Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men, #6)

by Darling, Giana

  Eric was behind the soundproof glass window across from me, but I didn’t look at him. We hadn’t spoken beyond a few texts since Priest had interrogated him. I found I didn’t have the energy to give the problem my attention in the grand scheme of everything else. It meant something, though, that he’d shown up for the first podcast since we’d discovered Brenda’s head stuck under the desk.

  Priest was there in the room with me, sitting on a chair he’d dragged up from Honey Bear Café. I didn’t bother telling him to be totally silent because I knew he wouldn’t make a sound. I also didn’t bother to tell him I didn’t need him there with me because that was a lie I couldn’t entertain for long, even in my own thoughts.

  I felt raw, my skin scraped off with a scalpel, my heart scooped out of my ribs to beat its mangled murmur outside of my chest.

  Loulou hadn’t wanted me to continue the podcast. The funeral for Amelia the day before had taken the air out of my lungs, but it was sitting vigil at the hospital while Cleo fought for her life that left me anaemic as if the wound of that tragedy couldn’t or wouldn’t clot.

  I bled and bled for her.

  It was impossible to feel as if I wasn’t responsible for my best friend getting nearly murdered. As I watched her in a coma in the hospital bed, hearing the news that she’d been stabbed too often in the belly to save her womb, that she would no longer be able to have children even if she survived, it eviscerated me.

  The guilt was manageable, mostly, after Priest’s confession and Lion’s speech, but it was the fear that stalked me.

  I was more afraid than I have ever conceived of being in my entire life.

  I was the little girl who begged to watch rated R horror films, the woman who studied violent crimes and psychopaths in university, who hoped to one day be a criminal profiler.

  But there I sat, randomly trembling with bouts of terror that moved through me like ghosts of the women who had already died at the hands of this madman.

  Cops were listening in because this entire episode had been an idea they approached me with two days ago, but Lion had them grouped together on the other side of the glass, far enough from me I wouldn’t have to focus on their presence.

  I’d been quiet for too long. I needed to find the words I wanted to say, but they lay in graves dug six feet deep in my soul.

  Finally, I sighed.

  “Hey everyone, I’m Bea Lafayette, and this is another episode of Little Miss Murder. We usually start these episodes with a macabre storytime before we delve into the details of each murderer, their psychological profile, and how they were ultimately found out or brought to justice. Today, I’m going to begin in a slightly different vein by telling you all about a story that has no ending yet.”

  I looked over my shoulder to reassure myself with a glance at Priest. He was standing in the back corner beside the chair we’d brought in for him, leaning against the wall while he silently whittled a block of dark wood. The moment I shifted my gaze to him, he looked up, eyes catching mine and tethering my floundering spirit to his so I could find focus.

  I took a deep breath.

  “For the past few weeks, Entrance has been plagued by the effort of a serial killer the press has dubbed the ‘Prophet of Death’. As you all know, giving serial killers catchy names plays into their psychosis, their need to be seen and acknowledged for their crimes. So, I will not refer to him by this name, but instead simply as ‘the murderer’ or ‘the killer’, so he understands that his violence doesn’t make him unique. It makes him plebeian, one of a score of faceless murderers now caught that the public conscious has forgotten about.”

  Lion gave me a thumbs-up through the glass partition. We had gone over my talking notes before, how I would set up the podcast as a live stream in hopes of baiting the murderer into calling or writing in. It was clear to everyone that he was at his breaking point, and he just needed one last push.

  Only, I knew what desperate men did when they were about to be pushed off a cliff. They took everyone in their sights with them over the edge.

  “This murderer is perverting biblical scripture to his own ends, attempting to craft a story where he is the hero exorcising sinners from our community so that we will all live in a ‘better, more holy’ place. I don’t usually speak about religion on the show, and if you’re sensitive to this subject matter, I understand if you skip ahead or tune out. But I have to say the work of this killer is not the work of the God I know. The God I’ve trusted since I was a child, whom I’ve looked to for guidance over the years and learned about from countless study does not sanctify murder by any means. He teaches us kindness, patience, and peace, even if it must come from forgiveness. This is my God, and I believe this is most Christians’ God. I will not be idle while this murderer seeks to twist the words of a kind God into the mandates of madness.”

