarding him wistfully. “Does this mean you guys don't have to take a vow of chastity, or whatever it is you call it?"

“Oh, no! We can have sex just like normal people."

This brought laughter from her and he laughed with her. Rita was an air-head, but she seemed like a nice girl. He could tell.

He took another quick sip of his drink when a news item from the television perked his attention.

“...the headless body was found floating in the Green River. Authorities are denying that this is—"

Rita made a face next to him. “Oh, how gross!"

“—the work of the Green River Killer, who is believed to have killed 49 young women in the Seattle area in the 1980's.” Close up on a Deputy Sheriff, a forty-something man with a perpetual squint and a ruddy, chapped face. “This victim was a male, and we haven't identified him yet. It appears that whoever did this committed the crime elsewhere and then dumped the body in the river."

The scene cut back to the newscaster. “Detectives have their work cut out for them. The police aren't speculating on a motive for the slaying, but I assume we'll learn more as the investigation unfolds."

The broadcast immediately switched to the next topic, this one concerning the plight of Cuban immigrant Elian Gonzalez. Rita was still smoking her cigarette. She shook her head. “I heard a real brief flash about this thing this morning before I left.

That's so awful."

“Yes, it is."

“I hope they find whoever it is who did it,” Rita said. She took a hearty sip of her Tom Collins. “There's so many damn nuts out there, a girl doesn't know what to do."

“What about a guy?” He said, motioning toward the television. “That poor sucker was a man!"

“I know!” Rita exuded syrupy melodrama that bordered on the ridiculous. She was making too much of trying to appear sympathetic. “You can't do anything these days without some nut either shooting you for the quarter in your pocket or because he thinks you looked at him cross-eyed. The world is becoming a scarier place. It's even scarier now that the millennium has hit us."

“Oh, I know,” He said, taking a quick sip of his drink. “In my business I have to try to calm people's fears of the millennium. Everybody thinks that the year 2000 signifies the rapture and the End Times. In reality, none of us will know when Our Lord will return."

For the next forty minutes they talked. Rita finished her drink and he bought her a second one. He asked her about herself gently, not prying, and she told him, not holding back. She had gone to college but had to drop out to get a job when her father was killed in an auto accident so she could support her mother, who had been badly injured. She had fallen into the wrong crowd, did drugs and drank a lot, and now she worked as an escort.

He tried to look surprised at this news and Rita swallowed it. “I don't work the streets,”

she explained, as if trying to justify what she did for a living. “There's no way I would do that. I respect myself too much for that. I work through an agency and they send me out on jobs. Lots of my clients are businessmen that fly in and out of Seattle. I was just coming back from the airport when I decided to stop by here for a drink. I know some of the girls that work the streets and I like to come here and chat with them. You know, try to convince them that the streets aren't good, that they'd be better working in something like I've got."

He was about to respond, but then stopped himself in time. He was going to suggest why work in your line at all? Why not encourage them to strive for something better? But that wasn't for him to say.

“Let me tell you something,” he said, choosing his words carefully. His now empty glass sat in front of him. He had switched to Seven-Up after he had finished his Jack Daniels upon meeting her. “I once knew a priest in Los Angeles, a real nice guy named Father Glowacz. Father Glowacz's church was in a really bad section of the city.

They had a bad gang problem there. Four or five different gangs operated within a ten mile area. The neighborhood was really affected by the gangs; the violence, the drug sales, the ... just everything about it. Many of these gang members were hopeless themselves. They had no self confidence, no confidence in each other, really, despite their

... pseudo macho pontifications of Latino pride. What it all boils down to is that they didn't give a shit about each other.” At the mention of the word shit, Rita's eyes widened.

He put a hand over his mouth, a look of shock on his face. “Oops! Sorry. That slipped."

Rita laughed.

“Anyway, Father Glowacz came to the parish and listened to the kids. He and another guy there, a counselor who used to be a gang member, paid attention to the gang members. And what they did was start a youth program. They recruited volunteers to staff it and they provided after-school activities for the kids. They offered workshops for those kids more prone to join a gang, and they offered counseling and bible studies for gang members. They worked with them, prayed with them, loved them the best way they could.

Sometimes they ... went to their old ways and picked up a gun when the heat got too hot in the kitchen and tempers flared. Father Glowacz presided over too many rosaries and funeral masses for those kids than he'd probably like to remember. But he stuck with the system and eventually got a grant from the city to start a business. It was entirely run by several ex-gang members and it was a small Mexican restaurant in East Los Angeles. A business owner donated the equipment.” He smiled. “That business has done well. Three months ago I heard it was voted that they served the best tacos in all of East Los Angeles."

