The Sinners of Saint Amos: The Full 3-book Boxset

by Logan Fox

  “Oh, we don’t keep electronic records,” Vicky says. “But I can always fax the certificate through to him.”

  I take my phone out, put down her details as a new contact even though the certificate is useless to me. I need the record the parish keeps where they note the parents’ names and, usually, an address. It’s a long shot, but right now it’s all we have.

  She motions to a chair, and we sit in stuffy silence as she opens a big ledger and makes a note of the impending wedding in three weeks.

  “Where were you baptized?” she asks, peering at me over her glasses.

  Some things you don’t lie about. “I wasn’t.”

  The temperature inside the room drops a few degrees.

  “Do you have any of the documents with you?”

  The sudden chill in the air spreads right to my lungs. “Documents? Like my social security number?” I reach for my wallet, but she shakes her head.

  Ticking off on her fingers, she starts up, “I need your Freedom to Marry letter, your dispensation form, your civil marriage license, and the information for marriage form.”

  Christ.

  I almost cross myself again hearing that list.

  “Guess I have another wedding planner to fire,” I murmur, as if to myself. “Is there still time for me to get those, or do we have to postpone? I hope not. I’ve already lost the deposit on a cake because the previous planner had the dates wrong. And don’t even get me started on the flowers. Did you know that, apparently, peonies are only beautiful if they haven’t opened all the way?”

  I’m not an actor like Cass. Hell, even Apollo could have done a better job convincing this woman that I’m a groom in a pickle. But I got the gig because any sister of the cloth would be too shocked Cass didn’t catch flame when he walked into the chapel to deal with him, and Apollo…well…he gets distracted sometimes.

  Also, I had sisters. Which apparently makes me the closest thing to a wedding expert we have.

  Thankfully some of my frustration comes through because, even though I’m not Catholic, Vicky softens a little to my plight. “No dear. If you go down to the courthouse today, you should have everything you need in a week or so.”

  “Can you…” I stop for a second, make it look like I’m calming myself. “Can you please just check if you do have Trinity’s records? With my luck, I’ve come to the wrong church.”

  “Oh, you’re in the right place,” Vicky says, mothering mode now fully engaged. “But it’s a good thing you ask, because some of our records were destroyed in a fire a few months ago.”

  And there it is. That’s why she was so uneasy seeing a stranger in the chapel. There’s a shadow in Vicky’s eyes that wasn’t there before.

  She goes over to a metal filing cabinet and opens it, her back to me. “What is her date of birth?”

  I check on my phone, give it to Vicky.

  I’ll be pushing it if I ask, but it’s burning me up. No pun intended. “A fire?”

  At first I don’t think she’s going to answer, but then she lets out a sigh and closes the cabinet. I already have my suspicions before she starts talking, and when she’s done, they’re confirmed.

  “Terrible thing,” she murmurs. I can’t help but notice she’s empty-handed as she adjusts her glasses and takes a seat. “The police ruled it as a botched robbery or something.” Vicky purses her lips. “Father Quinn was here that night. He often stayed late. Said he liked the quiet in the chapel. He lived close to the railway tracks, so I understand why.”

  “Father Quinn?” I say. “Trinity never mentioned him.” The next almost sticks in my throat, but I force out the words as smoothly as I can. “She only ever spoke about Father Gabriel.”

  Vicky lights up like a billboard. “Oh, Gabriel.” She nods a few times, a smile deeply etched on her face now. “Yes, they were close. He loved the Malones.” The smile fades a little. “But no, he’d left years before that. Father Quinn took over the flock from him. Good man, if a little…studious.”

  An introverted priest? Downright unnatural.

  “So Father Quinn was here when they broke in?” I nudge her, seeing as she’s no doubt still daydreaming about Gabriel. I get it, the guy’s good looking. But if she knew a shred of what his rotten heart was capable of, she’d be shitting herself right now.

