Fear the Darkness: A Thriller Read online

  The service was boring, as usual, but Carlo says it’s supposed to bore us into transcendence. So far I don’t know what that means. Afterward I stood at the door of the parish hall and looked around the way I always do when entering a place with more than three people.

  I smiled at the sight of Adrian Franklin, his ponytail curving down the nape of his neck, conversationally pinning Mallory against a wall, he taking nervous sips of his coffee, she looking guarded. Maybe she preferred doing the coming on herself. I thought about the unused Premarin in her medicine cabinet. What harm could it do anyone for her to take a lover?

  Thoughts were preempted by Gemma-Kate offering me a cup of coffee and a powdered sugar doughnut. Maybe I was feeling forgiving after being in church, but I was rethinking the toad episode, whether it might have been an accident and Gemma-Kate, not knowing me well, hid the evidence because she was genuinely afraid of how I might react. Then I thought maybe she was just back in sucking-up mode when she was taking care of me, and I wondered what she wanted.

  Lulu came up to where I was musing and pestered me for a bit about the Neilsen case. A couple introduced themselves as the McClays, the wife asking if I’d like to be on the altar guild. Ruth came to chatter. When I thought I couldn’t stand any more fellowshipping, Mallory appeared to save me, taking a sip of my coffee without asking because that’s how we were, and telling me there was someone she wanted to introduce me to, even though there wasn’t.

  When we were alone I pounced. “How’s Adrian’s dog?”

  “He said the dog ate his handball glove. I think he’s stalking me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. There’s a small chance he just wants to go to church.” But then, “You should encourage him,” I said quietly enough so no one would hear. “He’s the kind of guy we all had a crush on in high school and thought we’d never have. So what if it’s a few decades after the fact?”

  “Thanks for your liberality with my sex life, but I have to live it my own way,” she said without relish. Then, so as not to display any self-pity, “Besides, I’m more the Clint Eastwood type. How about you?”

  I thought about Carlo, and how I’ve always much preferred an average man with skin on him to a hunk on a flat movie screen. But you have to respond. “That guy who stuttered in Here Come the Brides,” I said.

  Mallory blinked a few times. “I love you, darling, but sometimes you are so weird.” Then she pounced. “Did you tell Carlo yet?”

  “No, not yet. Doughnut?”

  She took a tiny bite, wiped the powdered sugar from her mouth, and then sipped my coffee again. “I didn’t think you liked it sweet,” she said.

  “Gemma-Kate fixed it for me.” I started to put the cup down at the end of the serving table, not liking how raising it to my lips showed how much my hand shook these days.

  Mallory gestured at it. “Give it here, I’ll drink the rest. Did you at least make an appointment with the specialist?”

  “Did you know once counts as advice and twice is nagging?”

  Mallory gulped some coffee and grinned. “The hell with you, then. I’m going home to Owen who appreciates me.” She started to move off, but dropped her paper cup on the floor and swayed.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, getting a couple napkins off the table.

  “I feel a little woozy,” she said. “And sick to my stomach. I think I’ll stop in the—”

  I said not to worry, I’d clean up the coffee, but she had already gone off without finishing. I got some napkins from the table and bent over to pick up the coffee cup, wiping the spill, which I thought was politely ignored by others in an Episcopal fashion. But when I stood up to throw it all away a high-pitched cry from the other side of the parish hall, near the little table that served as a bookstore, took my attention and that of everyone else present.

  Elderly Mrs. Covington had stumbled and slipped from her walker and was lying on the floor with her left leg at an impossible angle. I threw the wet napkin and the cup on the table beside me and rushed to her.

  I did not make any connection between Mallory’s onset of illness and Mrs. Covington’s accident.

  After the first cry she was whimpering, and I kneeled beside her to keep her still until help would come. Carlo was beside me and tried to comfort her. She looked up at him and said, “Valerie?” Then her eyes went all jittery. Shock, I thought. Carlo must have thought the same because he was making sure she didn’t swallow her tongue. I had put my tote bag down somewhere, and Carlo didn’t carry a cell phone, but before I could say Dial nine-one-one several people had whipped theirs out.