  I sucked in a deep breath, surprised to see my hand trembling on the white tabletop.

  “‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves’,” I quoted from Matthew 7:15. “This man is hiding behind religion to mask his horrific crimes in misplaced holiness. If you know who he is, if you subscribe to his teachings or have any idea where he might be, please call in now to our line and help put a murderer behind bars where he belongs.”

  We waited for one, long, unendurable moment in buzzing silence.

  Then Eric’s switchboard lit up, and a second later, the old-fashioned landline began to ring. My friend looked up at me before answering, a wealth of hesitation in his eyes.

  I nodded because while I’d been willing to bet that quoting scripture against the killer would incite him to action, I could only hope the goad would work.

  Eric put them through and the cops started to trace the call. Lion had warned me that even if or when they pinpointed the location, they might not be able to get units to the scene in time to catch him, but it was worth a try.

  “Hello, this is Little Miss Murder,” I said merrily as I usually did.

  Silence.

  A shadow descended over me as Priest took up sentry behind my chair.

  I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello? This is Little Miss Murder podcast. Do you have a tip or question about the murderer?”

  “I think you mean the Prophet,” a deep voice answered back.

  It was obviously put on, the depth and growl of that tone.

  It was also, obviously, him.

  “A prophet is an inspired teacher of God’s will and practices,” I responded carefully. I was terrified, but I told myself I had been preparing my entire life to negotiate with psychopaths. “The murderer who has been killing off innocent women for sport is not following any divine practices I’m aware of, and I’ve been a member of First Light Church since I was a girl.”

  “Innocent women?” The chill of that voice spilled over me like a bucket of ice water. “These women were all sinners, and beyond that, they tried to seduce others to their unholy ways.”

  “Cleopatra Axelsen was not a sinner,” I bit back, then dragged a deep breath through my nose to stay calm. It wouldn’t do to be hot-headed with this man. “She was the purest heart I’ve ever known.”

  A silence seethed through the phone. Silence with texture and weight that seemed to pollute the entire room.

  Priest stepped closer, the edge of his stiff leather cut brushing my hair.

  “The others were sinners,” he said finally, resolutely. “And you, Bea, have sinned. I didn’t want you to have to pay for your crimes against God. I wanted to spare you. But, of course, someone needed to pay penance, and I understand that girl was very close to you…It seemed fitting to take my measure of flesh from her instead.”

  A sob clutched my throat so hard I couldn’t breathe. Guilt submerged me like a tsunami wave. I floundered, eyes open and sightless, heart pounding an erratic percussion beat that throbbed painfully through me.

  Priest’s hand went down heavily on my shoulders, pinning me in my seat, a
nchoring me back against him. Slowly, maybe so I could protest if I couldn’t handle it, one hand moved over my collarbone up to wrap around my throat. No true pressure, just a collaring, a reminder that I was not owned by anything or anyone other than this man behind me.

  Finally, I breathed, the exhale a loud whoosh through the mic.

  The killer heard it and chuckled, a smooth rumble of noise that was utterly self-satisfied. “I know you are remorseful, and I am a forgiving man with the grace of God. You’ve been wicked, Bea, so wicked of late, but this time, I will give you a chance to confess and pay penance.”

  Priest went static behind me, his hand on my throat flickering with the urge to crush the life out of the murderer. I reached up to put my own hand over his against my pulse.

  “I’m hardly going to turn myself over to you. I don’t even know what you want with me. Why you’re doing this for me.”

  That laugh again, this one tinged with hysteria. “I didn’t set out to do this for you. I am doing this for God, for Him, so that His teachings can be practiced as they should be.”

