Original Sin sds-1

by Allison Brennan

  “No. I told you that. It’s bad news.”

  “It’s worse than that. I’ll retrieve it myself when I get there. It’s evil incarnate.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Mark of Cain.”

  “Cain, as in Cain who slew Abel?”

  “Yes. I’ll fill you in later. But don’t go after Rafe alone. Father Philip is very concerned.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, then glanced in her rearview mirror. She was already out of sight of Good Shepherd. “I had some help at Pennington’s place. Matthew Walker, the original minister of Good Shepherd. Skye talked to him earlier, and I guess they put two and two together and came up with Garrett Pennington is a lying sack of occult shit. The good pastor Matthew held his own against the two witches. But I left him there. He probably won’t be happy because I kinda borrowed his car without asking.”

  “Moira-”

  “It’s Rafe’s life on the line. When you get over there, could you explain it to him?”

  THIRTY-SIX

  By the time Skye arrived back at the sheriff’s station, it was after 8 p.m. She was exhausted, hungry, and worried. They’d already had two homicides, three attempted rapes, one assault and battery, and an astounding twenty-four felony thefts. That didn’t count the nearly one hundred misdemeanor thefts-including a woman who went to a boutique, tried on a wedding dress, and walked out wearing it. Without paying.

  Before she could sit down at her desk, Rod Fielding came in. “I have something for you,” he said.

  She collapsed in her chair. “Take a number.”

  He sat on the corner of her desk and said in a low voice, “It’s related to our conversation this morning.”

  “Another marked body?” she guessed.

  “Not exactly. Same M.O.”

  “M.O.? We’re not dealing with a serial killer here.” Though as she said it, Skye couldn’t help but think that the Seven Deadly Sins were supernatural serial killers. They were racking up victims faster than any human killer.

  “I don’t have the body myself, it’s out of my jurisdiction-up north in San Luis Obispo. But I called the coroners and pathologists I know in the surrounding areas, asked them discreetly about the mark. No one has seen one yet, but Karen up in SLO had a case that came in today that was unusual and she was chatty about it. A woman who lost her house in foreclosure a few months ago burned it down this morning-and the family living inside it barely escaped. They’d just moved in over the weekend. The grandmother, who was living with them, died.”

  “They caught the arsonist?”

  “She’s in the county jail.”

  “And this fits the M.O. how?”

  “I called one of the deputies up there, to see what he knew about the case, and get this-the arsonist rents an apartment in Ned Nichols’s complex.”

  The Rittenhouse shooter. “Odd coincidence.”

  “Coincidence? You think so?”

  “No. Keep the connection to yourself. And if you hear of anything similar-or any corpses with similar marks-let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks, Rod. And-be careful, okay?”

  He stood and said somberly, “I’ve checked my back ten times today in the bathroom mirror.”

  She would have laughed, but Rod was serious.

  “You be careful too, Skye. Just because you got a demonologist on your side doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable.”

  That was certainly true. She’d had a couple of close calls back in November when she’d been investigating the murders at the mission.

  As Rod was leaving, he said, “I just wanted you to know I’ve taken care of Abby’s body. She was cremated this afternoon.”

  “Thank you.” She watched him leave, then called a friend who worked nights at the SLO county jail. She asked if the arsonist had any distinguishing marks. Ten minutes later the woman returned to the phone and said, “How’d you know? She has a big-ass birthmark on her upper shoulder. Odd shaped, part of it looks almost like a crescent moon.”

  “Thanks for your help,” she said and hung up. What would Anthony think about this?

  Before she could call him, her cell phone rang. It was Anthony.

  “Funny, I was just thinking about you,” she said.

  “There’s been trouble at Good Shepherd.”

  She straightened. “What kind of trouble?”

  “The kind I seem to be lucky enough to find,” he said with a rare hint of sarcasm.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “No-not yet. Let me go over and assess the situation first. I don’t know what we’ll find there.”

