A Revelation of Death

by Alexa Padgett

  A Revelation of Death

  A Reverend Cici Gurule Mystery Book 4

  J. J. Cagney

  Sidecar Press, LLC

  Copyright © 2020 by Alexa Padgett

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Edited by Jenn Lockwood

  Proofread by Charity Chimni

  Cover Design by Emma Rider at Moonstruck Cover Design & Photography

  A Revelation of Death

  A suspense/thriller cozy mystery with a touch of romance.

  * * *

  The fourth installment in the Kirkus Reviews, National Indie Excellence Awards and Publishers Weekly award-winning series by USA Today Best-selling Author, J. J. Cagney:

  The first victim rolls out of a rain barrel.

  Soon, Cici Gurule dreams of other women's attacks, thanks to visions from her dead twin. The victims' watery graves torment Cici, feeding her growing fear of water.

  The killer targets Cici's congregants and friends, taunting her and her lover, Detective Sam Chastain. Sam partners with the SFPD to investigate the widening web of assault, death, and pain... all while Cici struggles with the choices she made in Chaco Canyon.

  When the killer lures a teen girl from her family, Cici and Sam's desperation to identify him becomes critical. But the clues, from the disappearance of Sam's ex-lover, to a cat with a chilling message for Cici, are leading them further from the truth, rather than toward saving the kidnapped girl.

  Dedication

  For Daniel. Thank you for forcing me to watch all those episodes of CHiPS during summer break. I’d like to think I learned something.

  1

  Cici

  The beginning is always today. ― Mary Wollstonecraft

  * * *

  Mere days ago, the Reverend Cecilia Gurule never once raised a firearm at another person. Now, she bore direct responsibility for multiple men’s deaths.

  As she closed her eyes to let the spray from her shower hit her face, she couldn’t stop thinking about the articles written about her since the dramatic helicopter rescue a few days before. The headline that stuck out at her most, the one that caused her the deepest pain, was from an Arizona newspaper: A Reverend with a Rap Sheet.

  How quickly situations changed.

  No, Cici wouldn’t go to jail—the men she’d killed or helped kill were international spies. Most papers considered her a hero.

  She wasn’t.

  She wasn’t a hero or maybe even a good reverend. Or person. Or…she sputtered as she inhaled water.

  Before the Chaco Canyon incident, Cici liked water in all its forms, but especially bodies of it. She found lakes and even rivers soothing, restful, and beautiful.

  Now, as the water spit against the white subway tile walls, she transported back to the harrowing fifty-plus-hour-trek across one of the most desolate areas of the country…to the moment when she stood in the pelting rain, those Russian operatives shooting at her. Worse than those mud-soaked moments of fear was what followed: the roaring rush of black water, muck, rock and tree branches that overwhelmed two of the Bratva, Russian spies and assassins, who’d stood in its wrathful path.

  At that moment, transported back to the flood, she feared that she would be pulled under, thrashing, struggling to emerge…to gasp for air…and unable to do so because the sluicing torrent thrust her down against the unforgiving rock of the Chaco Canyon plateau.

  The nightmarish vision worsened, becoming more real. She stumbled out of the shower, thankful for its clean transition from the rest of the pebbled-tile flooring covering her bathroom. She shivered as she wrapped herself in a towel. Droplets still fell from her face and water dripped from her hair, down her back. She leaned against the tile wall that had charmed her into choosing this house as her legs gave out.

  She’d wanted a shower; she wanted to finally feel clean and maybe even relaxed. But the mere idea of water touching her again sent her pulse racing and her breath into sharp pants.

  She cried out as she slid to the floor, her ankle throbbing as she jarred the mending bones.

  A soft knock whispered on the door—more a brush of knuckles.

  “Cee? Are you okay?” Sam asked.

  Sam Chastain had been with her every moment since he’d carried her to the helicopter. He’d told Cici he gave up his position as a detective at the Santa Fe Police Department to transfer to the secretive federal task force his ex-lover Jeannette had been sent to Santa Fe to recruit him for. He’d explained he hadn’t been willing to listen to Jeannette until Cici’s text message.

  “Are you okay with the change?” she’d asked.

  “Yeah. I liked the task force work we did in Denver. It felt more relevant, like I was doing something that made a difference, kept people safe. This is like that but with a bigger pay-off. Those Bratva agents who survived have already spilled some good intel. We’ll be more prepared for the next cyber and voting attacks because of it.”

  Sam’s boss—his job—no longer centered around Santa Fe, and she’d been the catalyst for the move. That had caused her hours of concern.

  But, Cici couldn’t be mad at him for taking the position. Sam found her. And he saved her life. Again.

  Just as he had in Taos and up on Aspen Vista Trail.

  “Yeah?” she croaked, trying to calm her racing pulse. She failed.

  “Are you okay?” Sam asked. “Do you need help?”

  She leaned her head back against the wall and stared up at the thick timber beams in her ceiling. Her muscles continued to quiver as the remnants of fear faded from her body.

