Heartbreaker

Chapter 7

What a delightful time he’d had toying with the priest. Delightful indeed. He really hadn’t expected that he would have so much fun, because he’d learned from past experiences that sometimes the buildup-the planning stage in his schedule, as he liked to call it-turned out to be far more rewarding than the actual event-like when he was a boy and he was building his fort in the backyard. The joy was in the anticipation for what he was going to do inside his isolated cocoon where no one could spy on him. Oh, he’d spend hours and hours getting ready, a busy little beaver sharpening the kitchen knives and scissors he’d stolen from his mother’s drawer, and meticulously preparing the burial sites for the animals he’d trapped and caged. The killings always turned out to be anticlimactic though. The animals never squealed enough to satisfy him. But in this instance, good old Tommy boy hadn’t let him down. No, no, he hadn’t been disappointed in the priest at all.

As he was driving down the highway, he replayed the conversation in his head over and over again until he was laughing out loud and tears were streaming down his face. There wasn’t anyone around, and so he could be as loud and raucous as he wanted to be, but then, come to think of it, he could pretty much do whatever he wanted to do these days, anytime, anywhere, as long as he was carefull. Just ask pretty little Millicent. Oh, nope, you couldn’t do that. No, sirree.

Father Tom’s tortured cry when he realized the next victim was none other than his precious sister kept echoing in his mind. "My Laurant?" the priest had shouted.

"My Laurant?" he mockingly imitated. Priceless. Really priceless.

It was a pity he had had to leave so abruptly. He would have enjoyed tormenting Tommy a bit longer, but there simply hadn’t been time, what with all those wasted minutes spent on that nonsense about not being able to tell anyone what had been said inside the confessional, even after he’d given him permission. By God, he’d ordered him to tell. It hadn’t made any difference to the priest though. No, sirree. It hadn’t. Oh, he’d known about the church’s precious regulations guarding their sacraments-he always did his homework-but he’d misjudged Tommy because he hadn’t counted on him being such a stickler for the rules. Who would have thought the priest would be so stubborn, when spilling the beans would save his own sister’s hide? Who would have thought? A priest who wasn’t morally bankrupt. My, oh my, what a dilemma that turned out to be. Had he been an ordinary man, his plans would have been ruined, and he would have had to start over again. But he wasn’t ordinary. No, no, of course not. He was brilliant, and he had, therefore, anticipated every possibility. He’d almost blurted out, right there in the confessional, that he was taping the conversation, but he’d decided to let Tommy be surprised. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to share the tape though, not yet anyway. It would be added to his impressive and certainly eclectic collection. Millie’s tape was getting plumb worn out. Some insomniacs listened to the soothing sounds of the ocean or gentle rainfall when they went to bed; he listened to Millie’s sweet voice.

The priest had forced his hand with that stupid confession rule, and the only way to get around it had been to break the rule himself by letting the police have a copy of the tape. Always thinking ahead, that was the ticket. One quick trip to Super Sid’s Warehouse to pick up a three-pack of blank cassettes, a couple of manila envelopes, and he had taken care of the problem.

He would not allow anyone or anything to interfere with his schedule, which was why he always had an alternative plan of action in mind. Anticipate and respond. That was the key.

He let out a loud yawn. There was so much to do in preparation, and because he was meticulous to a fault in everything he did, he needed every single minute of the next couple of weeks to get ready for his own special Fourth of July celebration.

It promised to be… explosive.

Now he was on his way to St. Louis, thanks to his helpful friend, the Internet. What a wondrous invention that was. The perfect accomplice. It never whined, complained, cried, or demanded. And he didn’t have to waste precious time training it. It was like a well-paid whore, giving him what he wanted, when he wanted it. No questions asked.

Who would have imagined it would be so easy to learn how to make your own bombs in simple one-two-three steps a child of average intelligence could follow, with colorful illustrations to help the slow-witted along? If you had the money-which he did-you could order more sophisticated triggering devices-which he had-and lovely "enhancing" kits that turned little ear-tingling pops into ear-bleeding booms guaranteed to take out a city block, or your money back. He didn’t have any desire to find nuclear ingredients, but he had a feeling that if he searched the subterranean rooms long enough and got real friendly with those stupidly dedicated anarchists, he would find everything but the plutonium. Weapons weren’t a problem either, as long as you knew where to click on. And he did, of course. Yes, he did.

Although he had ordered lots of interesting little gadgets through the Internet, he hadn’t ordered the explosives because he knew the mules could be monitoring the sight. Still, he’d gotten the connection he’d needed from one of his buddies who had hooked him up with an illegal dealer operating out of the Midwest, which was why he was now breezing down I-70 with his shopping list in his pocket.

He spotted a roadside rest area ahead and thought about stopping so he could get his copy of the tape out of the back of the van. He wanted to listen to the priest’s voice again, but then he saw the police car parked there and he immediately changed his mind.

The mules were probably replaying the tape now while they made copious notes. It wasn’t going to do them any good though. They weren’t smart like he was. They wouldn’t get anything from his voice except maybe the region he came from, and who cared about that? They would never figure out his game until it was over and he had won.

He knew what the mules were calling him. The unsub. He liked the sound of it and decided that Unknown Subject was about the best nickname he’d ever acquired. The simplicity of it appealed to him, he supposed. By using the word unknown, the mules-his nickname for the FBI agents-were admitting how inept and incompetent they were, and there was something honest and pure about their stupidity and their ignorance. The mules actually knew they were mules. How delightful.

"Are we having fun yet?" he shouted as he sped down the highway. And then he laughed again. "Oh, yes, we are," he added with another chuckle. "Yes, sirree."