  Focus still on Mrs. Covington, I could hear two voices giving instructions to send an emergency vehicle to the church. The third person fumbled her phone and it hit the tile floor next to me. She didn’t bend down to pick it up.

  Nervous in a crisis, I thought. I was still not connecting these events.

  With Carlo in control of Mrs. Covington, I grabbed the phone and raised my hand and my sight to the woman who had dropped it. She wasn’t stunned into immobility. She was swaying and weaving like a drunk.

  I looked around the room, and the connections began. No sense of it all yet, but finally linking all these people together.

  Have you seen the news reports of the aftermath of a bombing? The rising smoke, the blackened faces, the bloody wounds, the dazed staggering of some and the crying of others? The desperate search for a loved one?

  The room looked like a slow motion terrorist attack, only no shouting or smoke or blood. Only the staggering and clutching of heads, the dazed what-the-hell-just-happened look. Some specific activity got through my still-confused cognitive senses. A woman was struggling to get out of her maxi skirt, wet with what might have been hot coffee from the look of the pot tipped over, the coffee flowing across the white tablecloth. A man I didn’t know was lying on the floor reaching toward a woman bending over him, drunkenly slurring, “Lulu. Lulu.” The woman bending over him was not Lulu. Lulu was in another part of the hall, throwing up in a very unattractive way.

  Maybe it was a rush of adrenaline that shook me into crisis mode. Reactions started coming.

  First: Make sure Carlo was okay.

  I turned back to where he was kneeling beside Mrs. Covington and watched him for a second. He seemed to feel my glance and looked up at me, then turned back to Mrs. Covington when she screamed. He appeared to be unaffected by whatever was assailing the others.

  Second: I found a guy who might have placed the nine-one-one call and who still stood with his cell phone in his hand and his mouth open.

  “Hey buddy,” I said, getting his attention by giving his arm a little shake. “Call again. Tell them we’re going to need more buses.”

  When he turned to look at me with a dazed expression I thought he was succumbing as well, but “Buses?” he said.

  “Ambulances. Tell them we got”—I took a quick count, included those who were weaving a bit and might go at any moment—“at least sixteen down.”

  I kneeled beside an old man, checked his breathing, and looked into his eyes, which were shifting rapidly back and forth like Mrs. Covington’s. “What’s your name?” I asked. He looked at me like I was the odd one.

  Mallory came stumbling out of the bathroom in my direction, holding her head in place. “What the hell?”

  “Lie down if you’re dizzy.”

  “No. What should I do?”

  “That woman over there, she looks like she’s burned. Get ice from the kitchen.”

  Mallory staggered off.

  Third: What should have been first, and might now be too late. Assess the scene to see if anyone knew this was happening, and how, and why.

  I scanned the room once more. Except for those on their cell phones who had been calling in the emergency, there were three people neither staggering, lying down, nor helping others. In different parts of the parish hall, not connected to each other except by their stillness, were Gemma-Kate, Peter, and Peter’s mother, Ruth.
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  Ruth looked more tense than when I had met her the Sunday before. On second glance, I realized she was not staring around her. Her eyes were down rather than taking in the train wreck of a room the way any other person would do. She was especially trying not to look at her son. Gemma-Kate watched the activity, the sight of the man on the floor here, the woman holding on to a folding chair there, the elderly woman with a broken leg. Peter only stared at Gemma-Kate. Then my eyes met Gemma-Kate’s, and I was convinced I knew.

  * * *

  Multiple buses and flashing lights later, the paramedics came like gangbusters and then stopped short at the door of the parish hall briefly, gazing at the scene, as if they expected an imminent explosion. I told them it wasn’t a gas leak and they came in. I helped as I could, pointing out Mrs. Covington of the broken leg, who was the first to be taken away. I walked out with the paramedic who took her.

  “I figure about fifteen, sixteen people you’ll need to treat,” I said. “Not everyone is reacting, but they should all be checked.”

