“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the best detective on the squad.”
“If you want me to do my job, you need to listen to me.”
“I always listen to you.” Skye was hurt that Juan thought she was pulling rank. “I value your opinion.”
“Then take it,” he said. “I think you should listen to what Mr. Zaccardi has to say.”
“That demons killed those priests? Come on, Juan. You’re not so damn superstitious to think that something not even human could slaughter those men!”
“And I didn’t think you were so closed-minded that you couldn’t see the possibilities.”
“Please.”
“You’re letting your mother stop you from seeing the truth.”
Skye fumed. “Don’t talk about my mother. She’s dead, if you haven’t forgotten. And if anything, her murder should tell you that those people are all a bunch of freaks.”
Juan’s jaw tightened. “Is that how you think of me? A freak?”
“That’s not what I meant—” It had come out all wrong. But isn’t that what those people did? Promise the world as long as you give up everything you know and love? If her mother had never left, her father would never have been out in the woods that night; he wouldn’t have died and left her alone.
Juan didn’t say anything. She was angry with herself for hurting him, and angry with him for being so easily swayed. Demons. Right.
“Dammit.” She resisted the urge to pound her head against the steering wheel.
“Look, you know that one man could not have done that. Not all those priests were old. They would have fought back. Rafe Cooper has no marks on him whatsoever. No defensive wounds. No offensive wounds. His hands are bruised and scraped and Rod thinks it’s from pounding on his bedroom door. The blood from the door matches Cooper’s blood type.”
After Zaccardi left the mission, Rod had discovered evidence in Rafe Cooper’s room that suggested he’d been trapped inside. But there were no locks on the door and no plausible way he could have been locked in.
“What do you think happened?” Skye finally asked.
“I don’t know. But I think you need to look at all possibilities.”
She didn’t want to hurt Juan—he was one of her few friends in the Sheriff’s Department. But what he was saying was ludicrous. “Okay, here are the facts. Twelve men between the ages of thirty-six and eighty-one were murdered in cold blood. Rafe Cooper was unharmed. A thirty-one-year-old man, healthy, strong, unconscious for no reason?”
“Maybe he walked in on the scene after the fact, collapsed from the stress. Especially if someone had locked him in and he heard what was happening.”
Skye weighed that and admitted that perhaps Juan was onto something. “Then let him out of his room when they were done? I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense to me, to leave a potential witness.”
“Why was no blood found outside of the chapel?”
“They’re still processing evidence,” Skye said, “but an organized killer might wear a jumpsuit and shoe coverings. Strip upon leaving the chapel.”
“Good point. But why? Why was it important not to get any blood outside of the scene?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe the vandalism occurred before the attack, while the priests were praying or something.”
Martinez flipped through his notes. “Time of death is estimated at four-thirty A.M., take or leave thirty minutes.” He glanced at her. “Odd time for a prayer meeting.”
They were dead between four and five in the morning. Anthony Zaccardi had arrived just after five. Dawn. Right on the heels of the murders.
• • •
Skye had called ahead for a meeting with Bishop Zachariah Carlin, but the sun had long set when she and Juan arrived late that evening.
“Thank you for speaking to us,” Juan said.
Carlin shook his head solemnly. He was in his sixties, with a full head of gray hair and bright blue eyes. “I won’t be sleeping tonight. I’m still in shock.”
“We’re sorry to have to ask you these questions,” Skye began, “but it’s important that we have an understanding of who lived at the mission, who worked there, and any threats you, they, or the church may have had.”
“Threats? Someone is always threatening the church.”
“I’m talking something specific. A letter or phone call aimed at the mission.”
Carlin shook his head. “The mission is its own entity. It isn’t really part of the diocese.”
“But you own the property.”
“Yes, but five years ago the Vatican asked if they could use the mission as a home for retired priests.”
“Certainly you noticed that not all the priests there were of retirement age,” Juan interjected.
“We didn’t want to advertise that the mission was for mentally disturbed men of the cloth.”
“Mentally disturbed how?” Skye asked.
Carline steepled his fingers. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“They are dead,” Skye said. “Murdered in cold blood. They couldn’t care less if you discuss their mental health. All I want is to find their killers.”
Carlin said, “I was told that the mission priests were on sabbatical after being witness to horrific acts of violence. I was given one example. Father Diego Ortega. He was serving the people in Africa. He and a group of missionaries built a church and school in a village and taught the natives how to grow food. The village began to thrive, be self-sustaining. One Sunday during Mass a rival tribe barricaded the church and burned it to the ground. Many died. Father Ortega survived without a scratch. He believed this was a sign to preach the word, but he went to two more villages and met the same fate—his parishioners died and he survived. He was recalled when he showed signs that he was not capable of serving as a shepherd.”
“Well, he’s dead now,” Skye said, cringing at how cruel that sounded. “So he was recalled to what? Get over it?”
“To heal. To know that God’s plan is not our plan.”
Skye inwardly winced. What God would allow a bunch of innocent people to be burned to death? What God would allow his most faithful servants to be brutally slaughtered in cold blood?
