“Not that I’ve heard of,” Mable replied.
“What about worshipping demons?” I asked, avoiding Gunner’s well-aimed elbow as it careened toward my ribs. “You haven’t heard about them doing that, have you?”
“Oh, that?” Mable snorted. “Half the town is talking about that. I don’t ever listen to gossip like that.”
Gunner froze. “Wait ... you have heard about them worshipping demons?”
Mable nodded without hesitation. “Marie Adler says that they’re sacrificing chickens and raising the dead. She swears up and down she saw Herbert Jones outside the gas station four nights ago. You can’t listen to town gossip. It’s always a bunch of nonsense.”
Perhaps not always. I rubbed my hands over my arms to ward off the sudden chill that permeated the air. When I remembered we weren’t alone, I lifted my chin and found Ashley watching me with suspicious eyes. Whatever she was thinking couldn’t possibly be good.
Twenty-Three
After lunch, Gunner insisted we track down Rooster — which led us to The Rusty Cauldron — leaving Ashley to pout because she hadn’t gotten anywhere with her interrogation. Gunner didn’t appear to feel guilty about leaving her behind, so I pushed similar thoughts out of my mind and focused on the problem at hand.
“So ... what is it?” Marissa asked as she swiveled on a bar stool, her long legs on full display in tight pants and knee-high boots. Honestly, I didn’t know how she managed to get into those boots in the first place, let alone walk in them. The heels were six inches high and razor thin.
“It’s a zombie,” Bonnie automatically volunteered. “We’ve dealt with zombies before.”
“It’s not a zombie,” Gunner countered, walking behind the bar and reaching for a bottle of Jack Daniels. Whistler, who was rubbing down the counter, apparently didn’t mind; he didn’t admonish him to stop.
“If it’s not a zombie, what is it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Why do you think we’re here? Whatever it is, the church obviously has something to do with it. I don’t know if it’s Cecily or Father Bram — or both of them working together — but they’re up to no good.”
“Okay, they’re up to no good,” Rooster conceded. “I think we’ve known that since Bram showed up.”
That was an interesting statement. “Wait ... he’s not local?”
Gunner shook his head as he poured whiskey over ice. “No. He didn’t show up in Hawthorne Hollow until about ten years ago.”
“He had to come from somewhere,” I noted. “Call your father and have him track Bram’s history.”
“Call my father?” Gunner arched a dubious eyebrow. “I don’t know what sort of cops you’ve been working with, but my father doesn’t share information unless he absolutely has to. That’s not how ‘real’ cops work.” He made the appropriate air quotes before downing the whiskey in one gulp. Lunch with his sister really had put him on edge.
“So ... you guys don’t have any cops working with you?” I asked, confused. “How do you manage?”
“Are you saying you do have cops working with you in Detroit?” Rooster challenged. “How does that work with the whole, ‘We swear to keep the secret until our dying day’ thing?”
“Most of the cops we deal with have stumbled across us in the middle of a job,” I admitted. “When that happens ... .”
“You have to make a judgment call,” he finished, shaking his head. “Well, we’ve never had to make that call here. Graham knows what we are, what we do, but he doesn’t get involved. He doesn’t want us to get involved with his business.”
“Well ... .” I made a hissing sound with my tongue as I surveyed the room. Then, something occurred to me. “I can make a call. I know someone who might be able to help. I’ll need Father Bram’s information, everything you have on him.”
“That is all we have on him,” Bonnie noted. “He’s Father Bram and he works at All Souls Church.”
She had to be kidding. “That’s all you know?”
“Yeah. Do you think it will be enough?”
“WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG TO ANSWER?”
Mike Foley, a desk jockey from Detroit’s seventh precinct, picked up the Skype call on the third ring. He didn’t look surprised to see me.
