Blood Sins

by Kay Hooper

  Sawyer Cavenaugh didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. In the ten years since the Church of the Everlasting Sin had set up its main parish in Grace, and most especially in the past two years since he’d been chief of police, he had never seen any church member away from the others alone. They always traveled in pairs, or groups of three or four, but never alone.

  Except for the guy at the gate, who was always seen alone.

  Unless you were a cop, of course, and were perfectly aware of being closely observed from that innocuous little “farmhouse” a few yards away just inside the fence.

  There might be video security. There was certainly someone watching from behind at least one of those mirrorlike windows. Maybe armed—though Sawyer had never once seen any evidence, any sign whatsoever, of guns anywhere in the Compound.

  And he had looked. Hard.

  “Good afternoon, Chief Cavenaugh. What can we do for you today?”

  “Afternoon, Carl.” Sawyer smiled a smile every bit as polite and false as the one being smiled at him. “I called ahead and spoke to DeMarco. We’re expected.” He knew damn well that Carl Fisk knew they were expected.

  He always knew, and they always played this little game anyway.

  “Ah, of course. Officer Keever.”

  “Mr. Fisk.” Robin’s voice was entirely formal and professional; she wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice.

  Fisk kept his meaningless smile in place as he stepped back and gestured. “I’m sure you know the way. Mr. DeMarco will meet you at the church, as usual.”

  Sawyer nodded and drove the Jeep through the open gate.

  “I don’t like that guy,” Robin announced in a decided tone. “He smiles too much.”

  “You read Shakespeare?”

  “That one may smile and be a villain? Yeah.”

  “Smart guy, that Shakespeare. And a gifted observer.”

  “You don’t like Fisk either.”

  Sawyer smiled faintly. “Now, did I say that?”

  “Yes.” Robin followed up that defiant statement with a far more hesitant “Didn’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” He didn’t wait for her response but slowed the Jeep slightly as it entered the forest and disappeared from the view of anyone near the front gate. Then he said, “I don’t want to stop, because they time you from the gate, but take a look around and tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  Robin obediently looked out the Jeep’s window at the forest through which they passed. “They time you from the gate?”

  “Always. See anything?”

  “Well . . . no. Just woods.”

  “They’ve planted a lot of holly bushes all through here,” Sawyer told her. “Big ones. Good natural barriers if you don’t want visitors. This time of year, plenty of birds count on the holly berries for food. See the bushes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See any birds?”

  “No,” she replied slowly.

  “There were birds in town,” he said. “I took special notice of them. But the farther out we came, the closer we got to the Compound, the fewer birds I saw.”

  Robin turned her head and stared at him. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “I wish to hell I knew.”

  She was silent as the Jeep picked up a little speed, then said, “What Pel said. No wildlife on his morning walks. Why do I get the creepy feeling that when we get to the main part of the Compound, we aren’t going to see any dogs or cats?”

  Even though she had never formally been inside the Compound, Robin, like most residents of Grace, was undoubtedly familiar with the physical layout of the place.

  It got discussed in town. A lot.

  The church was sited pretty much dead-center on the two-hundred-acre parcel of land it owned. Around the large and impressive central building that was the church proper was a formal square, with neat little houses lining three sides of the square and set out with equal neatness along the four half-mile-long roads that stretched out from the corners of the square and ended in cul-de-sacs.

  Sawyer could have drawn it out on a map. In fact, he had, bothered by the neatness and exactitude of the Compound. But if there was a pattern there, it meant nothing to him.

  “They used to have animals,” he told his officer. “Most every house had a dog in the backyard, a cat on the front porch. There were always a couple of dogs tagging along after the kids, and a cat or two in every barn to help control mice. Plus livestock in the pastures. Ponies for the kids, some trail horses, milk and beef cattle.”

  “But not now?”

  “No. I wanted to warn you, in case you noticed, not to say anything.”

  “No pets at all? No livestock?”

  “Not visible. I suppose there might be dogs or cats inside, but they used to be easy to spot.”

  “When did you notice they weren’t?”

  “Last week, when I came up here to talk about Ellen Hodges. Before then I hadn’t been up here since, probably, back in the fall sometime. I remember dogs barking then and seeing cattle and horses in the pastures around the Compound. Last week, nothing but people.”

  Robin cleared her throat. “You know, the first thing that popped into my head when you said that was—”

  “Some kind of devil worship. Animal sacrifice. Yeah, I figured.”

  “You don’t think?”

  As the Jeep emerged from the woods and into a wide valley where the church and its score of small, neat houses lay just ahead, Sawyer answered, “I have a hunch the truth’s a lot more complicated.” He knew that Robin was looking around at the houses as they neared the Square, that she was looking for dogs or cats or signs of livestock, but Sawyer’s gaze was fixed on the tall, wide-shouldered man waiting for them on the steps of the church.

  The man who checked his watch as the Jeep entered the Square.

  “A hell of a lot more complicated,” Sawyer repeated.

  Four

  GIVEN WHAT she’d been told and what she’d learned on her own about cults, Tessa had expected to be disturbed on any number of levels while she was among the congregation of the Church of the Everlasting Sin, but what she hadn’t expected to feel was a sensation of sheer unreality.

