JACK SWORE AS HE HEARD TAYLOR’S OUTGOING VOICE-MAIL greeting come over his car’s Bluetooth. He understood that she was upset, but she didn’t have to act like a child and ignore him. He should have talked to Sybil and tried to find out if Dakota was on the level before even bringing it up with Taylor. No more secrets. No more lies. Yeah, look how well that turned out. He found the contact for Sybil in his phone and placed another call. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as the phone rang.
He was en route to Brigham and Women’s Hospital to talk to the priest who had been shot. The priest had been lucky—the bullet had only grazed his shoulder—but he’d be in the hospital a few more days recovering from surgery.
“Hello?”
He recognized her voice right away. “Sybil. It’s Jack.”
“Hello, Jack. I’ve been expecting your call.”
Her voice was flat. He’d thought at least she would have been happy to hear from him, but then again, she was sick and not herself. “I guess Dakota told you about her situation. I hope you can understand my hesitation to get involved.”
“Yes, of course. It’s kind of you to even consider helping her.”
This was more awkward that he’d anticipated. “Okay, well. Listen, I’m very sorry to hear that you’re not well. Dakota told me you were sick. That’s the only reason . . . you know . . . if it helps you having her come back—”
“I’m not up to talking right now. But yes, I’m sick. Dying. Marcel’s in a long-term facility so I have no one to take care of me besides Dakota. I still need to go to the bank where her passport is in a safe deposit box but have to wait until I have enough energy. Once I get her passport, I’ll call you. Okay?”
“Um, sure. Okay.”
“Bye, Jack.” She ended the call, and he felt disconcerted by their conversation. She had sounded so robotic and unemotional. But at least he now knew that Dakota had been telling the truth about Sybil being sick. Dakota’s aunt and uncle had no children and had treated Dakota like their daughter. They’d been heartbroken when she’d killed the unborn child she was carrying in an insane attempt to hurt Jack. The days following that horrendous act had been the darkest of Jack’s life. Before that Dakota had made his life a living hell, but when she’d gotten pregnant he’d known he couldn’t leave her and abandon his child. But despite his best efforts to protect their child, he ultimately failed when Dakota drove that knife into her stomach. It was Sybil who came over day after day, checking up on him, clearing away the empty bottles of vodka he’d consumed, making him eat, and refusing to allow him to wallow in regret. He didn’t know if he’d have made it through if not for her. And now she was all alone, and there was no way he could turn his back on her. No matter how terrible a person Jack believed Dakota to be, Sybil loved her, and Sybil would want to have her with her. So that meant that Jack had to try to help her. He’d make Taylor understand somehow.
As he drove down the Mass Turnpike, he thought about the last time he’d been in Boston when he and Taylor were on the run from Damon Crosse and had to dump his Mustang into the Charles River. He still felt bad about that on more than one count, not the least of which was pollution. He put his signal on to change lanes, and the car in the left lane sped up. Boston drivers. He turned the indicator off, waiting for an opening, and darted over.
When he reached the hospital and made his way to the priest’s room, Jack was surprised to realize that he was nervous. The last time he’d spent any time with a Catholic priest had been when he was a teenager, back when he was an altar boy. He’d always felt like priests read his mind, which more often than not was full of thoughts he preferred to keep to himself. Shaking off the jitters, he strode with purpose from the elevator into the hallway and toward Father Murphy’s room. He heard voices as he approached and, when he reached the open doorway, saw two older women sitting by the hospital bed where the patient lay. Jack rapped on the doorframe, and they looked up.
“Sorry to interrupt. I’m Jack Logan. I’m here to talk to Father Murphy.”
The priest looked over at him and smiled. “Come in.” He nodded at his guests. “Thank you for the goodies. I’m sure I’ll enjoy the brownies as well as the chicken soup.”
They got up, looking a little put out at Jack’s interruption.
“Okay, Father. You have our numbers if you need anything. We’ll be back to check on you tomorrow.”
“It’s not necessary . . .”
