Free The Death List by Paul Johnston Page B

Prendegast.”
    The coffee I’d just swallowed shot back up my throat.
    “At this time we do not know who his assailant was, but it is likely that he—or possibly she—fled the scene with a substantial amount of blood on his or her clothing. I am appealing to the public to help us locate this very dangerous criminal. Please contact your local police station or call my team.” She gave a phone number. “All information will be treated in the strictest confidentiality.”
    The reporter came back on and wrapped the story up. I wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. I was sweating heavily and my gut was coiled in a knot.
    I knew the name Father Norman Prendegast. I’d typed it several times that day. It had been in the White Devil’s notes. It was the name of the priest who had abused him—he’d originally been called O’Connell, but the Church had arranged a new identity.
    I felt myself falling into the abyss faster than Lucifer in Paradise Lost.

7
    Eventually I got a grip. I kept telling myself not to be surprised. The White Devil had already shown himself to be a ruthless killer with Happy. The most worrying thing was the way he’d set things up. I was playing a game whose rules only he knew.
    There was a chime from my computer—a new e-mail.
     
    Facts Pertaining to the Murder of the Boy-Sodomizer Father Norman Prendegast.
     
    One—a solid gold candlestick 1.6 meters in height was inserted into his fundament. Two—his eyes, which saw things they shouldn’t have, were removed and taken to a safe place. Three—after he’d begged for mercy and whined that it wasn’t his fault he liked boys, he was dispatched by a single stab wound to his black heart. Four—he was spread naked across the altar of the Mother Church that he’d defiled by his priesthood, as if he was buggering both it and, by extension, the corrupt leaders who turned a blind eye on his sins. Five—there was a quote from your favorite play about his person. “What a mockery…”
    Are there bells ringing in your head, Matt?
     
    There certainly were bells ringing in my head. This was getting beyond even the sickest of jokes. I got up, my knees jelly, and went over to the bookcase by the window where I kept my own first editions. I took out the second Sir Tertius novel, The Devil Murder. My hero had got himself involved with a bunch of demented Scots rebels led by a charlatan, who pretended he was descended from William Wallace. As history showed, rebels often ended up rebelling against one another. The murderous Rennie was set upon by his own followers after Sir Tertius revealed his lies. They performed a black mass in a ruined abbey and killed him by “skewering his fundament,” putting out his eyes and driving a dagger through his heart. When he found out about the murder, my clever-dick hero spouted the line from The White Devil about death making a mockery of the victim.
    What was going on? Did the White Devil want me to write his story or was he framing me for the murder of the priest?
    I sent a message asking those questions to the last e-mail address. It bounced back with a fatal error, saying the account no longer existed.
    The phone rang, making me jump.
    “Matt.”
    Christ, he did have a camera on me. Or was he just guessing I’d be climbing the walls?
    “What are you doing?” I shouted.
    “What’s your problem?” he replied mildly. “You’ve got an alibi for last night, haven’t you?”
    Sara. I might have known he’d have logged her presence.
    “Yeah, that’s true. But still…”
    “Why am I using your modus operandi?” He gave a sardonic laugh that made the hairs on my neck stand. “Because I can. And because I genuinely like your books. But you should have written more with Sir Tertius. You disappointed a lot of your fans.”
    “I can’t now, can I? I’m too busy writing your hideous story.”
    “Oh, you don’t think it’s hideous, Matt. You love it. I can tell that from the chapter you sent me. I’m