The Less-Dead (21 page)

Suddenly a face appears in the open window. An old guy wearing a straw hat. “Hey! Who’s in there? Goddamn you kids!”

“Oh my God. Carson, run!”

The two of us bolt through the open door and race to the car. The guy calls after us, “You got no business here! Stay away!”

We jump in; Carson starts the engine and we take off. I toss my limb into the backseat. “Whoa, dude, that was close.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“Hey, where’s your leg?” I say.

“I don’t know. I must have dropped it.”

We drive a mile or so and come to a red light. Carson stops and turns to me. “Noah, what does the poem mean?”

I close my eyes and run through the lines in my head. “I’m not sure, but I think the killer is about to break his mold.”

“DO YOU
know where Quindlan is?”

It’s November tenth. I’m at school, in the cafeteria, sitting at a lunch table, staring at my plate of pork and beans. I spin around and see Hawk. “Quindlan? No.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” he whispers fiercely.

“Last week. On the Drag. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter
why
. I need to find him. Now.”

I haven’t seen Hawk since the day he took me for a ride in his Mustang and I showed him Will’s book. “And what about
you
?” I say. “Where have you been? You said you were going to talk to some people about the stuff in Will’s book. You told me I could trust you. But how can I when all you do is disappear?”

“Look, Noah, I don’t have time to explain. Just
think
. Do you have
any
idea where Quindlan could be?”

I look into Hawk’s eyes. They’re like cold steel. If he’s
the killer, he’ll go to Golgotha today. Quindlan will be there waiting. He’ll fall into his trap. “No. I don’t.”

Hawk tries to stare me down one last time. Then he turns around and stalks out of the cafeteria. The door slams and my stomach lurches.

Two hours later, as I’m sitting in pre-cal, staring at the clock, I realize I have to do something. I can’t just sit and watch the minutes tick by until three p.m. The sixth hour. The next murder. I grab my books, stand up, and march out of the classroom. The security guard tries to stop me, but I run past him, race down the hall, and dart into Mr. Dobbs’s room. “I need to use your phone,” I say. “Please, it’s an emergency.”

He nods and motions toward the phone on the wall. “Sure, Noah, go ahead.”

I pick up the receiver and dial Quindlan’s cell. He answers on the first ring. “Hello. Who’s this?”

“Quindlan, it’s me, Noah. I need to—”

“Noah! I’m glad you called. Listen, I need you to come here right away. To the warehouse. Golgotha. I have the guy. The killer. He’s about to confess, but he says he wants to talk to
you
first. He insists on finishing the conversation he had with you on your father’s radio show.”

“He wants to talk to
me
?”

“Yes. Can you get out of school now? I hate to involve you, Noah, but we need a confession in order to lock him up. Otherwise he might be out on the streets soon again. Do you remember how to get here? Do you still have the map I drew?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Okay. Don’t say a word about this to anyone. And come alone. It’s safe. The police are hiding out around the building. I’ll let them know you’re coming. Use the front door. It’s unlocked. I’m right inside.”

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up. My heart is pounding.

“Noah? Is everything all right?” Mr. Dobbs asks.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Thanks.”

I have to get out of here. My only problem is getting past security. But wait. There’s a back door I can try. Carson told me that sometimes the janitor accidentally leaves it unlocked. I run out of the classroom. Find the door. Glance around the hall to make sure no one’s watching, and give a push. It opens.

I jog quickly to the avenue, hop a city bus that leaves me half a mile from my house, and run home. Thank goodness, no one’s there. Our van is in the driveway, and the keys are on the kitchen counter. I grab them, jump in, turn on the engine, and head for Golgotha.

When I arrive, I park the van and look around. Strangely, the place looks exactly the same. No cars, no people. Completely deserted.

My legs feel weak and heavy as I walk toward the warehouse. In less than a minute, I’ll be looking into the killer’s eyes, talking with him face to face. I turn the handle on the front door. It’s unlocked, just like Quindlan said it would be.

“Hello? Quindlan? It’s me, Noah.”