  “I’ve never seen such a mess. What is it?”

  I guess there was something about me that indicated I was familiar with a situation like this. I said, “We got nausea and vomiting, confusion, dizziness, like extreme intoxication, but they couldn’t have gotten that much alcohol that quickly. Mmm, eyes jittering.”

  “Nystagmus.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Got any ideas?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, it’s not my line.” I handed him a cup. “But you might as well take this coffee with you.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “Don’t drink it. It was the only thing they had in common. I’m guessing it might be the source.”

  Another gurney passed us like we were having gurney races, bearing Father Elias Manwaring himself. I had missed seeing him in the general panic.

  The paramedic repeated, “I’ve never seen such a mess. I called for more ambulances. You coming to the hospital?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. If the coffee was the culprit, I was unaffected because I’d only taken a sip. Carlo was fine, probably because he always said what they made at the church was a weak Episcopal version of the real stuff and never drank it. Mallory seemed better after throwing up, but promised to go to the hospital to get checked out. Suspecting what I did, and not prepared to talk to any crime scene investigators until I could talk to Gemma-Kate, I hustled her and Carlo into the car as quickly as I could without looking like we were running. Carlo got behind the wheel and I told him to go.

  Didn’t waste any time.

  “What did you put in the coffee, Gemma-Kate?”

  “What d’you mean, what did I put in the coffee? I didn’t put anything in the coffee.”

  “What?” said Carlo.

  I said, “Enough bullshit. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to use a lethal dose of something. But can the effects get worse?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  I unbuckled my seat belt, reached around to the backseat, and grabbed Gemma-Kate’s wrist. “This isn’t a good time to get smart-ass with me. I swear I’ll turn you in.”

  She tried to twist away. “Ow! Aunt Brigid, you’re hurting me. I didn’t do anything!”

  Carlo kept driving, but I could feel a glance thrown in my direction. I let go of her and turned back to the front.

  “Brigid, what could you possibly be thinking?” Carlo asked.

  “Let me think a second, Carlo. On the slim chance she didn’t do it—”

  “Hey, I’m in the backseat and I can hear you.”

  “Shut up. On the slim chance she didn’t do it, I need to use caution.”

  “But you will cooperate, right?” Carlo asked. He had every right to ask. I’d hidden some things in the past and will always regret what it almost did to us.

  “I swear I will. Right now I’m operating on a strong hunch. Let me just find out a few things first. And line up a criminal defense lawyer just in case.”

  I didn’t add that Gemma-Kate being a Quinn was motivation both for and against turning her over to the cops. On one side there was the family loyalty, and my promise to Marylin. On the other side there was this suspicion of the Quinn thing that came from my father Fergus’s side of the family. Not Mom so much. Sure, Ariel and I were bad kids and Mom used to keep a wooden spoon in the car and when we were stopped at a red light she’d flail at us in the backseat while she kept her eye on the light to change. But that wasn’t abuse, was it? That was just frustration. The rest of us, the ones who carried the Quinn gene, were different, some undefinable unspecific extra something or lack of something that we never talked about.

  When I got home I called Mallory. She told me she’d been treated with an antidote she hadn’t asked the name of and released from the hospital. She said she thought Mrs. Covington was going to be okay. She said it was an awful experience and wasn’t it lucky that none of us got dangerously sick. Then she said it was the last time she’d ever drink from my coffee cup.

  Most importantly, though, over and over my brain kept repeating at least no one died at least no one died goddamn lucky no one died.

  “That was craaaazy, dude. Why did you leave so fast? Why didn’t any of you go to the hospital?” Peter asked.

  “None of us drank the coffee. They think it was the coffee.”

  “That sounds suspect, that nobody in your family drank coffee. And I saw you by the table.”

  “Stop playing detective,” Gemma-Kate said. “You didn’t drink any either.”

  “I never do. But I went to the hospital anyway. They made me drink whisky.”

  “No they didn’t.”