  It was, she decided, a surface place.

  The surface was pretty, ordered, calm, peaceful. The people Ruth introduced her to were smiling and seemingly content and greeted her with courteous welcome. The neat little houses boasted neat little well-manicured lawns and pruned shrubbery. The children—all home-schooled, she was told—laughed and ran around the very nicely designed playground off to the right of the main square, pausing in their play only long enough to run up, when summoned by Ruth, to be introduced en masse to Tessa.

  “Children, say hello to Mrs. Gray. She’s visiting us today.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gray. Welcome.” It was a chorus, bright and cheerful, accompanied by big smiles.

  Tessa wasn’t all that familiar with children, but this bunch struck her as exceptionally polite. And rather eerily similar in that they were all impeccably dressed—especially for playtime—without so much as a smudge of dirt or visible wrinkle in their neat white shirts, lightweight blue jackets, dark pants (the boys), and dark skirts (the girls).

  “Hi,” Tessa responded, wondering how many of these kids Sarah had known, if there were any she had been close to. By all accounts, she had taken a special interest in the children. “No school today?”

  “Our children are home-schooled,” Ruth reminded her.

  “And it’s our playground time,” a dark, solemn-eyed boy told Tessa. “Not as cold as yesterday, so we can be outside longer.”

  “I see.”

  Ruth shooed them away before Tessa really had time to pick out any more individual faces; she wasn’t even certain whose small hand touched hers briefly before the group ran back to their playground.

  “They’re all fine children,” Ruth said to her.

  “I’m sure they are.” What e
lse could she say?

  “Perhaps you can visit with them longer another time. I didn’t want you to be overwhelmed, Tessa. So many faces, so many names. I do want you to meet some of our members, even though we have plenty of time for you to get to know everybody.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Ruth continued the tour, pointing out this or that as they walked slowly around the Square.

  As scrubbed and neat as the children, all the buildings were beautifully maintained, as though they had been freshly painted only this morning.

  Especially the big, gleaming white three-story church itself, which was very churchlike, with rows of stained-glass windows (though generic abstract patterns, with no biblical scenes Tessa could identify) and a tall steeple with a simple cross atop a bell tower.

  She could see the bells gleaming even from ground level.

  The church was surrounded, like all the houses in the little neighborhood, with a neat lawn. Wide steps led from the front walkway that was pretty and cobbled up to the gleaming wooden doors that were wide and welcoming.

  But there was something just a little bit off in all the Norman Rockwell Americana perfection, and it wouldn’t take a psychic, Tessa decided, to pick up on it. There was an eerie sameness to the faces, the smiles, the simple clothing, even the gestures. From the children to the adults, they all looked . . . almost indistinguishable.

  Interchangeable.

  I wonder if the missing people were just replaced by fresh ones, new recruits. And nobody noticed. Or cared.

  That was a horrifying thought and one Tessa shoved grimly from her mind as Ruth continued to introduce her around.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Gray. We’re happy to have you here.”

  “Thank you.” Tessa shook hands with a couple who looked a lot like the previous six couples she had met since her arrival: somewhere in their thirties, a faint scent of soap clinging to them, a kind of bedrock serenity in their smiles—and an odd, shiny flatness in their eyes.

  Stepford. I’m in Stepford.

  “Everyone would love to meet you on this visit, of course, but we know that would be too much,” Ruth told her as she led the way, finally, back toward the church. “Plus, many of our members work in town and haven’t gotten home yet today.”

  The church, peaceful and perfect in appearance, was now marred slightly by a dirty Jeep parked nearby, the logo on its side the seal of the Grace Police Department.

  Cops. Cops she could trust?

  Or cops who would prove to be one more layer of deceptive normality in this place?

  “I had no idea the Compound was so large,” Tessa lied, ignoring the Jeep. “How many families live here?”

  “We have twenty-one cottages, plus the gatehouse,” Ruth answered. “I believe all of them are currently occupied. And, of course, we have rooms and dormitories for our single members in the church itself.”

  “Really? Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Not for our church.”

  Since she wasn’t offered any opening to probe that further, Tessa shifted the subject a bit. “No members live outside the Compound?”

  “A few, though not many. We’re a community,” Ruth told her, smiling. “We don’t require all our members to live here, but so far most have chosen to. Eventually.”

  That last word was oddly chilling, and Tessa did her best not to shiver visibly; it was a very mild day for January, after all. “I already have a home in Grace,” she pointed out.

  “Your husband’s family home. Forgive me, but can it really feel like home to you?”

  Tessa allowed the silence to stretch as she walked beside the other woman up the wide steps to the open front doors of the church, not answering until they stepped over the threshold. “It doesn’t,” she admitted after a moment, being more honest than Ruth could know. “The house is too big and . . . I ramble around in there. Sometimes it almost echoes it’s so empty.” She allowed her voice to wobble a bit, her eyes to tear.