“Do you miss me yet?” He was young, in his twenties, and suffered from a debilitating case of post-traumatic stress disorder that arrived on the heels of a school shooting that caused him to lose his nerve after he shot a student sniper in the midst of the massacre. The shooting was justified, and he was cleared, but he was no longer comfortable on the streets.
During a bout of melancholy at the bar one evening, he confessed that he dreamed of the dead students’ faces every night. He didn’t want to add new faces to the lineup because he didn’t want to forget ... and he also didn’t want to be forced to remember more. He was a computer whiz, so ultimately his superiors put him on desk duty and he was happy with his new assignment.
“Every moment without you is a torment,” I replied, grinning.
“Hello,” Marissa purred, grabbing a chair and sliding closer to me so the computer camera could pick her up. “Who are you? Are you Scout’s boyfriend?”
Mike looked her up and down with an amused expression before shaking his head. “We came close, but I’m too good-looking for her.”
I glared at him, annoyance bubbling up. “Keep it up.”
“When did you come close?” Gunner asked out of nowhere, catching me by surprise.
I glanced over my shoulder and frowned at him. “He’s making that up. We never came close.”
“We did,” Mike protested, grinning so widely a dimple creased his cheek. “Do you remember that night we all went to the haunted maze at the orchard? You were freaked out and held my hand. We almost did it you were so afraid.”
That was the most ludicrous thing I’d ever heard. “We held hands because you were afraid of the guy with the chainsaw,” I countered, my temper getting the better of me. “You whined like a little girl.”
“Hey!” Mike jabbed a finger at the screen. “I maintain that it should be illegal for haunted houses to use real chainsaws. That cannot be safe. I mean ... those are people who can’t get anything but seasonal positions and they’re using dangerous equipment.”
Bonnie snickered behind me as Gunner folded his arms over his chest and glared at the computer screen.
“Also, you tried to rub yourself all over me,” Mike challenged. “I remember. It’s all up here in the vault.” He tapped the side of his head for emphasis.
“Actually, I’m contacting you because of the vault,” I said, turning to the business at hand. “You know I’ve been transferred to Hawthorne Hollow?”
“I do.” Mike’s smile slipped. “I complained to Buzz as soon as I heard.”
Buzz was my former superior, a crabby individual with a rough voice and a pocked face, so I had a feeling I knew how that conversation went. “Did he acquiesce to your demands?”
“He told me to suck it up,” Mike replied. “He said he didn’t know if you’d be coming back. You’re not staying up there, are you?”
I slid a gaze to my left and found Gunner watching me with expressive eyes. “That’s up in the air,” I replied. “We’re in the middle of a case and I need your help.” I explained what we were up against, hitting the salient points and leaving some of the more fantastical tidbits out. “I need to know more about this Father Bram. Can you run him for me?”
“I can try,” Mike replied, turning to business. I heard his fingers on the keyboard. “What do you have on him?”
“Not much.” I felt stupid for providing him with so little information. “All Souls Church and Father Bram. That’s all I have ... but he must have an address in Hawthorne Hollow.” I turned to Rooster for confirmation. “Where does he live?”
“I ... .” Rooster’s expression was blank as he worked his jaw. “You know what? I don’t know.”
“Me either,” Gunner admitted, sliding into the chair next
to me and peering into the camera. He and Mike spent a moment sharing eye contact, perhaps sizing each other up, and then he focused on me. “I’ve never really asked myself where he lives. I’m sorry about that.”
“Who are you?” Mike asked, his fingers ceasing their tapping.
“This is Gunner,” I replied. “He works with me.”
Mike tilted his head back and gave Gunner a long look. “Have you run him to make sure he’s kosher? I mean ... he could be a plant or something. Perhaps the bad guys recruited him and he infiltrated that chapter with nefarious designs or something.”
Oh, geez. This was the last thing I needed. “I’m pretty sure he’s okay,” I countered. “He’s been here for a long time ... and his father is the chief of police.”
“Really?” Mike made a face as his shoulders relaxed. “If you have a law enforcement in, why are you calling me?” He went back to typing without waiting for an answer.