  “Yes.” She drops her gaze, takes off her glasses. “They came in, shot him, searched the place, and then…” She shrugs. “They said it wasn’t arson. The police. Said a candle had fallen on some papers. But this isn’t the eighteenth century.” She laughs a little, but it’s sad and hollow. “It’s not like Father Quinn sat here reading by candlelight.”

  I let a little silence pass. But I have to be on my way, because her empty hands mean I was right.

  “So…those records?”

  She looks up and blinks like she forgot I was sitting here. “Oh. Sorry. No.” Shakes her head. “They must have been—”

  “Destroyed.” I cut in. “In the fire.” I rub my eyelids as I let out a heavy sigh that’s not nearly as much acting as it should be.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I know Trinity. We can recreate the records. Most of the congregation still lives around these parts. Miss Langley was there. I know that for a fact. She comes to all the baptisms and first communions.”

  “Miss Langley,” I reply, nestling that bit of information in my head. I’m not exactly planning on canvassing the town, but who knows what a name could—

  “She babysat for Trinity,” Vicky says, beaming as she gets lost in a past that I’m guessing was much more bearable than the present. “Not often, of course. Just when her parents went out of town.”

  My hackles rise up like a motherfucking rebellion.

  “Out of town?”

  “Oh, Trinity didn’t tell you?” Vicky cocks her head a little.

  “She…doesn’t talk about them very much.” And thank fuck I can even think clearly at all with how my mind is scrambling.

  “Yes, of course.” Vicky’s brow creases. “Terrible thing, that.”

  A lot of terrible things happen around these parts. If I didn’t know any better, I’d tell her to go looking for the Indian burial ground this town was built on.

  I mentally plead with Vicky to carry on talking.

  For once, the Universe is on my side.

  “Her father was a missionary,” Vicky says. “Her mother went on one or two missions with him, but then she stayed at home after that. The missionary life isn’t for everyone.”

  Oh no, it most definitely isn’t.

  “And Miss Langley sat for them?”

  “She did. If I can get another two or three witnesses, then I can have those records ready by next week.” Vicky looks proud of herself, and I almost feel sorry that her hard work will be for naught.

  “Well, I do hope you find her.”

  “Won’t be that hard,” Vicky says with a laugh. “She’s Trinity’s next-door neighbor.”

  I have to stop myself from jogging back to the car. Cass and Apollo are already inside, Cass at the wheel.

  What the hell were they expecting? That I’d come running out with a file under my arm like they’re the getaway car?

  I slam the truck’s door, turn to Apollo. “Find Maude Street.” Then to Cass. “I have the address to her old house.”

  Cass puts the car in gear, staring at Apollo in the rear-view mirror.

  I don’t know why we’re all so strung out, but I can feel the seconds streaming by as Apollo searches.

  “Turn around,” Apollo says. “Then take the first left.”

  Cass stomps on the gas and throws the car into a wide arc that leaves tire marks on the road. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I’d told him not to rush. But maybe it’s a good thing. If Vicky calls the police and sends them to Maude street, they might get there before we do.

  I don’t know what we’ll find there, but something’s telling me we have to hurry.

  “Faster,” I tell Cass.

  He do
esn’t say anything, but he skips the next light regardless of the fact that it’s been red since it came in sight.

  I guess it’s a good thing this is a quiet part of town and there weren’t any cars on the road. The only one in sight, in fact, is a white Hyundai.

  But I don’t think it would have mattered.

  We’re on a mission from God.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Trinity

  The urge to start feeling sorry for myself is back, and twice as strong as before. Honest to God, I don’t know how the Brotherhood did it. I’ve been tied to a rusty bed in my family’s basement for what feels like days, and I’m about ready to lose my mind.

  The rats don’t help. I can’t see them, only hear them, and that makes it worse somehow.

  Gabriel turned the lights off before he left. Something about the dark helping me find the light I was so desperately seeking.