One put her hand up. “Nonsense. You take care of us all the time. It’s time for us to look after you.”
Jack took one of the seats they had vacated and waited for the women to gather their things.
Once they had left, Father Murphy gave Jack a wry look. “They mean well, but I’m happy for the interruption. I couldn’t listen to one more idea for the church bake sale.”
Jack gave him a weak smile in return, still feeling uneasy. “How are you feeling, Father?”
“Good. Happy to be alive. The good Lord was looking out for me, I’ll tell you that. Never seen anything like it in all my years in the church.”
Jack nodded. “I’m sure. I know that you’re bound to keep your counseling sessions confidential, but I’m hoping since Mrs. Doyle is deceased you might be willing to share a bit. Anything you can tell me may shed some light on this . . . recent phenomenon.”
Father Murphy gave Jack a measured look. “Before we get started, can you explain what you mean by phenomenon?”
“There have been a few similar incidents lately, in which people with no criminal past have gone off the rails and killed others and themselves, with little or no warning or provocation.”
The priest said, “I had no idea. I haven’t seen anything like that on the news.”
Jack thought about some of his other interviews. Everyone had said the same thing. But it was odd—normally, you could turn on the local news in Minnesota and hear the same feel-good story about a cat who found its way home that you would hear in California. Likewise, bad news traveled incredibly fast. So why were these stories being reported in isolation? “Well, I can assure you it’s happening. One online search will show you that your case is the eighteenth just in the past month.”
Father Murphy’s eyebrows rose. “That’s . . . crazy.”
Jack nodded. “Yes. I just met with a man whose wife killed her son’s Little League coach.”
The priest’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “Evil is running rampant. It’s getting worse every day.”
“I think there may be more at play here than just evil. I’m trying to figure out if there’s some sort of connection between the cases. A medication that the perpetrators have in common or somewhere they’ve all been recently.”
The father shrugged. “I can’t tell you about what medicine Shannon might have taken, but I’m sure Brian can. What I can tell you, though, is that I would have never in a million years thought she could be violent. She and Brian were devout Catholics who never missed a Sunday. She was a God-fearing woman who was trying to put their marriage back on track.”
“Had they been coming to counseling for a long time?”
“About six months. She was—” He stopped, then said, “I’m sorry, Jack, but even with Shannon being deceased, I’m not comfortable divulging private information from our sessions. It’s just not right.”
Jack had thought the priest would feel that way. He tried a different approach. “I understand. I don’t really need to know the specifics of their marital problems. What I’m more interested in is whether or not you saw a personality change in Shannon in recent days or weeks. Did she seem more agitated or angry? Did she exhibit poor impulse control? When she came to your office, was there anything about her that alarmed you?”
The priest was quiet, seeming to ponder the question. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no.”
“Father, the reason they came for counseling—without disclosing what it was, did it surprise you? Whatever Shannon may have confessed . . . was it out of character?”
The priest smiled. “Quite a bit of fancy footwork, there, Mr. Logan. I suppose it doesn’t violate any confidentiality to answer that. Honestly, all sins are in character, we’re born into it. So, no, I wasn’t surprised, only disappointed.”
Jack felt frustration wash over him. Was this guy going to take every opportunity to preach to him? “Thank you, Father. If I think of anything else, I’ll be in touch.” He handed him a card. “And please call me if you think of anything further.”
The priest took the card but held on to Jack’s hand. “Before you go, I have a question for you, Jack Logan.”
Jack wanted to pull his hand away but didn’t. “Yes, Father?”
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
The familiar fingers of dread wound their way through Jack’s gut. He blew out a breath and shrugged. “Many years ago.”
The priest let go of his hand. “Don’t you think it’s been long enough?”
Jack felt like reminding him of what happened the last time someone spilled their guts to him. Instead, he gave him a neutral look. “Not sure I really see the point. I’m more of the mind to try not do anything that’ll require a confession.”
“Son, I’m sure your parents raised you to know better than that. All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”
Here we go again, Jack thought. “How did you know I’d been raised Catholic?”