  “And how do you know how they should be practiced?” I rebuffed, thinking of Cleo once more, her sweet face beaten in and misshapen with violence.

  “God speaks through me,” he said simply with a finality reserved for facts and established truths of which this was absolutely not. “He sends me visions of how the world is supposed to be. In this world, you are my holy wife, meant to tend to me and our new flock.”

  One of the cops, Hutchinson, a member of the local PD and a friend of The Fallen, held up a piece of paper that said ‘ask about his flock’.

  “Do you have a flock?”

  “Of course, there were many people in this town previously corrupted by criminal elements like The Fallen who were begging for my light. How do you think I found Cleo, hmm? She came to me. Amelia Stephens too. She was looking for some peace after a life with a criminal.”

  I closed my eyes against the surge of molten anger that threatened to spew through my lips.

  For the first time in my life, I wanted to kill a man myself.

  “You think I would consent to be your wife?” I asked, flabbergasted by his gall even though I knew psychopaths could suffer from delusions of grandeur and severe narcissism.

  “You spent the night with that murdering sinner from The Fallen!” he shouted suddenly, a crash sounding from the other side of the phone. “You soiled yourself with his embrace!”

  Another pause, this one because I didn’t know what to say in response. The knowledge that he had been watching me left a thick residue on my skin, something like dirt I knew I would never be able to scrub clean.

  “No, Bea,” he said again after a moment, all calm eerily restored. “I don’t expect you to consent right now, not when I haven’t been given the opportunity to make you understand. I’m confident you will when the time comes. For now, I have an incentive.”

  Foreboding slithered down my spine like the cool skin of a serpent. “What are you talking about?”

  I knew every single member of The Fallen and their family members were on the compound. There were enough beds to make it work between the clubhouse, Hephaestus Auto, and the house Z’s cousin Eugene spent half his time in on the edge of the property. It was cramped, but no one complained.

  It was clear we were under attack. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  So it couldn’t be someone from the club.

  “I think you call her your Tabby,” he said with a little laugh. “You really are so expressive with your loved ones, Bea. It made it so easy to decide who to take from you.”

  Eric and I looked at each other in blatant horror.

  Tabitha.

  The doctor’s wife, the woman who wore sugary perfume and taught music classes to the disadvantaged youth at First Light Church after Bible study.

  Sweet, meek Tabby.

  Before I realized it, I was standing as if I could rush out the door and find her myself. Through the glass, the cops were already on their phones and typing into computers. Lion made a gesture for me to continue.

  “If you don’t meet me in the clearing between Potter’s farm and Waverly’s apple orchard at eight tomorrow morning, I’m going to kill her, and you’ll have only your cowardice and sin to blame. Then tomorrow, if you still haven’t come, I’m going to take someone else you love, and I’m going to kill them too.”

  “Why?” I breathed. “Why am I so important to you? I’m no one.”

  “Ah…” He sucked in the air the way one did when they were smelling flowers, as if my words had a fragrance. “The way you belittle your light, such modesty, such purity. And you wonder how I know you were meant to be my spiritual equal.”

  “But I’ve sinned,” I pointed out, trying to understand the loops and twists of his fevered mind.

  “You have,” he said, almost cheerfully, still in that deep, booming voice that wasn’t truly his. “But I’m not worried. I’ll make you pay your penance and then we will move on as one.”

  The dial tone clipped in as soon as his last word was uttered, the monotone noise perfectly matching the flatline of my failing heart.

  “No,” Priest said instantly, irrefutably. “You are not doing it.”

  “I am,” I whispered as I turned in my chair to look up at him. “I have to.”

  “You are absolutely not doin’ this, Bea,” he repeated in that voice of titanium. “Not the kinda man who’d forbid you from much, but puttin’ your life on the line is one of those fuckin’ things.”

  “We’ll organize it so she’ll be in minimal danger, McKenna,” Hutchinson said as the door between rooms opened and the cops came flooding in.