  “N-no. I, um, I bumped my ankle. I’m okay.”

  “I can…”

  “No.” This time her response sharpened. She didn’t want Sam to see her like this. She must be wild-eyed and she wasn’t even sure she managed to get all the conditioner from her tangled, dripping hair before she panicked.

  “All right. Call me if you need me.”

  His footsteps retreated back down her short hall.

  She settled her forehead on the soft, white terrycloth covering her knees and breathed deeply. She was a mess.

  This past year, she’d managed to get herself into way too many tight spots. Granted, there was no way she could have known she’d walked into an international spy game last week. Her frown deepened. Nor would she have left her congregants Henry and Grace to deal with their kidnapped child alone. And her sister’s murderer…Cici could never be upset for the justice served there.

  She lifted her head and stared at the nicks covering her hands and forearms interlaced with purplish and yellowing bruising. She knew, because she’d looked before she entered the shower, that her nose peeled from overexposure to the harsh New Mexican sunlight and a large abrasion bisected her temple, angry and red and ugly.

  “Cee?” Sam asked again.

  With a start, Cici realized she’d been sitting on the floor, zoned out for a while. The lack of clarity, the inability to focus, had been happening too o
ften since she returned from the hospital.

  “Yep. Coming.”

  “I’m going to take the dogs out for a quick walk. Will you be okay for a few minutes?”

  Relief flooded her system. “Great. They’ll love that. I’m just…just drying my hair.”

  She picked up the wet ends and grimaced at the clumps of conditioner glopping from the long, dark strands onto the towel. She waited until she heard the dogs’ excited prancing. Sam spoke to them in that low voice of his that never ceased to cause a soft ripple of response across the nerve endings at her nape. He was nearby and she was safe. Her back door clicked shut.

  Cici stood on weak legs and turned on the tap in the shower. She plunged back inside, ignoring the sting of cold droplets on her shoulders and back. She shoved her head into the warming spray and washed out her hair even as her stomach convulsed and she gasped for air.

  Cici managed to dress in a pair of wide-legged pajama pants that allowed her to strap on her ugly, clunky black boot beneath and a matching T-shirt. It was a gift from her friend who’d stopped by earlier in the day along with just about the entirety of the city. Well, maybe not all of the city, but at least most of her church members had dropped in to say hello and gawk at her injuries.

  She managed to comb through her wet hair and towel it dry enough not to leave stains on her clothing. She gathered her dirty clothes and the wet towels and started a load of wash. Exhaustion tugged at her joints and the pain in her ankle forced her to her couch. Sam found her tucked under a thick blanket, reading, when he returned from his walk to the park with the Great Pyrenees. Mona and Rodolfo grinned, their pink tongues lolling over the side of their black lips.

  “They like the cooler temperatures,” Sam said. “They frisked around at the park, and I didn’t have the heart to leash them right back up and bring them home.”

  Cici smiled as she shut her novel. She reached over to pet Rodolfo’s soft ears. Mona laid her head in Cici’s lap, giving her a soulful look from her dark eyes.

  “While they keep you company, I’ll fix you a plate for dinner. Have a preference?”

  Mrs. Sanchez, the church secretary, had set up a meal train for Cici, which left her fridge and freezer full of delicious food. Cici would have asked them to stop, but she understood the desire to do something to show their concern for her continued wellbeing. Plus, Sam enjoyed sampling the range of options throughout the day since the first container arrived yesterday morning, full of large, homemade blueberry muffins.

  “Whatever you’re having,” Cici said. She remained disinterested in food, a side-effect from the trauma—at least, that’s what she assumed. Still, she needed calories and Sam’s face scrunched in concern, so she smiled a little and said, “Surprise me.”

  He moved around in the kitchen, and Cici heard him opening and shutting cabinets and the refrigerator. After he placed something in the microwave, he brought her one of her pain pills and a glass of water.

  Cici wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to take the pills. They make me sleepy.”

  Sam picked up her hand and dropped the medication into it. “Well, you need to take it. Because if you don’t, you won’t sleep tonight at all. Your ankle has to be throbbing.”

  It was because the break was still so fresh and she’d walked on it too much during the day. She turned her head, causing stabbing pains to radiate up to her jaw. With a sigh, she swallowed the pill. Sam nodded before heading back into the kitchen to grab their dinner.

  “I could sit at the table,” Cici called.

  “Don’t you dare get up,” Sam said. He laid an old, fraying dishtowel over her lap. The Monet print on it had faded from years of washing. It had once belonged to her mother and was her favorite—the only reason Cici kept it.

  The moment of sadness ended as the delicious aroma wafting from Mrs. Sanchez’s blue corn chicken enchiladas caused Cici’s stomach to rumble. Sam settled a plate in her lap.

  “You’re good at this,” Cici said.

  Sam settled into the nearest chair with his own loaded plate and a beer. “What’s that?”