Rita smiled. “That's really neat."

“I guess what I'm trying to say is you've got more going for you than ... what you're doing.” He looked down at her gently, touching her shoulder lightly. “You can do whatever you want to do in your life, Rita. And if you ever feel you need help you can call me."

Rita Giacomini looked at him. Her features had softened, became more weary.

She looked like she wanted to drop all the troubles she was carrying right on his lap.

“Thank you,” she said, offering him a smile that shined with true honesty for the first time since they'd spoken. “I really appreciate it.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I really do."

“But...” He detected a slight hesitation.

Rita turned to light another cigarette. He waited calmly while she took a drag and blew the smoke out. She took a sip of her screwdriver—her third one—and stared off into the bar. Finally she turned back to him and her features had grown softer. He saw that if she dropped the façade she carried herself in she could be a beautiful girl. “Oh, I don't know,” she said. “I really appreciate what you're trying to do, but I haven't been to church in, like, years—"

“Going to church has nothing to do with it,” he murmured.

“—and I'm not really sure if I can really go back. I mean, I've never been the best Catholic."

He smiled. “That makes two of us, Rita."

“What do you mean?” She took a drag on her cigarette. “You're, like, a missionary. "

“Big deal,” he said. “I'm human just like everybody else. All I do is to help intercede for our Lord Jesus Christ in helping people get closer to Him and accept Him as their Lord and Savior. That's all."

Rita seemed to take this all in. She took another sip of her screwdriver, finishing it. “Yeah, well ... what church do you work at? Or is that preach at?"

He laughed. “Well, I wouldn't call what I do preaching. We Catholics usually leave that up to folks like Pat Robertson or Lou Sheldon."

Rita smiled shyly. “You know what I mean."

“I do know what you mean,” He said, smiling. “And to answer your question, I am assistant to the head pastor at St. Peter's on the south end of town."

“Oh, I know where that is! That's just off Interstate 5."

“Right."

“I don't live too far from there. Maybe ten blocks or so."

“Well, there you go! You can come by and see me anytime."

“Really?"

“Really. And it doesn't even have to be in the capacity of church. If you ever need to talk to me for any reason, you can call the church and have me paged. We can talk about whatever you want, whenever you want. If you have any kind of problem—and I mean any kind—I'm here for you. And I won't press you to start attending mass if you don't want to."

For the first time since they'd started talking, Rita Giacomini looked relaxed, almost bubbly. “That would be nice. I've been wanting to ... you know ... talk to somebody, but I don't know who. Sometimes I get really confused—"

He glanced at his watch and groaned. “Oh no! I'm running late. I promised a friend I'd stop by and feed her cats at six-thirty and it's already twenty after.” He looked at her. “I'm really sorry, but I've got to run."

“Oh, that's okay,” Rita said, stubbing her cigarette out. “I've got to get going myself."

“I really hate to interrupt our conversation,” He said, reaching into his wallet and extracting a couple of bills for the bartender's tip. “But this friend of mine—she's a secretary at St. Peter's—is on vacation for two weeks and she left me in charge of her cats. It shouldn't take that long to feed them all, but it has to be done."

“You make it sound like it's a chore,” Rita said, clutching her purse as she got off the barstool.

“It's not that,” he said, stepping away from the bar. “It's just that I was really enjoying our conversation."

“I was too,” Rita said, smiling. They headed toward the entrance of the bar. As they passed the lobby, he glanced at their reflections in the mirror and he flinched at what he saw.

Rita Giacommini was at his side, smiling and laughing as he nodded and smiled, too. He noted his own features, which were contorted, a shimmering mass of feminine monstrosity. Black hair sprouted from his head to hang about his shoulders; his mouth was a red maw. Twin mounds of corpulent flesh sat perched on his chest. No matter how hard he tried to hide it with the clothes he wore, he knew what lay beneath the surface.

They walked out of the bar together. They headed out to the parking lot, Rita reaching for her keys when he snapped his fingers.

“Listen, if it's not too much trouble why don't you come with me to the house and then back to the church? I can show you around.” Rita stopped, right hand in her purse as she looked up at him. He smiled reassuringly. “It shouldn't take long. I was really enjoying our conversation and I hate to break it up just because of this chore. We can talk on the drive, and once we're at the church I can show you around so you'll be more familiar with the place if you decide to visit. I'll run you right back here to your car in no time."