No answer. I stand there, my heart thumping, while my eyes adjust to the dim light. Two chairs are set up in the
corner. The window is boarded shut. The poem on the wall is still there, the words red and ominous.

“Quindlan? Where are you?”

Still no answer. Near the chairs, on the floor, is a pile of newspapers. Beside the pile, a sheet of paper. Slowly, I walk over, bend down, and pick it up. Pasted onto the note are letters cut from newspaper.

My hands are shaking. I drop the paper. There’s a white bedsheet spread out beside the newspapers. On top of it, a coiled rope. Next to the rope, a glinting piece of metal. I peer more closely and see the sharp blade. A scalpel.

Suddenly I hear the bolt on the door turn and lock into place. I spin around.

“Are you ready to finish our conversation, Noah?”

The voice is the caller’s, but the person standing by the door is someone I recognize. It’s Quindlan. He’s wearing
latex gloves, and he’s talking into a black box—some kind of electronic device.

I want to scream, but my throat closes up. Run, but my legs won’t move. “What’s going on?” I manage to choke out. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Quindlan laughs. “Joke? No.” He holds up the box. “This is what I used to disguise my voice when I called in to your father’s show.”

“You’re
the caller?”

“That’s right.” He motions toward the paper on the ground. “I see you’ve read my note. Come, have a seat. The two of us have a lot to talk about.”

I stare at him. “You’re the one? The one who killed Will? And Paul and Kyle?”

“Like I said, Noah, we need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. Where are the police? You told me the police would be here. You were lying! Let me out!” My eyes dart around as I look for a way out. There isn’t one. I run to the side of the building and bang on the wall. “Help! Someone, help!”

Quindlan pulls out a gun. “Don’t even think about it, Noah.” His thumb slides over the hammer, and I hear a click. He points the gun at me. “If you try to escape, I’ll shoot you. And if you scream again, I’ll shoot you too. Immediately. That’s a promise. Now, take a seat.”

Somehow I manage to put one foot in front of the other. I walk to a chair and sit down. As I do, I see a foot poking out from under the pile of newspapers. It freaks me out at first. Is it another one of Quindlan’s victims? But then I
realize it’s the prosthetic leg Carson dropped when we came here last week.

Quindlan follows and takes the seat across from me. “Do you believe in signs, Noah? Visions from God?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, that’s a shame. I do. In fact, for the past few years, God’s been speaking to me. Do you remember the story I told you about my father? About his ministry, God’s Warriors, and how he helped young boys in the South Bronx get off the streets?”

“Yes. I remember. You also said your brother killed himself because your father condemned him for being gay.”

“Yes, well, I must admit, I embellished a bit. I never had a brother. I added that small detail to win you over. To make you believe I was sympathetic toward Will. And it worked, didn’t it? But you’re getting ahead of me, Noah. Let’s backtrack a little. There’s a part of my story I left out. You see, years ago, when I was sixteen, my father had an idea. He wanted to house some of the boys who’d been addicted to drugs and kicked out of their homes, so he renovated an old apartment building. He even used our family’s savings to fund the project. Once the place was up and running, he spent a lot of time there. In fact, after a while, my father rarely came home at night. Like any other kid would, I became angry, jealous. I loved my father. I wanted to know why these street kids were more important to him than me. Than his own family. So I sneaked out of the house one night and went to the apartment building. I found him in bed with one of the boys. There was a gun lying on the
dresser in the bedroom. I took it. My hands were shaking but I pointed it right at the boy. My father tried to reason with me. Told me it wasn’t what it looked like. Right! He wrestled me to the ground and the gun went off. My father took the bullet in the chest. Killed him instantly.”

I look at the gun trembling in Quindlan’s hand. “What does this have to do with me? Or with Will, Kyle, or Paul?”

“Everything,” Quindlan says.

“No,” I say. “Your father did something wrong. Something evil. He took advantage of young boys. Kids who trusted him, looked up to him.”

