This was the second day in a row he’d gotten up at the crack of dawn and driven to his uncle’s place for the sole purpose of climbing a tree and falling asleep. By his stopwatch, he made it to forty-five minutes, a vast improvement over the day before.
He braced his feet on opposing branches and leaned back with a yawn and a stretch. He grabbed a look at his watch as it cleared the cuff. It was getting close to eight o’clock. He’d have to climb down soon and spend some time on the bike.
Dammit.
It was an obstacle of his own making. He got pissed at himself every time he thought about it. He needed an excuse for his sudden change of morning routine. He couldn’t lie about his whereabouts. There were too many ways to find him.
The bike story was perfect.
For years Philip had talked about rebuilding it. Everyone close to him knew the fond nostalgia with which looked back upon his teen years and the afternoons he spent racing with his uncle around the woods. When he announced that he was finally going to dig out his tools, no one so much as raised an eyebrow. The problem, as he came to realize, was that at some point he was going to have to show the fruits of his labor, which meant taking time each day to actually work on the fucking thing.
His stomach growled. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket for a protein bar and laid his fingers on something he didn’t recognize by touch. He pulled the thing out to take a look and broke into a hearty guffaw. It was the disgusting set of yellowed false teeth he’d shoved in there the day before. He held it to the heavens and sang half of a chorus to “You Are My Sunshine” before winding up and chucking it far into the woods.
In the distance he saw his makeshift shooting gallery. He considered not wasting the bullet, but the moment of caution abandoned him as he whipped the nine-millimeter out of its holster and took a million-to-one pot shot at one of the painted cans.
”Pow – ping!”
Yes. That morning, in that tree, even with aching balls, it was good to be alive.
7. Father Leo’s Office
“Leo, I’m so sorry.”
After six hours of penance and a sleepless night, Aiden finally found the courage to approach Father Leo.
The young priest was a mess.
“Please Aiden, calm down.”
It would have been unfair of Leo to be angry. He couldn’t ask the man to use his neighborhood connections to help the church, and then condemn him when those same connections may have landed the church a couple of degrees separated from a major felony.
“Father, I should have known. I should have known what he was going to do.”
Leo took Aiden’s hands in his.
“You don’t even know that he did anything.”
“I know him. I know Kevin…”
He came dangerously close to saying, “I take his confessions.”
“…this is something he would do or get someone else to do. He’d mean well. He’d be doing it for the church and for the town. He sees things in absolutes.”
Aiden was getting irrational in his speech. Leo needed to awaken the South Philly son of a butcher inside him.
“Will you fucking get a hold of yourself!”
The young priest looked up in shock.
Leo continued.
“Don’t look at me like that. The f-bomb isn’t listed among the deadly sins. We decided it’s vulgar, not God. What do you think Jesus hollered when they drove in the first nail?”
Aiden couldn’t help but burst out in exhausted hysterics through his blood-shot eyes.
“Look, Aiden, all we have to do is go to the police. I have a new friend there. Just tell him what you told me. This is evidence in a murder case, that’s all.”
Aiden wiped his eyes and nodded. Leo stood and walked to his half-opened window so that Aiden could have a moment alone to collect himself. They’d leave for the police station as soon as the young priest was ready. Leo breathed in some fresh air and looked out at the courtyard. Pastor Karney was there. He was pruning the rose bushes. Leo found that odd for some reason.
8. The Strausser Farm
Lynch and Warner decided to grab some breakfast and come back. Eight-fifteen was too early to go banging on someone’s front door, even a farmhouse door.
It was on the road side of a sizeable piece of land that was divided into sections by electrified fence. Various breeds of livestock inhabited each paddock. What little Lynch knew about animal husbandry made him believe that the majority of the animals were for showing rather than butchering.
They were a few steps away from the front porch when Lynch stopped and subtly pointed toward one of the distant fences. There was a boy there, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old.
“Carrie, check it out.”
“Yup. I’d say that’s about right.”
Before he and Warner left for breakfast, they gave the once-over to the area where their witness had stood. What they found gave them an idea, at least generically, whom they were looking for.
From the farmhouse, it was difficult to tell what the boy was doing. It looked like he was scratching a cow’s back with a fire poker. Lynch spoke up.
“Hey buddy!”
The boy spun around nervously.
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s your name?”
After regaining control of his bladder, the boy answered.
“Elliot…Strausser…Elliot Strausser.”
“How old are ya, Elliot?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
Warner swore to herself as Lynch hollered back. They would have to talk to his parents first. Neither of them bothered to ask the boy what he was doing at home at nine-thirty in the morning. No doubt, the boy was home-schooled.
A woman’s voice came from the porch.
“You folks lost?”
A conservatively dressed woman in her late thirties stood at the house’s entryway with her right hand