“Logan’s a common Irish name—Scottish, too—but you seemed familiar with the conventions of the church. But you’re deflecting. It’s true, you know, confession is good for the soul.” He smiled at Jack. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m a good listener.”
Jack stood. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass.”
“All right. But I hope you’ll think about what I’ve said.”
“Thanks again.” Jack tapped the doorframe on his way out. He felt like a kid again, when he couldn’t wait to grow up and get as far away as possible from his family and their guilt-inducing religious tradition.
His mood stayed glum as he pulled out of the hospital lot. He wasn’t meeting Brian Doyle, Shannon’s widower, for another hour, so he drove to Jamaica Plain and parked the car. He walked into Same Old Place and ordered two slices of cheese pizza and a soda. After grabbing a table in the corner, he bit into the gooey pie, thinking it was just as good as he’d remembered.
Jack wasn’t sure what kind of sin lying to a priest was, but he hadn’t told the truth to Father Murphy about the last time he’d gone to confession. It had actually been almost fifteen years ago, the day after he’d cheated on Taylor with Dakota. He hadn’t really been sure what he expected to gain, maybe a little counseling or some help in figuring out why he’d done what he’d done and how he could fix it. It had been years since he’d seen the inside of a church, so he’d just walked to the one closest to his apartment and gone straight to the confessional. After he’d poured his heart out, the priest had asked a series of canned questions and given him some prayers to recite. He’d left feeling worse and decided then and there it would be the last time he tried it. Confession might be good for some souls, but definitely not his.
His phone buzzed and he looked down at a new hit for his Google alert for Maggie Russell. He clicked on the article, which reported that Maggie Russell’s autopsy indicated that she had methamphetamine in her system. So much for her not touching drugs.
If the other autopsies turned up the same result, the answer could be as simple as a tainted batch of meth. Jack did a search to see if meth was capable of causing violence, and sure enough, the drug overstimulated the amygdala and could cause aggressive behavior, and it also had the ability to alter serotonin levels in the brain and induce psychosis. He needed to find out if the others had been using drugs, but the only way he could do so was if the families would share the information. Cause of death was public record, but not the details of the coroner’s report.
He finished his pizza and headed out. It took him only ten minutes to get to the Doyles’ house in Brookline, so he was still a few minutes early and he parked and checked his email. He found a short message from Taylor telling him that she’d invited one of her sources over on Saturday for dinner. It was unlike her to invite a relative stranger to their home, and Jack wondered what had prompted it, but before he could give it any more thought, a car pulled into the driveway and a man he assumed was Doyle stepped out. He had a Red Sox baseball cap on and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Jack got of his car and walked over to him.
“Brian Doyle?”
“Yeah?”
Jack held his hand out. “Jack Logan. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
Recognition dawned. “Oh, right. Sorry, I’ve been in a fog. I’d totally forgotten.”
“Is this still a good time?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
Jack followed him to the front door of the duplex and waited while he found the right key and opened it. It was dark inside; the shades hadn’t been opened, and all the lights were off. The whole vibe was bleak.
Brian flipped a switch and a lamp next to the sofa went on. Jack noticed a pillow and blanket at one end—looked like Brian was avoiding sleeping in his bedroom, not that Jack could blame him. He couldn’t bear to even think of how he would react if he lost Taylor.
“Sorry for the mess. I just . . .”
Jack put a hand up. “Hey, no need to apologize to me. I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“Thanks. Let’s sit in the kitchen.”
Jack sat at the kitchen table, and Brian opened the refrigerator. “I can offer you a soda or a beer. That’s about all I’ve got.”
“Thanks. I’m good.”
Brian grabbed a bottle of Bass Ale and sat across from Jack. He opened it and took a long swig. “So what do you want to know?”
Jack didn’t want to lead with a question about drug use, so he eased in. “As I mentioned on the phone, what happened with your wife is not an isolated incident. There have been cases popping up all along the Eastern Seaboard of people behaving in a . . . similar manner.”