  I should have known he had me figured out. I mean, he’d told me so himself. I’d never considered myself an optimist, so I guess I’m just naive then. A hopeless romantic—

  Gah!

  I cut off the thought with a grimace. That’s what he’d said when he’d been talking about my parents. And God he’d even sounded a little lovesick.

  Which makes me feel sick.

  I test the ropes again, rattling the metal bed frame, but they’re as tight and unyielding as the previous thousand times.

  All this time I was living right above this room, and I had no idea.

  Rattle. Squeak.

  He’s coming back. And soon. He doesn’t have to—I’m sure he thinks I’m pretty secure—but it was the way he said those words.

  You should pray, Trinity. Pray to God for forgiveness.

  Forgiveness? How fucking dare he? I don’t believe for a second he wasn’t a key player in this whole thing. Of course he’d try and shift the blame—he’ll die a horrible death in prison. And it’s not like my parents can testify against him.

  Rattle, rattle, SQUEAK.

  I stop moving. That last squeak sounded different. Like something was giving.

  Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle—

  The part of the bed frame designed to hold the mattress collapses under me. Pain dashes through my wrists and ankles as I’m suddenly suspended limb from limb in the air. I gasp, let out a breath, inhale deep. When I squirm, my butt barely brushes the mattress under me.

  Fuck.

  My wrists ache and burn where the ropes are cutting into me. My left hand especially—there’s a dull, thumping ache coming from the base of my thumb, as if the sudden tensing on the ropes did some serious damage.

  As soon as I can breathe through the pain, I start shifting again, tugging at the ropes.

  I’m loathe to try with my left because it already hurts so much. I go around again. Right hand, right foot, left foot. Nothing. The bed’s posts are still rooted to the spot. Nothing seems to have changed except the fact that I might have a dislocated thumb.

  My left hand aches even more, as if thinking about it aggravates the injury.

  Huh. Houdini would pull off a famous escape like this in the blink of an eye. But those were all tricks. Wasn’t he double-jointed or something? He could put his shoulder out of its socket and—

  My eyes swivel to my left hand. In the dark, I can’t see anything.

  Oh God.

  No.

  Can I?

  It’s already hurting so much…

  But what if I managed to dislocate my thumb? Then I could slip my hand out of that rope, right?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to build up some courage.

  My thumb is probably already pretty malleable. All I need to do is pull it through the noose. It’ll hurt, duh, but maybe not as much as earlier. And the pain is—

  Pretty fucking unbearable. And the agonizing ache is only getting worse the longer I linger on this stupid plan.

  But it is a plan.

  And it might even work.

  And then I’d be free, no longer hanging here on my strings waiting for the puppet master to return.

  I don’t even know what he went to go and do. Is he trashing another room? Oiling himself up? Lying in my parents’ bed and—

  Fuck! Those thoughts are not in the least helpful.

  Breathe.

  You can do this.

  Oh Lord, I hope I can do this.

  I grit my teeth.

  I hold my breath.

  And I slowly start pulling on my left hand.

  The pain in my thumb immediately intensifies a million-fold. I start shaking internally, my body fighting with me to stop the torture, but I can’t.

  I won’t.

  I keep picturing the Brotherhood. Determination gleaming in their eyes. The things they’d say to me right now if they knew I was considering defeat.

  But the pain gets worse, and the rope isn’t budging. Pain wells, and with it comes a wave of frustration. I pull harder, the tears that brim and then leak down my face not even blurring my vision. Or maybe they do, I can’t tell in the dark.

  “Ah!” The yell doesn’t echo. This small chamber is too well insulated.

  But as I yell, I jerk on my arm as hard as I can.

  Agony bursts into my hand. For a second, I’m convinced I’ve torn off my thumb.

  I scream twice, first at that jolt of pain, and then again when my hand drops onto the mattress below me. I drag my hand onto my chest, cradling it against my chin as I let out a ragged sob. I start panting through my mouth as I try to get a handle on the pain.