She didn’t know what she believed, but she held fast to the knowledge that bad people did bad things, and it was her job to find justice for the victims.
And no acts of God would stand in her way.
“Why wouldn’t the diocese or the Vatican or whoever was in charge hire a qualified doctor to counsel these men?”
“Dr. Charles Wicker is retained by the U.S. Bishops,” he replied. “He works up in Santa Clara and, from what I’ve ascertained, makes monthly visits to the mission. I don’t know him personally.”
Skye switched gears. “Who hired Rafe Cooper?”
“He’s not an employee of the diocese,” Carlin said carefully.
“Then why was he there?”
“I received word that Mr. Cooper would arrive to counsel the priests.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“He’s not a likable person.”
“How so?”
Carlin didn’t respond.
“Bishop, I need all the information in order to do my job.” When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Who paid him?”
“No one.”
“No one?”
“Mr. Cooper is a seminarian, I believe from a seminary in Northern California. He’s also a trained psychologist, from what I’ve ascertained. He’s been to medical school, but doesn’t have a doctorate or medical license.”
Skye made some notes. Rafe Cooper was becoming even more interesting as the day—and night—wore on.
“When did he arrive?”
“March sixteenth.”
“And he fired Ms. Davies two weeks ago. Under what authority?”
“He had no authority,” Bishop Carlin said, anger in his voice.
“But you didn’t reinstate her.”
“Unde
r the circumstances, I could hardly put her back into that hostile situation. I suggested that she take a week or two vacation and I’d find her a position in another church. We run numerous schools and a hospital.”
“Did Mr. Cooper tell you why he fired her?”
“No.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“He refused to tell me. All he said was that she was a threat to the mental health of his priests.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t there some sort of hierarchy here? How could he just fire a diocesan employee without your permission?”
“He can’t. He told her she wasn’t allowed at the mission.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know!”
This was going nowhere. “When was the last time you were at the mission?”
“Months ago. Thanksgiving dinner was my last visit.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Cooper?”
Carlin thought. “Two weeks ago, after he’d banished Ms. Davies.”
Walking out, Skye whispered to Juan, “You dig into Corinne Davies and contact Dr. Wicker. I’ll pump Zaccardi for information on Rafe Cooper and work with Rod at the crime scene. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
FIVE YEARS AGO, Anthony had explored the forest surrounding the Santa Louisa de Los Padres Mission and remembered an alternate way in. The unpaved road was overgrown, but it would lead to the back slope and, hopefully, allow Anthony access to search the mission without police interference. He couldn’t use the main entrance. During his earlier reconnaissance he learned Sheriff Skye McPherson had left a deputy to guard the place, either against the killers returning, or curious citizens.
He parked as far down the trail as possible, his headlights cutting harsh swaths of light against chaparral oaks and rocks. The eyes of an animal glowed against the black and gray, then disappeared with a blink. An easy wind tapped the car, the swish-swish of oak leaves brushing the roof.
Anthony pulled a windbreaker from the back of his rental and stuffed a small packet of tools into the pocket. He doubted the locks had been changed, but if they had he’d still be able to get in.
Rafe was no killer, and Anthony had to find proof to turn the course of the police investigation. While Sheriff Skye McPherson didn’t believe a demon was at work, she was searching for human killers. Someone had used the strength of demons to murder those priests, and Anthony had to work with the sheriff to find those people. Because there were two evils in Santa Louisa: the evil of Hell itself, and the evil human beings who had brought a piece of Hell to earth.
Demonolatry was alive and well in the world, a platform for Hell to prevail. Anthony was a soldier in the fight against evil. He couldn’t do it as a priest, and he couldn’t do it within the rigid structure of the church. There was a place for men like him, and that was fighting against the most insidious evil of all.
That which preyed on the innocent.
People would die if he did nothing. That was his fate, and a charge he did not take lightly.
With a deep breath, he stepped from the car and into the cold spring night, snapping on his flashlight. He walked parallel to the mountain, the slope treacherous and overgrown with saplings that slapped him in the face. He tasted blood on his lip. The moonless sky aided his disguise, but thwarted quick movement.
Help us.
The whispers of the dead told Anthony he was close. The path to the mission was steep, but his years of physical labor aided his journey up the mountainside. He spied the three-story bell tower under the dim light of an ancient lamp. Faint, subtle, like everything about the mission.
He paused at the tree line, trying to sense where the guard was while catching his breath. All he sensed was evil.
Help us help us help us
Rafe had been extremely worried these last few weeks, otherwise he would never have contacted Anthony in the first place. Anthony wished he’d asked more questions, pushed Rafe for answers. Now, he had to think like his friend. Had he kept a journal? Where would he have hidden it? Had the police found it? Would Skye tell him if they had? The police had no weapons to fight incorporeal beings, but if Rafe had left a clue, a message, anything, it might help Anthony in this battle.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket shortly after he crossed the tree line and walked through open space. “Hello,” he said quietly, kneeling low to the ground to avoid being seen.
“Anthony, I found what you’re looking for.”
