“Jane, seriously, do I look like a man who’d settle for an old hag like you?” Shumaker sounded amused, but he walked over to Jane, grabbing her chin in his hands. “So, you drugged their food. Idiot. The cops will find the drugs in them. They’ll know you poisoned them. So obvious, Jane—the leftovers from the lunch you made them are right in the room. No, I’m sorry, but you’re no longer an asset to my company. You made yourself a burden, Jane. And you know I don’t carry burdens. Get rid of her,” he said again, pushing her away from him and walking toward Danni.
“No!” Jane cried, trying to throw herself after him.
“Make it look like she did it herself. Leave the gun there.”
“No!” Jane let out another anguished cry. “You can’t—”
Her words were cleanly cut off. Danni heard a popping sound and a whiz in the air. Shumaker’s man had used a silencer. Jane went down at Danni’s feet. Her eyes were open.
Blood streamed from the back of her head.
“And now,” Shumaker said, “for this one!”
She braced, waiting for that sound, waiting for a bullet to crash through her flesh.
The man with Shumaker reached down and took her into his arms, threw her over his shoulder and went up the steps. He was wearing gloves; there would be no prints in the house. Shumaker must be wearing them, as well.
No one would be left in the house. She would just have disappeared....
But Billie wasn’t dead. And Wolf...
She had barely touched the tuna sandwich.
And she was awake and aware, and she assured herself that when the time came, she would fight. She might not win....
But if she went down, she was taking this bastard with her!
* * *
They’d been so busy observing, Quinn hadn’t noticed just how stiff he’d become. Now there were so many people in the ruins of the old sugar mill that he didn’t have to worry about moving. He adjusted his position, stretching his muscles as he did.
The arrangements for the ceremony were being completed. He realized they needed to be closer to the altar and the chimney area; when the night’s event started, he might not have much time to stop it. He motioned to Father Ryan, who nodded his bald head. Ryan shot out first, sliding along what remained of the walls, and dived beneath the next wagon. There were enough piles of earth and broken crates to cover their movements.
They made it to the last of the wagons. From here, their view was no longer obstructed by the giant vats that sat in the mill, creating aisles on each side, almost as if it were a church.
Ryan nudged him. Whatever the major event of the ceremony—the blood rite?—it was about to begin.
* * *
Danni had known everything that was happening to her.
She’d known where they were going as they set out, but she was shoved down in the back of the sedan with Shumaker. She’d longed to move; being near him was so repugnant that she had to steel herself not to retch. She’d known she had to wait, wait until she could gain a weapon of some kind.
The drive to the sugar mill seemed to take forever.
Eventually, she’d known, they had to get out of the car.
They did. But the second they arrived, there were men outside waiting to welcome their high priest; they were like pop-star fans given backstage passes, greeting Shumaker as if he were a god himself. They were all around him. And they were all armed.
“Your faithful has gathered,” someone said.
“They’re ready. All is ready for you,” another said. “And for her.”
“Everything is exactly as you asked,” the third said effacingly.
Before she could budge, hands were grabbing for her. She decided to continue playing possum for a while, even though her fear was overwhelming. She’d made a mistake; she should have fought at the house. If she had, they would’ve shot her but at least she would have denied them a sacrifice.
The men dragged her out of the car. One of them picked her up. She hung there, limp, listening.
“Where’s my cape and cowl?” Shumaker demanded.
He was quickly dressed, with the assistance of his acolytes. Then he lifted a hand, telling the man to hold her as he entered the broken-down sugar mill.
Danni cracked open one eye. The man shifted to adjust his hold and she had a fleeting glimpse of a knife inside a slot in his gun holster. As he juggled her, she flopped around—and slipped the knife into her own hand.
Hiding it was more difficult but she managed to slide it down her shirt.
A moment later, he carried her in.
* * *
Quinn watched tensely as the high priest—the puppeteer responsible for all that happened—made his entrance.
Brandt Shumaker!
Cecelia Simon stepped forward, arms held high. “All kneel!” she commanded.
Quinn shook his head, his jaw locked. He was astounded that people could be so easily deceived, so ready to follow someone they knew next to nothing about.
So willing to kneel when they owed no humility to a con man.
The high priest looked like a Ku Klux Klan member wearing a black headpiece and black robes. He raised his hands as he strode toward the altar. His voice boomed out and it was a voice Quinn had come to know all too well.
A man in the audience started to rise, but one of Shumaker’s henchmen nudged him. “He didn’t say to get up. Stay there.”
That was when Quinn felt an odd sensation; he turned and nearly fell over, almost grabbed for his gun, almost gave away their position.
There was someone at his side. He’d had his eyes on the room the whole time. No one could have come near him without being seen. But someone had.
Before he could draw his gun, the man lifted his head.
Quinn froze.
He’d seen the man before. Seen him when he’d drifted over his own body the night he died. Seen him again when he’d been told he needed to do more.
And there he was, his fingers to his lips. He pointed. Quinn saw that one of the boxes by the wagon wasn’t an old crate; it was new. It was from a costume shop. The robes were in the box, he realized.