Rita nodded, her features brightening. She smiled at him. “Yeah. I think I'd like that."

He smiled, motioning toward a row of cars. “Great!"

He led Rita to his car—a tan Oldsmobile Sedan—and opened the passenger door for her. She got in, he closed the door, and went to the driver's seat and got in. He started the car and sighed, turning to her with a smile. “Now where were we?"

She laughed, and started talking about her Catholic upbringing. He nodded and smiled at the appropriate times as he backed the car out of the parking space and headed out of the parking lot, merging into the thoroughfare of Interstate 5. He was barely listening to her, barely able to sustain his pleasure that he had gotten her into his car. She was a big step up from the gang members and their girlfriends that he had relieved himself with previously. In fact, compared to them she was high class. Rita looked to be in her early twenties and didn't appear nearly as used up as some of the female gang members he had taken. Next to Carmen Aguirre, she was one of his most attractive victims. Maybe he could focus on women and men like her now rather than the criminal element who were so easy to win over. It would definitely be more challenging.

He smiled as they drove, nodding and answering Rita's chatter with “yes, uh huh's” or “wow, that's really great's". The home they were driving to was one he had bought from Charley's and Mother's life insurance cash-out policies. He had forged the signatures himself. It was easy to put the money into the property so he would once again have his private place for his fun and games. It would prove to be more private then the back house in Highland Park.

Of course, the drawback was if the shit hit the fan here like it did back in Los Angeles, he wouldn't have his ex lover's family to blame his fetish on.

He smiled as his mind ran down the list of events that had led to the present: how easy it had been to lure gang members to his car by posing as a priest, sometimes a nun, other times as a street-walking whore. How easy it had been to take them to the back house; how easy it had been to come on to them once the facade was down, and how they reacted—what homeboy wasn't up for playing out his fantasy of fucking a nun? Or a priest? And then the few times he had gone after women, how they had responded to his advances just as he had thought they would, responding in basically the same way. And once he got them into his dungeon ... the rest was just so easy. Applying the right pressure to their throats, inserting the ball gag in their mouths and trussing them up. Then waiting for them to wake up and feeling the power surge through him as their eyes widened in horror as he held the power of life and death in his hands. Of course, the best part was the look on their faces—in their eyes—when he lopped off their heads.

His own parents had taught him so well. It was they he always thought of as he raped his victim's dying bodies, it was their faces that he superimposed on the faces of his victims as he snuffed out their lives in his make-shift dungeon.

And the more he did it, the more power he felt over them. They would never hurt him again.

In the end it had been easy to replace Charley's rather middle-of-the-road porn with his own unique taste in pornography when things started getting too hairy. He had Charley to thank for everything. The guy was a slob and left shit everywhere, so it had been easy to swipe a couple of hairs off his brush one morning as he was heading out to his car (the brush had been left in Charley's truck, with the window open, making the theft even easier). He had put those hairs to good use, planting a strand or two with Chrissy's head to divert attention. The rest he had scattered around the back house. He even had Charley to thank in snaring Carmen Aguirre. He had been leaving the back house when Carmen had rushed out of the front house and almost ran into him. Carmen had been angry and was on the verge of tears and she had been so glad to see him, she had to go to the bathroom so bad ... and he had led her back to the rear house and let her in.

She had been so thankful and so had he. He had been smitten with her the moment he saw her.

Of course, that last night was the clincher. Charley was on his own downward spiral himself. The buttwad had always been a pussy; Charley had lusted after him when he had been fucking his brother, John. He remembered the way Charley used to look at him whenever he flew back east to visit John. And he remembered the look on Charley's face when John arranged the rental deal with Evelyn. Charley probably jacked off every night just thinking about him. That really had been a nice arrangement; he'd had the safety and privacy of the Glowacz's back house to partake in his fetish. And he'd had John's vow as a priest to keep his mouth shut. John had started to put two and two together a few years after he followed him back to California. He had sensed John was putting the pieces together and he had gone to him; the two were still involved sexually, John still had to have his occasional dose of S&M domination. He had told John that he was confiding to him as a Catholic. He had confessed with the right amount of sincerity and conviction, and John had heard his confession and been bound to keep it secret between the two of them; as a priest, John was bound not to tell anyone. Over the years he had visited John in the confession booth at Our Lady and informed the priest of his latest conquests, taking a special glee in knowing John was prohibited from going to the authorities. Not if he wanted to keep his position with Our Lady. Not if he wanted to be exposed; if he wanted it kept secret that he still wasn't coming to him at night to play out S&M scenes, he would keep his fucking mouth shut. And he had.