  That hurt more than the lashes I got from Miriam combined with Zachary’s spanking.

  I force my breathing to slow. Imagine the pain leaving my body with every exhale.

  My hand’s hot and throbbing, but eventually the pain recedes enough that I can think past it.

  With the restraint freed, my shoulder is on the mattress now.

  I laugh when I realize I have to try and untie the knot around my right hand with a hand that now sports a dislocated thumb.

  Oh Lord, how I laugh.

  But then I stop. And I grit my teeth.

  And I push through the pain.

  Somehow, using my other fingers, tearing off nails, wailing through the pain, I manage to loosen the knot.

  My face is wet with tears. I think I’ve chewed a hole in the side of my cheek, but after what feels like eons of struggling and trying to ignore the red-hot pain in my hand, both shoulders thump onto the mattress.

  Time’s slipping away, but I allow myself a few minutes to just lie there. Regaining my strength. Trying to get back my composure.

  When I sit up and start working on my legs, there’s a burning conviction inside me.

  I don’t care what it takes—Gabriel’s going to pay for this.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cass

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” Rube murmurs. “Something isn’t right.”

  “Like the fact we’re still in the fucking car when we should be in there?” I say, rapping on the window with a knuckle. “Yeah, bud, I feel you. All sorts of fucking wrong.”

  Rube throws me a glare. “We can’t just barge in there—”

  “Guys, come on. This isn’t helping.” Apollo grabs my headrest and pulls himself closer, nestling between the sedan’s front seats.

  We swapped out the liquor store’s truck for a silver VW someone left unlocked in a driveway. That was about an hour ago—whether it’s been reported stolen yet is anyone’s guess.

  “What’s not helping is us sitting here like fucking spectators. I’m getting out.”

  “Wait. Just fucking wait.” Rube opens his door and climbs out of the car. It’s a testament to how big he is when the shocks let out a creak of relief.

  I’m relieved too, because I was itching on the inside like a fucking junkie.

  My love affair with heroin is an on-again-off-again thing. I’ve always been careful with my dosages after getting out of the basement—I started chipping strai
ght away without even knowing it was a thing—but I’ve been through stages in my life where I’ve used religiously enough to get strung out.

  That’s how I feel right now.

  Strung out.

  Long overdue.

  Except my drug of choice isn’t black tar.

  It’s her.

  Trinity fucking Malone.

  And she’s in that house. I can feel it. Right there, close enough to see if she was standing at a window, while we’re over here in this piece of shit car, sitting around like we’re scoping out the place for a fucking home invasion sometime next week.

  I’ve been patient. We went with Rube’s plan at the church when I was all for locking whatever nun was creeping around the place in the bathroom while we rooted around in their files.

  From what Rube tells us, that would have been futile. No trace of Trinity was left in that place.

  But now?

  Now we’re sitting here with our thumbs up our asses while Mr. Cautiously Careful out there triple-checks God knows what.

  I climb out the car, ignoring Apollo’s bleated, “Wait, Cass!”

  He climbs out a second later anyway, so what the fuck?

  “Counting the tiles on the fucking roof?” I ask Reuben.

  He doesn’t even bother to scowl at me. “He knows we’re here.”

  “Impossible.”

  “He could have seen the car.”

  “Then he would be out the back door already, no pun intended.”

  “That wasn’t a pun.”

  I grind my teeth at Mr. Cautiously Careful AKA Sir Correct-me-if-I’m-Wrong. Which I never could, because he never was.

  “That thing you’re feeling?” I tell him. “It’s the earth revolving on its fucking axis. She could be—”

  I stop.

  I’d been about to say dead, and I don’t know why. Gabriel wouldn’t kill her—she’s too valuable. She’s what led us here in the first place. And he had to have known that, right?

  That’s why he took her. Why he’s using her. Maybe that shit about him being her father was purposefully planted on his laptop for us to find. He knew we’d assume the worst.