  Priest actually growled and snapped his teeth, stepping in front of me as if they were a threat. “I said no. You got lead in your fuckin’ ears?”

  “Priest,” Lion tried, always the moderator. “We got this.”

  “You do not,” Priest said—not angry but cold, so cold he emanated it like dry ice. “You have fucked up time and time again, not just with this, but with every fuckin’ thing to do with the club. I’m not puttin’ my fuckin’ woman on the line when I know it’s you lot in charge. Your incompetency will get her killed.”

  “You watch your fucking mouth––” one of the RCMP officers stepped forward to say.

  “Fine,” Lion interrupted. “The PD will coordinate with the club if they want Miss Lafayette’s coordination.”

  “What the actual fuck?” the RCMP cop barked.

  “You’re not even a damn cop anymore, Danner,” another one protested.

  “No,” Hutchinson agreed, pulling out his phone. “But this retired cop took down an entire MC in Vancouver and helped clean up this damn department, so speak to him with some fucking respect. I’ll call Staff Sergeant Munoz and set something up.”

  The two RCMP officers blinked, clearly shocked that a police department would ever let a private investigator take control or collaborate willingly with a criminal element.

  This was Entrance.

  Weirder things had happened.

  Priest didn’t say a word, but his body language spoke volumes. Putting me in the path of danger went against every instinct he had and every bone in his body. Protecting me was the most important thing in his life now because, in a way, I’d become his life just as he had mine.

  We were two very different souls who only made sense together. Yin and yang. Sweet and bitter. Light and Dark. Bea and Priest.

  Now that we had connected, I wasn’t sure one could exist without the other.

  All I knew was that if I didn’t go to the clearing, I’d never forgive myself. I couldn’t in good conscience let another woman I loved be hurt because of me, let alone die for me.

  I’d never recover.

  No matter what, and that included Priest’s opinion on the matter, I was facing my demon in less than twenty-four hours, and hopefully, this would all be over.

  Priest


  For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Then I remembered, I did not dream. I was so used to the sound of my own breath isolated from others to the absolute stillness of my unmoving body like a corpse in my bed that my sleep-drunk mind could not compute the noises of Bea beside me.

  She was dreaming.

  I opened my eyes to see the faint light of dawn spilling like milk through the single skylight I’d put in the roof of the warehouse directly over my bed. It was a stupid thing, a vulnerability if anyone truly wanted to attack me while I slept, but I’d always found the stars peaceful. Counting them helped me find whatever sleep I was capable of snatching.

  I was grateful for it now as I turned to watch my Little Shadow bathed in the pale glow, her small, perfectly formed mouth the colour of the inside of a seashell, golden brow furrowed as she dreamt.

  I never slept deeply enough to dream. As I watched her in the clutches of one, I was intrigued, a voyeuristic pleasure that mildly surprised me. It seemed I was obsessed with every single fucking thing about this woman. I wondered if I was in her dream, decided it was unacceptable if I was not, and then considered waking her just to ask the absurd question.

  I decided instead to run my finger gently down the curve of her heart-shaped face and along the thick fan of the white gold lashes resting on her cheek. Sleeping there beside me in the black sheets under the pure glow of the rising sun, she’d never looked more innocent.

  She’d also never looked more mine.

  There was a love bite on the right side of her neck peeking beneath her silken hair, and when I pushed back the sheets from her skin, I traced the other reminders of my possession on her form. The bruised knees so pretty, the swollen nipples like raspberries under cream. I wanted to fuck her into the mattress so hard she’d forget any other thought in her head.

  She’d forget in just over an hour she was meant to meet a madman in a clearing.

  My jaw clenched so hard there was a painful pop.

  A beep from my phone on the ground beside my mattress pulled my attention to it.

  No surprise, it was Lion coordinating the last vestiges of what I was convinced was an idiotic fucking plan to take down this killer.