“Gunner’s father is a ‘by-the-rules’ guy. We can’t use him on this,” I explained.
“Okay, well, let me see what I can find.” He was quiet for a few minutes, his eyes busy as they scanned multiple files. Mike was quick on his feet, so I wasn’t surprised when he started relaying information. It was a relief, because I didn’t know how long I could sit here pretending that I wasn’t aware of Gunner’s steady glare.
“Well, this is interesting,” Mike started. “The church isn’t listed as a non-profit.”
I stilled, surprised. “How does that work?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but there are a few notes in here that might explain things.” Mike was getting into the spirit of the search now as he happily clicked away on his keyboard. “Okay, twenty years ago the church was a Mennonite church. It looked to have a small congregation, but retained non-profit status.”
“He’s right,” Rooster interjected. “That was a Mennonite church. We had, like, fifteen Mennonites in town. The church had been abandoned years before, so it was sold to them at a song because they promised to fix it up ... and they did a pretty good job of it. Last time I was inside, it looked nice.”
“I bet you didn’t look in the basement,” I grumbled, earning a smirk from Gunner.
“What’s in the basement?” Mike asked, understandably curious.
“Nothing. We need to know more about the church. Why did the Mennonites leave?”
“It doesn’t say,” Mike answered. “That would take more digging than I’m capable of.”
“It was because of September 11th,” Whistler offered, taking everyone by surprise.
“September 11th?” That made zero sense to me. “How do you figure?”
“Mennonites are pacifists,” he replied. “They don’t believe in war ... or fighting. When September 11th happened, military recruiters were all over the place. The Mennonites refused to pray at some of the assemblies and that didn’t go over well, even though they weren’t making a judgment on what happened.
“Anyway, things got ugly and a few of our more benevolent souls decided to go over and pick a fight,” he continued. “The head of the church was severely beaten, and the next day the group picked up and left town.”
A sickening sense of dread filled my stomach. “You’re sure they really left of their own volition? They’re not dead in that basement, are they?”
Whistler chuckled. “I know they moved to Ohio to join with a group there. My niece married one of the men in the group, and she’s safe in Ohio, with her husband and children and everyone else who was part of that group. They’re safe.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” I exhaled heavily. “If the Mennonites left in 2001 and Father Bram didn’t get here until ten years ago, that means the church sat empty for a good eight years or so.”
“It did,” Rooster confirmed. “As you’ve seen, we have an abundance of churches in town. Once a month, the bank sent somebody inside to clean. They also kept up the lawn. Nothing else was done with the building during that time.”
“And you’re sure nobody killed the maids sent in there to clean and tried to resurrect them?”
“I’m fairly certain we would’ve heard about that,” he replied with a straight face.
“So Bram showed up in 2009 and bought the building?” I asked. “With what money?”
“He probably got it on a land contract,” Rooster supplied. “As long as he kept up on his monthly payments he didn’t have to provide a down payment. The bank was so eager to unload that building I can see it doing that. I can try to feel out a source tomorrow and see if my hunch is true.”
“Why aren’t they a non-profit though?” Gunner asked, focusing on Mike. “There has to be a reason.”
“There is,” Mike confirmed. “They’re not listed as an accredited religion thanks to a problem with the filing documents.”
“What does that mean?” Bonnie asked.
Mike shrugged. “No idea. I’m not up on the inner-workings of churches and how they get their non-profit status. I suppose I could make a few calls if you want, Scout, but I honestly don’t know how important it is to what you’re doing.”
“I don’t know that the non-profit status is the thing we should be focusing on,” I argued. “I mean ... what about Bram himself? I’m mostly interested in his background. He’s all sorts of crazy.”
“Crazy how?”
“Like ... he has crazy eyes. Remember old Gordon Buttons, the guy who lived under the bridge near the Cass Corridor even though he had a three-story house in Grosse Pointe that was paid off and modernized?”