  She unfortunately knew what he meant. “I’m in the office less than ten minutes away,” she said. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Moira tracked Ari and Jared to Good Shepherd, where the girl set up a dangerous ritual. Ari ended up possessed, Moira took care of it-she had some help in the form of Matthew Walker, the former pastor. He said you called him today about Pennington?”

  “Yes. He seemed upset about it. Are the two kids okay?”

  “Apparently. But as they were leaving they encountered two of Fiona’s coven: Pennington and a teacher from the school, Donovan. Said Donovan is involved with Jared’s father. Which matches what you said about Santos earlier and the mark you saw.”

  She remembered Rafe’s words again. Trust your instincts. “There’ve been a huge number of calls tonight,” Skye said. “I’ve been trying to find Rafe, but-”

  “I heard. We’ve been listening to the police scanner.”

  Right. Anthony was driving her truck. “What does it all mean? That half the town is possessed?”

  “They are not possessed. Their inhibitions-their conscience-has been removed. They are acting on envy. Taking what they want. Consequences be damned. I have a tabernacle to trap the demon Envy. We’re ready for it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Moira thinks she knows where Rafe is. She went to check it out. But I’m concerned about the coven right now. Moira said they’re staging another ritual. I fear that the results will be the same as what Ari Blair tried to do.”

  “So they’ll be defeated. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Skye, the more souls they take, the stronger they become. They can become invincible-at least to mortals. When that happens, only the last great battle can stop them. And that comes only once-at the End Times.”

  “I was being sarcastic, but you succeeded in scaring the hell out of me.”

  “I’m sorry. I love you.”

  “Love you too. Be careful.” She reluctantly hung up.

  Her desk was full, but she couldn’t focus on the stacks of paperwork. More would be coming in over the course of the night. She glanced through files, then saw a note on top of a rubber-banded stack from Deputy Jorgenson. He’d felt awful about letting someone drug him the other morning-though Skye had assured him it wasn’t his fault. He must have jumped on the research she’d asked him to do since she’d put him on desk duty for forty-eight hours pending blood tests.

  Sheriff-

  Here are the background checks you’d asked for this morning. Still waiting on military records on Nichols. There’s nothing on Fiona O’Donnell, and I contacted ICE for immigration status, but haven’t heard back. A few things seemed odd to me and I flagged the files. The Doc cleared me for duty this afternoon, so I’ll be back graveyard shift Sunday.

  — Dep. Jorgenson

  She’d almost forgot about the slough of background checks she’d asked Jorgenson to do. She hadn’t expected them until Monday. She’d run them on each of the dead, plus Pennington, Walker, Fiona O’Donnell, Rafe’s doctor Richard Bertram, and Andy Rucker, the husband of the woman who he claimed pushed a pregnant woman down the stairs. The victim was in the hospital under full bed rest after her doctors stopped premature labor.

  He had all the reports here, with a note on each file indicating what was missing. He’d flagged Matthew Walker’s report.

  She frow
ned. She’d put his name in this morning, but after talking to him she didn’t have any red flags and wouldn’t have looked at it tonight-considering everything that was going on-had Jorgenson not flagged it.

  She flipped it open and skimmed the summary. Frowning, she flipped pages. This couldn’t be right … she picked up the phone and called Jorgenson. “Hey, are you certain you have the right Matthew Walker?”

  “Yep, I triple-checked when you mentioned the sick mother. It’s the same Matthew Walker who was the pastor of Good Shepherd. You’d think the church or whatever would have done their own background check, ’cause I sure wouldn’t want to be hearing about God from some pervert ex-con.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled. “I appreciate how fast you got this to me.”

  “Anything. And I want you to know,” he cleared his throat, “you got my support this June.”

  “I appreciate that, too.” She hung up and stared at the file, shaking her head.