  “I’m sorry, Tessa—I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, it’s just . . . The happy families out there . . . The way I feel in Jared’s family home—”

  “There’s a restroom off the vestibule where you can have a few moments alone. It’s as safe a place as you’ll find in there. The stalls are tiled from the floor almost to the ceiling, and the doors are big. The recreation area where people tend to congregate at odd hours is downstairs, so the main-floor restroom isn’t used much except around the times of services.”

  Tessa managed to squeeze out a tear. “If you don’t mind—a restroom?”

  “Of course, of course. It’s just over there, ladies’ room on the left side.” Ruth’s voice was warmly sympathetic. “I’ll be here. Take your time.”

  The restroom was fairly large and brightly lit, with six stalls and three sinks, and like everything else she had seen was exceptionally neat, to the point of appearing to be newly scrubbed. Tessa looked around briefly but wasted little time in locking herself into the stall farthest from the door.

  Hollis’s information had been right: These stalls were designed for a great deal more privacy than those usually found in a public facility. In fact, the stall struck Tessa as a bit claustrophobic, and she had to take a deep breath as she closed the toilet lid and sat down on it.

  Focus. Concentrate.

  She was wary of opening herself up completely in a place where she felt so uneasy and even trapped, but she wasn’t at all sure control was a luxury she could afford. Still, as she closed her eyes and concentrated, she did her best not to drop her shields completely.

  Pain.

  It was immediate and intense, fire burning along her nerve endings, exploding in her mind, and it took everything Tessa had not to cry out. Her hands reached out to the tile walls on either side of her, and she instinctively braced herself, or tried to, pushing against the cold tile, against the hot, shimmering pain, against the incredibly strong presence she was instantly aware of.

  I see you.

  He’d been given at birth the triple-barrel name that sounded so biblical and had served him so well: Adam Deacon Samuel. His mother’s mocking joke.

  There was certainly nothing biblical about being the bastard son of a whore.

  Samuel frowned and shifted in his chair, keeping his eyes closed. It was his custom to meditate every day at this time, and every day God tested him by beginning the ritual with forcing him to remember where he came from and who he had once been.

  It was . . . difficult. But there was no relief, no peace to be found until he forced his way through the memories.

  The first few years were fuzzy; by the time he was old enough to wonder why she hadn’t just aborted him, he knew the answer. Because she wanted someone to endure a more tormented existence than she did herself.

  And she made sure he did.

  He doubted most of the johns had even noticed, much less cared, that a usually filthy and often hungry boy had crouched in the corner of some seedy motel room and watched, eyes wide and fixed, the fornication that was always hurried and furtive, and often abusive.

  She’d taught him to smoke, both cigarettes and pot, by the time he was four, burning his body with the glowing embers until he could inhale without coughing. Taught him how to steal by the time he was six and how to defend himself with a knife before he was seven—though she could always take the weapon away from him on those rare occasions when he found the guts to try to defend himself from her.

  “Stupid little bastard. I could have let them scrape you out of my belly when I knew his seed had taken root. But that don’t mean I can’t scrape you out of my life now. Understand, Sammy? Or do I have to show you just what I can do to you?”

  It never made any difference if he answered, because she always “showed” him. Sometimes he was locked in a closet for a day or longer. Sometimes she beat him. Other times she . . .played with him. Like a cat with a mouse, mangling and torturing its prey until the pathetic little creature just stopped tryin
g to escape and waited dumbly for the end to come.

  He’d believed he was numb to all of it, enduring his lot in stoic silence, until she began bringing in johns with . . . special tastes.

  It amused her to watch them use him. And then there was the money. She was able to charge a premium for his virginity. After that . . . well, he was still small. Young. As good as a virgin, she told them. She developed a skill for finding those men who enjoyed using him no matter how many had used him before.

  Samuel gripped the arms of his chair and forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly.

  Memories.

  Just memories.

  They couldn’t hurt him anymore.

  Except, of course, that they did. Always. But less and less as time had passed. As if holding a burning coal in his mind, in his soul, and blowing on it from time to time, like this, he could feel layers of himself being seared away. Cauterized.

  It was a good thing.

  He hadn’t been able to do that then. Not in the beginning. Hadn’t been able to stop the pain in any way at all. Hadn’t been able to stop the mother who abused him or the johns who did even more unspeakable things to him.

  Looking back now, in the light of God’s pure certainty, he understood what had finally happened to him. He understood that God had tested him. And tested him. He understood that those early years had begun to shape the steel of God’s holy sword.

  He hadn’t seen those miserable, dark, dank motel rooms as a series of crucibles, or those faceless men, brutish and cruel, as anointed by God to destroy the base metal he had been in order to make of it something great.

  But he saw now. He understood.

  The first destruction of who and what he had been took place in one of those desolate rooms, late one night when it was cold and stormy outside. Maybe it had been winter. Or maybe it had just been one of those perpetually cold cities along his mother’s long, wandering life. He couldn’t remember.

  He remembered only that he’d been vaguely surprised that she had found a john at all on such a night, far less one looking for a boy. But his stoic resignation had turned to quivering terror when a hulk of a man filled the doorway, almost forced to turn sideways in order to come into the room.