Quindlan nods, but he seems lost in his own thoughts. “A week after my father’s death, my mother downed a bottle of pills and never woke up. I was the only one left.”

“That’s a tragic story,” I say. “But it’s not a reason for you to kill innocent people.”

“Well, they’re not exactly innocent, are they, Noah? We both know what the Bible says. Homosexuality is an abomination in God’s sight. Punishable by death.”

“No. That’s not true. You’re wrong. People like you use the Bible to justify their own hatred.”

“Well, that’s why you’re next, Noah. Because you’ve been taught the truth, but you’ve rejected it.” He picks up the note. “In my opinion, you’re no better than the others. Their sin is your own. You’ve pitched your tent in Sodom. Blood must be shed.” Quindlan points the gun at my head and keeps an eye on me while he reaches down and grabs the rope. From the corner of my eye, I see the foot of the prosthetic leg. If I can just get Quindlan distracted for a moment, I can jump out of my seat, grab the leg, and swing.

But all I can do right now is keep him talking.

“So you’re the one who wrote the poems, the clues, in Will’s book?” I say.

“Yes. And if you noticed, I was very precise. Each poem was written so that you would see a pattern, Noah. And of course, you figured out that the fourth murder would be today. November tenth. But you needed more clues, so I called in to your father’s show. I was thrilled when I was able to speak with you on the air. Everything went according to plan. You even called me today, just like I knew you would. Like I said, God was speaking to me the whole time. He told me a cleansing had to be performed, and I was the one to do it.”

“No, that wasn’t God,” I say. “That was your own sick mind.”

“Be careful what you say, Noah. Blasphemy is the unforgivable sin.” He fingers the rope. “Now, shall we continue?”

I glance again at the prosthetic leg. “No. I want to know something else. How did you even know I would go to Will’s campsite? How did you know I would take his book?”

He shrugs. “That’s the beauty of it. I didn’t. It was a test. I was testing God to see if you were the next boy to die. Like I said, I’m very precise. Do you know the story of Gideon and the fleece?”

I swallow hard. “Yes, I do. Gideon put out a sheep’s fleece on the ground at night. He told God that if the fleece was wet with dew in the morning, and the ground dry, he would obey God’s order to kill the enemy.”

“Exactly. Will’s book was my fleece, Noah. I set it on the ground. When you took it, I knew you were the one. And
when you figured out all the clues inside, and when we spoke on the air, well, your sentence was set in stone. Of course, your murder carries a much bigger risk for me. You’re not one of the less-dead. A thorough investigation will follow your murder. They won’t quit until they find the killer. I know that. But I’m prepared. Actually, I’m looking forward to it. Your murder will be broadcast all over the country. I have many entertaining evenings ahead of me, watching the news while the police try to solve the crime. Your friendship with Will will be perceived as sexual, illicit, I’m sure. And I believe that once people understand the abomination of homosexuality, they will be thankful for the cleansing. Do you believe in fate, Noah?”

“No,” I say. “There’s no such thing as fate. People make choices. That’s what I believe. Like you. You chose to become a police officer, but then you chose to abuse your authority. You’re supposed to enforce the law, protect people, but instead you murder innocent boys. That’s a choice, not fate.”

“Hmmm, choices.” Quindlan snaps the rope.

I don’t have much time.

I lunge for the prosthetic leg, but Quindlan is fast. He grabs me and turns me around, and I feel the rope dig into my neck. I’m coughing, choking, pulling, kicking. The walls begin to spin.

Suddenly I hear a dog barking. Loud knocking on the warehouse door. “Mr. Quindlan! Mr. Quindlan! Are you in there?”

It’s Doomsday. And Hercules.

“Dooms! Not now!” Quindlan yells. “I told you not to come here!” The rope loosens.

It’s my only chance. I break free, lunge for the leg, grab it, and swing with all my might. I hear a loud crack, a moan, and a thud. Quindlan falls to the ground. I’m about to run, but next comes an explosion; my ears ring, and the warehouse door flies open. Hawk runs in. And then I realize that Hawk blew the lock off the door with his gun.