He nodded. Tapping Father Ryan’s shoulder, he reached carefully into the box and pulled out two of the robes. He turned back, but the man was gone.
“Did you see him?” Quinn asked Ryan.
“Him? I see the bastard at the altar, all right. Is that who you mean?”
“Uh, yeah,” Quinn said quietly.
He kept still while Ryan scrambled into one of the robes. Then he struggled to work his own arms into the sleeves of the other, all the while hiding behind the broken-down wagon. Successful, he touched Ryan’s arm again. “Wait,” he said.
Ryan nodded grimly. “You got that phone of yours on speed dial?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Shumaker walked behind the altar. He continued to hold his hands above his head, as if acknowledging the acclaim that was rightfully his.
Quinn saw him place an object on the altar.
The bust. The bust of Pietro Miro.
It was just an object, marble and artistically carved. But the eyes of the bust seemed alive, almost as though it added something palpable to the air, a tension and an excitement. The fire in the sconces set around the silo seemed to burn brighter; sparks flew and the shadows seemed to move and breathe.
“Welcome to the Cult of Miro, my friends. Tonight, you will see magnificent things. You will see the power that shall come to you if you keep your covenant. There will be nothing you dare not ask—the health and welfare of a child or...the death of an enemy. The great lord you worship knows human needs and desires. He seeks to fill them all, but he demands your utmost obedience. And he demands your blood!”
There was a murmur
in the crowd. Father Ryan looked angry enough to explode. Afraid he’d move, Quinn set a hand on his arm.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
“Fear not, my friends! You need only give a drop of your blood, symbolic of your faith in him. He demands sacrifice, yes, but not from those who love and worship him. You will come forward in this communion. You will give blood before you drink the blood of power and riches. You will bind your soul to our great dark father, and learn the promise that he makes.”
He raised his hands again and began to chant in Latin.
“We have to stop this,” Ryan said.
“Father, it’s against everything you know and love, but it’s not illegal—yet,” Quinn reminded him.
“He mocks God and worships Satan,” Ryan fumed.
“Patience, Father,” Quinn warned.
Ryan hunched tautly, ready to spring.
Shumaker’s men urged the participants along. As Shumaker chanted, each was led forward to scratch his or her finger with the ceremonial knife—exactly like the one Danni had painted—and then led back to take a place in the crowd.
When this was done, Shumaker began to speak again. “We eschew the humiliating denial of the so-called godly!” he cried in English. “We will seek the carnal pleasures we so desire without fear of reprisal. We will lie with whomever we please, whenever we please, and revel in the free sensuality of the beasts that we are!”
Shumaker’s words brought a roar, but Quinn realized that Shumaker’s men were beginning these responses, goading the crowd.
“We will be one, one there for all. As a group, defending one another’s freedoms, we will be free. We will smite our enemies and rise to the top of the world, the job world, the money world—the have-what-you-will, do-as-you-will world!
“Is someone hurting you, bullying your children? Has someone moved up the career ladder and pushed you down? No more! With the power of the beast you will not be subjugated as lesser men!”
Another roar sounded. Three cloaked women stepped forward like an out-of-sync Greek chorus. They began a chantlike singing. They sang in Latin; Quinn didn’t know what he was hearing. He did know that the middle woman in the group was Roberta—Bertie—Hyson, the Simons’ housekeeper.
Had she been in on it all along? Had she been the one to report the presence of the bust to her employer’s daughter? If so, how had she and Cecelia come to recognize each other’s evil nature?
Between Shumaker’s words and the rising chorus, the beat of a drum that joined in and the swaying of the crowd, the ceremony was well underway. The followers appeared to be hypnotized by the man who was speaking.
Quinn blinked, wondering if he was seeing an optical illusion. The bust seemed to burst into flame—and yet it was still there. But there appeared to be someone behind Shumaker, a little to his left.
The man the bust portrayed. He stood tall, and although he wasn’t solid, his arms, bared beneath the mantle, shone with sleek muscle and strength. A sound of awe rippled through the crowd; if this was an optical illusion, others were seeing it, too.
The man’s face was chilling. The structure was as strong and cleanly handsome as any image of a Greek or Roman god. The eyes were deep and large and seemed to shimmer with amusement—and cruelty.
At his side, Quinn heard Father Ryan fervently whispering his own prayers in Latin. Ryan’s jaw was taut even as he whispered the words, and Quinn felt that the priest’s anger—and his belief—would see him through. They both had to be in control.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed. It wasn’t a great time to answer Danni, but she might have found something valuable in the book. He pulled out his phone.
The message wasn’t from Danni.
It was from Larue.
“Cop in front of the curio shop not in his car. Officer going in.”
His heart seemed to stop.
“And so, tonight, you will see the beauty and the strength and the power!” Shumaker roared. “We are sworn by our blood to silence about what we see and hear tonight. Death to those who defy the cult. This will be sealed when we give the devil his due!”
That was when he saw her. She was carried out, apparently unconscious, and she was bound to hooks that were imbedded deep in the brick of the fireplace.