He really hadn't seen that finale coming from Charley, though. No fucking way.

He had been quite surprised at Charley's boldness; it had been Charley's move that had brought him out.

And it had been his coming out that had made Charley go completely mad.

The rest had been easy. He had deposited the newspaper clippings of his work in Charley's suitcase, as well as the few personal items he had kept from the victims. The tapes that he had kept in the dungeon were dumped in Charley's living quarters. The remaining heads in his freezer were placed in a large trash bag which he had put by the suitcase; it would make it appear that Charley was going to take the heads and get rid of them. All that was left was to get rid of were Carmen and Miguel whats-his-name, bitch slap Charley around some more, make him go into the back house and leave his fingerprints all over everything (and boy what a sight that must have been; he wished he had that on tape. He could still picture herding Charley in the back house, the portly man's hands tied behind his back, ball gag in his mouth, his eyes wide and afraid. He remembered how Charley reacted as he held the knife to his throat and undid the rope binding his wrists, remembered commanding Charley in his best tone of domination to put his palm and fingerprints here and there, and that feeling of power had almost made him come right there). Once that was over, the rest was easy: distort the truth a bit when the detectives questioned him, and wait for Charley to finish himself off in prison. That had been the last thing he'd commanded Charley to do. He had whispered it in his ear as he sat the fat fuck down on the floor and placed Evelyn's head in his lap. He had whispered it to him over and over as Charley sat in catatonic shock. He told him exactly how to do it. He knew Charley would follow his orders explicitly.

Unfortunately, talking somebody into committing suicide and telling them how to do it wasn't as much fun as killing them yourself.

He laughed at this thought. Rita stopped in mid-sentence and looked at him curiously. “What's so funny about my best friend getting an abortion?"

He didn't miss a beat. “Nothing. The story just reminded me of something. That when we are faced with the most dire, most disturbing moments of our lives we somehow find a way to laugh in the face of our adversaries and carry on. Your friend going through what she did no doubt scarred her, but it probably made her a stronger person, even though she might not realize it.” He turned to her and smiled. “There are worse things, Rita. Always remember that and be thankful that no matter how bad you have it, somebody else has it worse."

Rita forced a smile. “I'll remember that. It might even help with dealing with my own past."

“Which is?"

“Did you forget already? My dad ... you know ... molesting me when I was real little."

“Oh yes.” He didn't remember that part of the conversation; he had been too busy remembering his exploits back in LA. He nodded as if he remembered, not missing a beat. “Taking that approach will really work. It's worked for me."

“How so?"

“I was sexually molested by my parents, too."

“Really?"

“Uh huh. And I got through it. Living through it made me a stronger person."

“What did you do? Did you like ... go to counseling or something, or—"

“No, none of that,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I took control. I told myself that nobody was ever going to treat me that way ever again. Nobody was ever going to dominate me again, or make me feel that I'm their slave or that I'm owned by them. I wanted to escape that old life, so I changed my name and left home when I was eighteen. I never once looked back."

Rita appeared to think about this. It was six-thirty in the evening. He had at least three hours that he could spend indulging in Rita's flesh and blood before he had to be back at home. She would stay fresh in the freezer until tomorrow morning when he could then begin to prepare her. With the exception of Carment Aguirre, the three gang members he had consumed in Los Angeles shortly after acquiring the taste of human flesh all had tough, sinewy meat that was hard to chew and had a slightly bitter taste. Rita might look older than her years, but she would no doubt taste much better. Besides, he had always liked Italian.

“So you changed your name ... what did your name used to be?"

“Stacy Temple,” he said, smiling. “I changed my name to Rachael Pearce the minute I left South Bend in ‘86. And I never once looked back."

Later that night, Daryl Garcia sat alone in the bedroom he shared with Rachael, cradling their infant daughter in his arms. He looked at the clock on the nightstand by the bed. It was twelve-fifteen a.m. His daughter had just fallen asleep after having cried for her mother for the past two hours. And as Daryl sat in the glider, cradling his infant daughter, his stomach began to flutter with nerves and he wondered where his wife was and what she could possibly be doing this late at night.