  “Taking care of me,” she said.

  He paused, his fork hovering over the cheesy tortillas. “I like taking care of you,” he said, his voice soft.

  His tone, combined with that look, caused tears to prick in her eyes. “Thank you for being here,” Cici said.

  Sam nodded and then tipped his head toward her plate. “Eat.”

  She managed to devour two helpings before groaning in appreciation. Maybe she was hungry under the knots of anxiety that had taken up residence in her gut.

  She patted her stomach as she leaned over to set her dish on the coffee table. Mona, her female Great Pyrenees, lifted her head and eyed it, causing Cici to chuckle. “Don’t even think about it.”

  She swung her legs over the side of the couch, but Sam said, his tone much sterner than hers had been, “You don't even think about it.”

  “What?”

  “Getting up. I’ll do the dishes.”

  Cici shook her head. “You don’t have to baby me, Sam.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I like taking care of you?”

  He grabbed her plate, stacked it on his, and disappeared back into the kitchen. She heard the water and the rattle of the plates in the dishwasher. He returned a few minutes later with a fresh glass of iced tea for her and a new bottle of beer for himself.

  She accepted the glass and patted the seat beside her she’d made by swinging her good leg to the floor and settling her other on the coffee table. She was sated. The pill’s effects trickled through her system, relaxing her further.

  “So, you haven’t really told me what this new job is,” she said. “What it entails.”

  Sam leaned back against the couch cushion and took a long sip from his beer. “Well, right now, I have the week off to spend with you.” He hesitated. “I’m still getting up to speed. But it’s kind of like what I did in Denver—without the specific focus on sexual violence and homicide.”

  Cici tried to parse Sam’s comments out into normal-person speak. “You’re saying this has a broader mandate?”

  Sam nodded. “And more resources because it’s federal, not regional.” Cici must have still looked confused because Sam said, “We’re tasked with supporting other groups throughout the country at a local, regional, state, and national level. We bring in experts in various fields who can help nab the criminals.”

  Cici yawned. “That seems a bit ambiguous.”

  “Probably is on purpose. If the mission statement allows for more wiggle room, we can take it.”

  “So, lots of opportunities to play Superman and keep us safe.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not Superman.”

  “How do you know all this? I mean, you worked with Jeannette for, what, three days or something before you took time off to spend with me?”

  He hesitated. “It’s mostly time off. I’m getting daily briefings from my team lead.”

  She mentally crossed her fingers, hoping she was wrong. “Who’s that?”

  Again, Sam hesitated. “Jeannette.”

  Cici shrank into herself—not because she was surprised but because…well, she’d hoped Sam would be working with someone else. “Oh.” A pang trickled through her stomach, heavy and unwelcome. “So, what happens next?”

  Sam slit the beer label with his thumbnail. “I go on my next case.”

  Cici sucked her lower lip into her mouth, but the words tumbled out against her better judgment. “With Jeannette.”

  Her face flamed at the obviousness of her jealousy. She couldn’t help it—even though Jeannette had been kind to her, she didn’t want Sam working with her. Not daily.

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  She was tired of attempting, and probably failing, at hiding her feelings. Just…tired. Exhaustion coated her in a thick blanket. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

  “This is why I didn’t want to take a pill,” she mumbled. “I hate this sleepiness.”


  “You need to rest. To heal,” Sam said. Sam used his forefinger to raise her chin. He smiled down at her, brushing her hair off her face.

  She scowled harder but then blinked when her eyes slid shut. “I…I don’t want you to leave.”

  “Hey. Look. I might be working with Jeannette for this next case, but that doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

  Cici’s brows scrunched together. No way she’d heard him correctly. “What?”

  “We can talk about this tomorrow,” Sam said, but he seemed sad.

  Cici didn’t like the droop in his shoulders. “Let’s talk now. I like talking to you,” she said. She picked up her tea to try and mask her yawn behind the glass.

  “I like talking to you, too, Cee. It’s the highlight of my day.”

  She took a sip of the cold beverage even as warmth speared her chest.

  “Are you being nice because I’m injured?” she mumbled.

  Sam shook his head, his smile rueful. “How are you feeling? Pill working?”

  “Well, my ankle feels better. My head is fuzzy.”

  He stared off to the side for a long moment. “Are you going to remember this conversation tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we talk about something that…” She caught her breath at the intensity of his gunmetal gaze. He grabbed her glass and set his beer on the coaster next to her tea.

  Sam leaned in closer still and caught her cheek and cupped it, his thumb running with gentle care over her cheekbone. Cici wanted to close her eyes and luxuriate in the caress, but something deep in Sam’s eyes teased her, drew her in.

  “I love you, Cecilia Maria Gurule.”

  Her mouth dropped open, almost unseating his hand.

  Sam’s lips quirked a little and a sparkle lit his irises, causing them to appear more blue than gray. “I have for years. And I’ve wanted to tell you for ages.”