Brian said nothing, his eyes on Jack. “I’m not sure I’m following you. People do crazy things all the time. What does that have to do with Shannon?”
Jack sighed. “Your wife didn’t have any criminal history, right?”
Brian shook his head. “Not unless you consider adultery a crime.”
At least now Jack knew why they were going to counseling. He cleared his throat. “Were you aware that your wife was carrying a gun that night?”
Brian took another long swallow, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah. I’d gotten her a gun for protection a few months ago. A woman was raped in the parking garage of the building where Shannon worked and I told her she should keep it with her.”
Jack tried to hide his astonishment at Brian’s carelessness. “Did she have a carry permit?”
“No.” Brian threw his hands up. “I get it. It was stupid of me. I did take her to the gun range, so she knew how to use it, but . . . I don’t know. I was just worried about her. You know? I know better now. Obviously.”
Jack dropped it. There was no point in making the guy feel any worse. “Can you tell me a little bit about that day? Was there something that made her angry or escalate so quickly?”
Biting his lip, Brian took a minute to answer. “It was weird. I mean we weren’t getting a whole lot out of the counseling, to be honest, and I think she was ready to call it quits. She said she’d stopped seeing Matt, but I didn’t believe her. She was still texting someone all the time and going in the other room to take calls. During our session that day, I told her I was tired of the bullshit. She started yelling at me . . . and then she was speaking like she was answering me, but I hadn’t said a word. She was having this whole conversation with me that I wasn’t a part of. When Father Murphy tried to tell her to calm down, she freaked out. The last thing she yelled was ‘I’ll kill you first,’ then she pulled out the gun. It all happened so fast, it took a few seconds for it to register. I still have a hard time believing it.”
Jack saw his opening. “Did the autopsy report show methamphetamine in her system?”
His eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Because the same thing was found when they did the autopsy of a woman who killed her son’s Little League coach.”
“She killed a Little League coach?”
Jack nodded. “Yes, and in front of her young son. Did you know that your wife was using?” he asked.
“No. She never did drugs. I mean, she’d just been to the doctor for her annual physical. Besides, I would have noticed if she’d been using hard drugs.”
Jack tilted his head. “Maybe she wasn’t a regular user, just a time or two?”
Brian took another sip from his beer, then looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe that jerk she was messing around with got her into it. I tried to find him, but he skipped town. Probably knew I’d beat the hell out of him.” He slammed his fist on the table. “My sister’s a nurse. She told me that meth can make people do crazy things. I’m just glad Father Murphy’s going to be okay. I should have left her as soon as I found out she was fooling around. Maybe none of this would have happened.”
“You can’t blame yourself for trying to save your marriage. This isn’t on you.” He gave Brian a moment out of respect before continuing. “Is there any way I could look at the autopsy results? It would help me to compare them to the others and see if there’s been some kind of contamination.”
“Yeah, sure. Anything to help prevent something like this from happening again.” He stood up and went into the other room. After a few minutes, he returned with a folder and handed it to Jack.
Jack looked quickly through the pages it contained. “Do you mind if I make a copy with my phone?”
Brian shrugged. “Go ahead.” He stood and got himself another beer.
“Thanks.” Jack positioned his phone over the first page and took a photo, doing so until he had all nine pages of the autopsy. Handing Brian his card, he stood. “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss, and I appreciate your talking to me. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
It was close to four when he left, and he was eager to get home to Taylor and Evan. He felt terrible for Brian. What a series of events—finding out your wife was cheating on you, then having her shoot your priest in front of you, and then kill herself. And to top it off, to find out she was using meth. It wouldn’t have been long before he would have noticed the signs. Jack had seen his share of meth use, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that both Maggie and Shannon had been using drugs and then gone crazy. But the fact that neither of them were known users set alarm bells off. There must be some bad stuff out there—either in street drugs or being used to lace something benign. He needed to tell someone. He knew just the guy. The only problem was that he’d sworn to never talk to him again.