The woman from Danni’s painting.
And the woman was Danni.
Chapter Eighteen
DANNI KEPT HER hair over her face, her eyes ever so slightly open so she could see. The place seemed suffused with a hazy light. There were people chanting, people swaying. Drums were beating and everyone seemed drunk or drugged, crying out for blood—for a blood sacrifice. The man, her captor, held his bulk against her for balance as he slid ropes attached to the brick chimney around her wrists. Letting her head fall to the side, she saw the altar. She saw Shumaker there, the bust—and the knife. And at Shumaker’s side, she saw him. Pietro Miro. He wasn’t quite in the flesh.
The man, the image—the damned soul of Pietro Miro—turned to stare at her. He knew she could see; he didn’t care. She felt his eyes as they raked over her. His lips moved and she could hear him as if he spoke. “How sweet your blood, my dear. How sweet that all your shimmering goodness should fail!”
“The blood of our enemies shall feed our savior and our dark lord!” Shumaker cried, raising his head and the knife.
It was now or never. They’d assumed she was unconscious and therefore a powerless victim. She hadn’t been properly tied.
She lifted her head, tossing back her hair, surveying the crowd.
Quinn was out there somewhere. He had to be ready to help. And Larue...
His men were coming.
Could they come fast enough?
“Let the dark lord feed his dark lord!” she cried. “For all that Pietro Miro seeks is the body of one who holds power—and then he will cast you out, Shumaker, and you will rot and burn in his hell for eternity!” She freed herself from the loosley tied ropes.
“Bitch!” Shumaker bellowed, apparently forgetting his Latin. He turned, the knife aimed at her, but she dived as he plunged his blade into the brick. She rolled on the floor while Shumaker tried to extricate the knife.
“Stop her!” he shouted. His men had evidently not been prepared for their sacrificial victim to fight back.
Someone lunged toward her, someone in a black cape. She was ready to fight, fumbling in her shirt for the knife, when she heard a voice. “It’s me, Danni, stay down!”
Quinn rose, drawing her up with him. “It’s true! Stop what you’re doing. The so-called dark lord will take you, Shumaker, and take them all!”
“It’s that bastard, Quinn! Shoot the son of a bitch!” Shumaker roared.
Quinn dived down with Danni. Shots did ring out—but they weren’t aimed at Danni and Quinn. They were fired over the crowd; they were being fired into the air.
“I am the voice of God!” someone thundered. “Get thee from this place lest you feel true wrath!”
* * *
People were screaming and running, shedding their black cloaks as quickly as they could. Shumaker’s men tried for order, but they couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from and began firing wildly. Another man in a black cloak came walking toward the altar. A blast from something seemed to throw him back, but he rose again.
Danni heard a shrill cry of pain. She saw a woman go down in the crossfire. It was Bertie.
“Go back to hell!” the man commanded. Latin streamed from his lips.
One of Shumaker’s men rushed out, taking aim. Quinn rolled to his knees and shot first, and the man fell. Shumaker leaped from the altar onto Quinn, clutching his sacrificial knife. Danni tackled his back and she rolled with him.
“Quinn!” she yelled. “Get the bust! Break the bust! Break it wide open!”
; “Ryan! The bust,” Quinn shouted, wrenching Shumaker from her before he could wield the knife in a second attempt to kill her.
Ryan pushed forward, as if against a great hot wind. He reached out and got his hands around the bust of Pietro Miro, smashing it with all his strength upon the ground.
Bone and ash from within were caught in the wind. They blew and scattered while Quinn dragged Shumaker to his feet. One of Shumaker’s black-suited men came forward, ready to shoot Quinn. Danni screamed in warning.
Quinn whirled Shumaker around.
The bullet tore into Shumaker.
For a moment, Danni saw the man’s face. It seemed that she saw the would-be politician’s face, then that of Pietro Miro and then Shumaker’s again. His eyes were wide with shock and denial.
Quinn released his hold and the man slipped slowly to the ground.
They heard the sounds of sirens and cars jerking to a halt—Larue and the police were there. Quinn gathered Danni in his arms.
Father Ryan stood over the remains of the bust and the bones and ash that were Pietro Miro. He pulled a vial from his jacket and poured holy water over the remains, saying prayers as he did. He was, after all, a man of God.
Larue came running in, followed by a number of patrol officers; they knew what they were doing. They rounded up all those who weren’t running through the brush trying to get to their cars.
Larue stopped in front of the two of them, exhaling a sigh of relief. He quickly hid his emotion and asked, “What’s he doing?” indicating Father Ryan.
“Ending it,” Quinn said.
“You really all right?” Larue asked Danni. “We found our man from your patrol car dumped behind a bar on Bourbon Street. He’s okay, thank God. The uniforms burst in and found Jane dead and Billie—”
“He’s okay?” Danni interrupted.
“Raging mad, but he’s fine,” Larue said. “Your shop woman wasn’t much of a poisoner.”
She didn’t even want to glance at Quinn. “What about Wolf?” she asked anxiously.
“None the worse for wear.”
Let the Dead Sleep Page 28