Mike chuckled. “Yeah. He was a nut.”
“He was,” I agreed. “He also had crazy eyes. You could tell the first time you sat down with him that he wasn’t normal, that it wasn’t some temporary condition he was suffering from. Bram is that crazy, but he’s manipulative, too. He’s got a diabolical streak. Something else is going on at that church beside the non-profit snafu.”
“I can dig on him, but you haven’t given me much to go on,” Mike offered. “There are a few threads here. I can tug on them in my free time and see what unravels.”
“Would you?” I beamed at him. “I would really appreciate it.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Mike said. “I’ll be in contact tomorrow if I dig anything up. As an aside, you’re going to owe me big time if I find the smoking gun you’re looking for.”
He sounded serious, but I knew better. “Oh, yeah? Exactly how do you expect me to pay up?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He winked. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Well, great,” Gunner announced, hopping to his feet. “We appreciate you helping us. We’ll be in contact tomorrow.” He killed the connection on the call before I could utter a goodbye.
“That was a little abrupt,” Bonnie noted.
“I thought everyone was done,” Gunner said as he moved away from the group and strolled behind me. “In fact ... .” He fell silent, which I thought was weird. I imagined him running out of the building when he thought no one was looking because he wanted to end the conversation, so I turned quickly to make sure he wasn’t fleeing.
Instead of something to laugh at, I found something to weep about. Sometime in the middle of the conversation, Raisin had entered the building ... and she was a bloody mess. Her red hair was tousled, blood caking it on the left side. Her face was puffy, one eye almost swollen shut.
She had bruises all over her arms and walked on unsteady legs. Gunner made a beeline for her, our earlier conversation forgotten. He caught her as she began to sway and threatened to topple over.
“Sweetheart, what happened to you?” he gasped as the rest of us hopped to our feet to help her.
“He came for me,” she slurred, struggling to remain conscious. “He came for me ... and took her.”
“Who?” Rooster asked, alarmed.
“Grandma. He took Grandma. He’s going to ... !” She swallowed whatever else she was going to say as she cringe
d. “You have to save my Grandma!”
I looked to Rooster for help as Gunner soothed the battered child. “Her father must’ve got out of jail. I thought they were keeping him?”
“I thought so, too,” Rooster muttered. “I guess that didn’t go as planned. We need to get Graham on the phone and figure out what’s going on. We also need to get an ambulance here for Raisin. I’m guessing she has internal injuries.”
“I’m floating,” the girl muttered. “Do you think anyone will notice if I float away?”
“I’ll notice,” Gunner barked, tension radiating off him. “I’ll notice. You stay right here with me. Don’t you float anywhere!”
My heart skipped a beat at his plea. “We need to get help for Raisin and then track down her father before he can hurt the grandmother. If that means killing him ... I’m fine with that. I should’ve done it the first time.”
“No, I should’ve done it the first time,” Rooster countered. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have waited for the right moment to act. I should’ve just done it. I ... if that guy has killed Irene, I swear, I will end him.”
“I think you’ll have to get in line,” I countered. “I ... .” I didn’t get a chance to finish what I was about to say because someone started laying on a horn in the parking lot. The blare drowned out the outgoing words for a long time, and then died. Someone screamed obscenities into the silence that followed before the horn blared again. Then more screams.
I looked to Rooster for confirmation. “That’s him, right?”
Rooster nodded. “He either followed Raisin here to finish what he started or planned to use her as bait to get back at us.” He was grim. “Either way, it doesn’t matter now. We have to end this here and now.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Twenty-Four
Fury bubbled in my throat as I strode toward the door. I could taste the revenge I wanted to unleash.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” Rooster caught me by the arm and spun me around, our eyes meeting as he let out a hiss and I vented some of the building magic by shooting sparks through the door and into the night. “Geez, girl. How much power do you have building in there?” He looked worried.
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