  “Yeah, they said there was antifreeze in the coffee, and there were so many people they didn’t have enough of the antidote. They said whisky works. I bet you didn’t know that.”

  Gemma-Kate stayed quiet, unwilling to admit ignorance of anything.

  “So why did you do it?” Peter asked. “Just for fun?”

  “I didn’t do it. Maybe you did it.”

  Peter smirked. Gemma-Kate wished she could disconnect, but something kept her fixed to his face on the screen.

  Peter said, “I don’t know, Gemma-Kate. First the dog, then a whole church. You even said your aunt wasn’t feeling so good.”

  “I never said that. I said she was acting weird.”

  “Same thing. You move in and people start puking.”

  “If you repeat that to anyone I swear I’ll get you,” Gemma-Kate said.

  Peter stopped smirking. Gemma-Kate was going to tell him she wouldn’t talk to him anymore, but the screen went dark before she could say it.

  Thirty–one

  Father Manwaring was in his office alone the next day. When I walked in on him I heard click click, click, click, click click from his computer mouse.

  He looked up from his laptop. “I’m just writing my sermon,” he said.

  “No, you’re not. You’re playing solitaire. I can tell from the clicking.”

  He leaned back in his chair, the chair barely putting up with it. He looked world-weary, the kind of look I always expect to find on clergy, only more so today. “It eases the stress.”

  But not much, I thought, watching him. “Mallory told me everyone was treated in emergency and sent home,” I said.

  “Thanks to your guess that there was something in the coffee. They weren’t sure what to test it for, but then the paramedic started reciting the symptoms and they narrowed it down. Whoever was in charge worked really fast, thinking that we all could die. They came up with ethylene glycol.”

  “Antifreeze.” I knew that because of a case I’d heard where a daughter brought her mother a protein smoothie with a shot of antifreeze. The mother died. Dogs love the stuff, too.

  Manwaring nodded. I tried to blend concern with indifference. “They suspect anyone?”

  “Not from the questions they asked me. They wanted to know the names of everyone in church that day, not just in th
e parish hall. I mean, it’s not that big a church, but how can I remember the names of a hundred or so people? All I could remember is that Vicki Bergesen left during the prayers of the people, but she always seems to have to go to the bathroom right then. Then they looked at the different entrances and exits from the parish hall and quizzed me for who might have come in that back door that leads straight into the kitchen.”

  “What about that poor old lady who broke her leg?”

  “Mrs. Covington.” Manwaring sighed. “She’s still in the hospital but doing okay. I visited her before I came into the office this morning.” He leaned across his desk in a confiding way. “There’s crime scene tape on the parish hall. I tell you, Brigid, I got some bad karma going on. We’ve had too many accidents for one church, and now wholesale poisoning of my congregation. Don’t you think that’s too much?” He talked about it like the troubles were all his own. “Maybe I should hire you to investigate what’s going on.”

  “One case at a time,” I said. “When I made this appointment it was about Joey Neilsen’s drowning.”

  “Ah, that sad story. Sometimes I’m put in mind of what Bertrand Russell said, that the only way to achieve any happiness is to begin by admitting that the world is horrible, horrible, horrible.”

  His philosophizing got me off track momentarily. “That’s what you tell people? You’re a priest. What about goodness, and peace on earth, and eternal life?”

  Elias shrugged and, reaching for his mouse, exited from the solitaire game without saving it. “Is that what you came here for?”

  I thought about my probable disease, but this was one person I wouldn’t discuss it with. No benefit to that. “No, I really did want to ask you about Joe Neilsen.”

  “I don’t know how I can help,” he said. “It’s been a long time since the Neilsens came to St. Martin’s. They switched to St. Bede’s right after Joseph’s funeral. He was put to rest in our columbarium.”

  “What’s a columbarium?” I asked.

  “It’s where ashes are interred.”

  “That place out back with the white walls?”

  “That’s the one.” He looked at me more closely, as if picking up on something he hadn’t noticed when I arrived, having so much on his own plate. “You look a little under the weather. Very pale and dark rings under your eyes. Do you have allergies?”