  Matthew Walker was a well-versed liar. He had gone to Bethany Bible College with Vance Lamb, just as Mrs. Lamb said. He then moved to Sacramento, where he was the associate minister for a large church. He’d been accused of rape, but the charges didn’t stick when the victim recanted her statement. Jorgenson made a note that he was checking with neighboring states, but included a verbal conversation with a detective in Portland, Oregon, that he’d recorded and transcribed:

  Walker is slick. He started this storefront church downtown, had a huge congregation after two years. Said he was Christian, but it was generic as anything. All feel-good crap. Got real chummy with Edith Lyttle, an eccentric woman with millions in the bank. Edith changed her will, left all the money to his church, and then two months later died. I had the coroner autopsy the body twice, but he swore it was a heart attack. No drugs, no violence, nothing. But damn, I’m a 22-year veteran and my gut told me that Walker killed her. Left Portland when his mother got sick. Funny coincidence, that happened right after I exposed the jerk for those rape accusations you mentioned. Said I had slandered him, destroyed his ministry. He’s good. Yeah, left Portland with Edith Lyttle’s three million dollars.

  That was four years ago. Jorgenson found nothing on him-other than that he had a California state driver’s license issued in San Francisco-until he opened Good Shepherd two years ago.

  But the kicker? Jorgenson had found Georgia Walker’s obituary-dated nine years ago …

  …. widow of Judge Neil Walker, survived by a sister, Corinne Davies of Portland, Oregon and a son, Reverend Matthew Walker, of Austin, Texas.

  Walker had no dying mother-his mother was already dead. Then why did he leave Santa Louisa? Why the elaborate lies?

  The man had lied to Skye, and she smelled blood. She’d bet her badge that he knew Garrett Pennington, his replacement at Good Shepherd. Whether the Lambs were involved, she didn’t know, but she would before the weekend was over.

  She called Jorgenson. “If you come in this weekend, you get overtime. I want a complete background check on Matthew Walker. I want every church he worked at, every article he’s quoted in, a birth certificate, his mother’s death certificate, where he was born, who his next-door neighbor was growing up. Call every cop who suspected him of a crime. He is trouble with a capital T.”

  “I’m on it, Sheriff.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hung up, then looked at Walker’s mother’s obituary again.

  Sister to Corinne Davies.

  Corinne Davies, the cook who poisoned the priests at the mission. No mention of Lisa Davies, her daughter, who’d also worked at the mission.

  Skye called Anthony to tell him, but he didn’t answer his phone.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  She ran to the desk sergeant. “I need four patrols, two to go to Good Shepherd and two to go to the cliffs where Abby Weatherby died.”

  “We have no one. Everyone is out on a call. Day shift is working overtime.”

  “You have no one?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll prioritize it for you: send the first out to Good Shepherd?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I’m headed to Good Shepherd now.” She walked out, then walked back in. “Hey, do we have a patrol at Rittenhouse?”

  He looked at the sheet. “Yeah, Tom Young is working that beat. He’s checking the site every hour. Worried about kids vandalizing the place or something?”

  She nodded. “Exactly.” Or something.

  Skye ran back to her car and prayed that nothing had gone wrong with Anthony. Or Moira.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  What’s worth the price is always worth the fight

  Every second counts ’cause there’s no second try

  — NICKELBACK, “If Today Was Your Last Day”

  Anthony stood in the basement of Good Shepherd. There was no one here, unconscious or otherwise, though the place was a complete mess.

  Father Philip crossed himself when he stepped down into the basement. He looked around, fear in his eyes, then started back up the stairs. “This room is a nest of slithering snakes, full of darkness. There are many demons here, waiting for release. We must leave immediately.”

  “I didn’t know this was down here,” Lily said. “It’s spooky. I’m scared.”

  Father took her hand and squeezed. “So am I, dear.”

  Anthony didn’t like the place either, though he didn’t sense the same evil that Father did. It was what he saw that disturbed him-the altar, the destruction, the unusually dark blood in the corner. He shook his head. “What they must have been doing-I haven’t seen magic this evil in a long time.”

  “Let’s find the box and leave, Anthony. Moira needs our help.”