The voice of Father Philip gave Anthony the only sense of home and family he’d ever had. The image of the demon on the wall of the sacristy had haunted Anthony because it wasn’t a common demon, one he was familiar with. He’d spent most of the afternoon trying to figure it out, but he didn’t have access to his books and papers and so had called the one man who knew more about demons than he did, the one man who had never let him down, the one man who had saved him.
“Is it Aabassus?”
“No, but you are close. Ianax.”
Anthony’s heart turned cold. Ianax was an ancient demon rumored to be one of the most powerful under Satan until a falling out with the devil himself had sent Ianax farther into the pits of Hell.
“Are you certain?”
“I am. You were correct that three human souls are needed to summon him. The interior circle shows the powerful connection between the three, and how that connection creates a second sight. An energy, for lack of a better word. They can use that energy to control inanimate objects.”
“But only when they’re together, correct?”
“They are most powerful when all three are together and the demon is at their center. But I suspect they are long practitioners of demonolatry and black magic.”
Anthony feared the same. “Anything else?”
“Ianax can’t survive long without a body. Are you sure he hasn’t claimed Raphael? Perhaps the coma is his way of fighting the demon.”
“No,” Anthony insisted. “I was with Rafe this afternoon. I would have sensed the demon.”
“Yes, my son, yes, you would have.” Father Philip sighed. “The danger of these people is they believe they will grow stronger with the demon at their side. And for a time, that is true. Perhaps one of them offered their body to him.”
“Why? Why would they willingly give up their body?”
“It is said that those who willingly sacrifice their body to a servant of Satan will be given rewards in Hell. Some believe aiding the demon will give them the key to the fountain of youth. Immortality.”
Walk with the willing dead. The phrase took on a dangerous new meaning.
“But it’s not a possession?”
“No. That’s what makes this demon more dangerous, and the human immortal. If someone willingly gives up their body, the demon is not waging an internal battle. All his strength can be used for evil. Be careful, Anthony. Now that Ianax is loose he is growing in power and seeking revenge. Soldiers like us have kept him trapped for centuries.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He hung up and considered how the presence of Ianax changed everything. During the battle between Satan and Saint Michael the Archangel, Ianax had been Satan’s strongest ally. He’d betrayed Saint Michael with lies and treachery, and had been sent with Satan into the pits of Hell for eternity. For his loyalty, Ianax wanted to rule half of Hell, but Satan’s ego would not have it. A smaller battle ensued and Ianax was sent to rule the lowest pit of all, the darkest corner. He fed on revenge, betrayal, and lies, and could only be summoned by a union of three dark souls chanting the proper ritual. A ritual Anthony thought the earth had long forgot.
But it wasn’t just a ritual he required. Ianax demanded human blood, and he’d be doubly pleased with the blood of God’s men. Was the death of those men a rite of passage for Ianax’s worshippers?
Had Rafe seen something that made him suspicious? Who were the three responsible for this evil act? Three couldn’t
have killed twelve people, unless . . .
Unless the priests were incapacitated in some way. Had they not been able to fight back? Had they been led like lambs to the slaughter?
Anthony wanted the crime scene report, but after his disappointing meeting with Skye McPherson, he doubted she’d include him in this investigation. The head of the crime scene unit, Rod Fielding, was too loyal to go behind her back. Maybe the detective—he might agree to help. But at risk to his career? Anthony would have to tread carefully.
The sheriff didn’t know where to look. She was suspicious of Rafe, didn’t have any faith to accept—on Anthony’s word alone—that Rafe wasn’t involved. He’d have to prove it to her. Skye didn’t seem like the type of woman to rely on faith or trust for anything. He needed to learn more about her, find a way through her emotional shields. Earn her trust. Quickly.
The cold whipped Anthony as he hid downslope of the mission, a hundred yards away.
Help us help us help us.
The windlike chanting grew louder, the dark whispers taunting him, begging him with fearful urgency.
Moving low and fast, he ran toward the mission.
• • •
Skye relieved her deputy at eleven that night. She dismissed his inquisitive stare. She knew what he wanted to ask: why was the sheriff staking out a crime scene?
She didn’t answer the unspoken question. She wasn’t even sure herself why she was here. Except that she knew, as certain as the sun would rise in the morning, that Anthony Zaccardi would be here tonight.
The generator had been sabotaged, Rod had told her shortly after her meeting with the bishop. Rod had dusted the equipment, but it was devoid of any fingerprints.Wiped.
Rod fixed the generator so the crime scene techs could finish working once the sun went down. When they’d turned on the power, every wall sconce came on. Now, in the dark of night, each narrow window glowed yellow. Every window. What had those men feared that the dark terrified them?
She shivered in her Bronco. When was Anthony Zaccardi going to show?
After meeting with the bishop, she’d further researched Zaccardi—he was who he said he was. A historical architect hired by the Catholic Church to restore ancient buildings. He was a citizen of Italy, specifically Sicily, but he was born in a small town she’d never heard of. There were no other records for him until he’d used his passport for the first time at the age of ten, from Italy to France. She had no records of parents or guardians, which seemed odd, but she was dealing with foreign governments. Still, everyone she’d spoken with had been protective of Zaccardi. One high-ranking priest in the Vatican even threatened her.
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