  When Lily came to at Father Isaac’s church, she had been borderline hysterical. She couldn’t explain why she’d been so deeply terrified of the photo of the sigil carved into the box. She said nervously, “Do we have to take the box?”

  “Yes,” Father said. “We must destroy it.”

  They left the basement and Anthony tried the door to Pennington’s apartment. Unlocked. “Be careful,” he said. He listened for movement, breathing, any sign that someone was waiting for them upstairs. He proceeded cautiously, quickly searching the apartment with Father and Lily in tow. It was empty.

  “Moira said it was in his desk drawer. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary,” he said.

  The three entered the small office with Father Philip standing in the doorway, looking down the hall. Anthony searched every drawer. “It’s not here. Moira swore she didn’t take it.” Pennington must have nabbed it before he left.

  Moira had said that she’d left Matthew Walker, the real pastor of Good Shepherd, with Pennington. Either Walker was injured, or he wasn’t who he said he was.

  “We need to leave,” Anthony said. He led the way down the hall, looking again in every opening.

  As he reached the door, it slammed open, hitting him. He almost attacked the man who came in, gun drawn. It was Deputy Tom Young. Anthony breathed easier.

  “Tom. Anthony Zaccardi, we were-”

  “There was an alarm here.” Tom moved into the room, still holding the gun, aimed at Father Philip.

  “The door was unlocked-” Anthony hesitated. Alarm? That wasn’t right. Moira had been in the building for more than an hour and hadn’t triggered an alarm.

  Tom didn’t holster his gun. He called down the stairs, “Got them!”

  Anthony’s blood chilled. Tom was a cop who worked for Skye, but he obviously had another agenda. Tom was the deputy who’d taken Moira to jail-he might have been the one who’d drugged the others and contacted Fiona.

  Anthony reached for his dagger. A well-aimed knife could kill. But Tom’s gun could go off, and Father and Lily were both in the line of fire.

  Tom swung his weapon toward Anthony. “Hold it, Zaccardi. Hands up.”

  Slowly, Anthony complied.

  Tom Young searched him, removed his dagger, then began to pull out all Anthony’s defenses-th
e vial of holy water, the vial of salt.

  He karate-chopped Young’s arm and reached for the gun. Young swore, but he kept his hand around the gun. Anthony moved right, but Young pistol-whipped him, bringing Anthony to his knees. He tasted blood in his mouth and spit it on the floor, his eyes unfocused. Lily screamed.

  A man walked into the room. “Lily. So good to see you again.”

  “Pastor Matthew-”

  “Come with me.”

  “No, please-what are you doing?”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said God’s work?” Walker said with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Bastard,” Anthony said as he got to his feet, staggering a bit as he shook his head to clear it.

  Matthew Walker was a tall, good-looking man of average build. Though Tom had both the gun and the brawn, Walker was clearly in charge, and right now he looked bemused.

  Tom Young grabbed Lily, his gun pointed at Father Philip. “You’re pathetic, Zaccardi. And Fiona said you were smart.” He laughed. “As soon as we figured out that Moira had passed Lily on to you, she was easy to track. Every sheriff’s vehicle has GPS that’s monitored at dispatch. I tracked you here, easy-peasy.”

  Walker glanced at Tom, irritated. “Your incompetence is nothing to brag about. If you’d done what you were told, we’d also have Andra Moira, but I had to let her go because you didn’t have the arca.”

  “You wanted me to be discreet, I was damn fucking discreet.”

  Walker ignored him and said, “Zaccardi, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure-your reputation was well deserved, though a bit exaggerated, don’t you think? But honestly, you’ve been a pain in the ass since you came to Santa Louisa. Finally, I’ll get my town back.”

  “Did you take the box after Moira left?” Anthony asked.

  “That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? But I didn’t take anything. It’s mine.”

  Father Philip spoke up for the first time since the men entered the apartment. “Walker, it would serve you well to remember that Cain turned on his own. I would strongly advise you to destroy the box.”