A deep breath steadied her, then another, and another, slowing her pulse to as low as she could get it. Then she extracted a small knife from her pocket and a sprig of rosemary from her cleavage, pulled open the blade, and drew it across her index finger. The sharp blade caused almost no pain. Blood welled. She squeezed until the surface tension broke and the huge drop dribbled down her finger and across her palm.
Rosemary crushed between her palms mingled with the blood, and an acid tang assaulted her nose. The cross tattoo that spanned her back erupted in pinpricks of freezing cold fire.
"It hurts," Dawkins said. Her brother's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, clawing through her thoughts with no right to be there. Her soul shrieked at the invasion, but she snuffed it to silence through force of will. "I want . . . need . . . Oh, God. Why am I here?"
"I know, D. I'm working on it. I found you as fast as I could."
"It's been so long. How long? Can I stay?"
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. It came away bloody. "Gerstner's fighting her way back. I think she's winning."
His despair wracked through her, an unholy, eternal madness that human thought couldn't contain. Terror snuffed his desperate thirst. "I can't stop her."
She dropped to her knees and leaned forward. Hot blood leaked from her nose and eyes, dribbling down into an expanding pool, black under the flickering server LEDs, yet neatly contained by the plastic bag. "Don't stop her. Ride her coattails, brother. Come back to me on her wings."
"I can't. I just need . . . something . . . something to take the edge off."
She hid her disgust at his hopeless timidity, so in contrast to his living spirit. "You will come back. Here. With me. I'll show you what I've learned."
Glyphs swirled through the pool of blood, curving parodies of ancient Hebrew. The ancient tongue mingled with modern thought which she stabbed like a dagger into his being. He clutched at it, and grasped for more.
She pried his icy claws from her mind and let him go, sobbing through blood as he fell.
Five minutes later she opened a tampon, smeared it through the blood, and bagged it along with the stained tissues she'd used to clean her face. She dropped the bag in the bathroom receptacle on her way out of the office.
* * *
Monica turned off the lights, plunging the dojo into the gloom of orange streetlights through giant, department-store windows.
"G'night!" Chris Malec yelled from the parking lot as she armed the security system.
"Night, Sifu." She threw a distracted wave his way and hefted the shoulder bag containing her "ass-kicking gear," as Matt called it, and all the accoutrements she needed to take care of Adam. The car seat shifted in her other hand so she set it down, the crack in the handle pinching her palm.
She jerked back and sucked at the blood blister, swearing under her breath.
Chris got in his car, a blue 1998 Dodge Avenger that looked showroom new, and it purred like a kitten. Like the few other possessions in his ascetic life, Chris cared for it with the respect one would show any priceless artifact. He beeped once on his way out of the parking lot as Monica closed the door. Thank God one of the Chrises in her life wasn't a complete asshole.
She lifted up on the car seat, and the cracked handle split the rest of the way and came off in her hand. "Screw me sideways." Her sneer faltered with a guilty glance to her dozing son. Adam's head lolled to the side with the blissful oblivion only a toddler can manage, his mouth half-open. She licked her palm—no blood, yet—ran ten feet to the truck, tossed the bag on the floor of the cab, and left the door open.
She turned around and froze.
Two men stood over Adam, identical in blue jeans, black turtle necks, gloves, and ski masks. They held pistols, orange light glistening off the black metal. Her heart thudded in her chest. The pain and soreness from the brutal workout faded as adrenaline flooded her system.
The shorter of the two men spoke, his voice a pleasant baritone with a generic Hollywood accent. "Ma'am, get your purse from the truck and set it on the ground, and nothing will happen to your boy."
Adam opened his sleep-filled eyes, groggy and disoriented, and yawned.
She reached back, grabbed the bag, and pulled it to her stomach. Slipping a hand inside, she grabbed the SP101 .357 revolver her daddy had given her when she'd turned twenty-five. The grip felt cool and comforting against her sweaty palm. An image flashed through her mind, the ICAP commando she'd blown away in their bedroom not two years prior, the look of shock and horror in his eyes as the shotgun removed a solid chunk of his chest right through his bullet-proof vest.
"Set it down and step away. No reason to get hurt." His voice snapped her back to the present. Choking down the hopeless sadness, she took a deep breath and assessed the threat as best she could. The men stood with weapons at their sides, neither pointing at her nor at Adam.
She dropped the bag and choked up the weapon, pulling the trigger twice as Matt had taught her. Nothing happened but a dull click.
She looked down, eyes wide. Her lanyard dangled from the gun, pinned under the hammer. The taller man raised his weapon, and Monica froze. She had nowhere to run, nothing to hide behind, and they had her child.
"Oh, you bitch."
His finger tightened on the trigger, and the shorter man knocked his hand to the side. He shouldered his partner out of the way, where he stumbled to his hands and knees and raised the gun again. Adam's finger brushed his pant leg, and he glanced down. His mouth opened in a soft "O."
"Come on, man," the short one said from the ground, his voice high pitched and panicked. "I didn't sign up for this."
The tall man laughed, a heartless, soulless noise more jackal than human. Then his weapon clattered to the pavement and his head lolled to the side.
Adam chortled and squealed and clapped his hands.
As the fallen man stood Monica rushed him, clearing the distance in three steps. He looked up too late, and her open-palm strike caught him on the bridge of the nose with a wet crunch. He stumbled back and she spun. The side of her foot contacted his fingers around the grip of his weapon, and it went flying.
She delivered two punishing blows to the tall man's solar plexus, kicked him in the side of the head, and stomped on his hand as he caught himself on the ground. She brought her knee up into his face with a wet thud, and stopped. Peace blossomed in her, a pure white gentleness that overwhelmed and infused her, an unknowable compassion.
Adam let go of her ankle, and she shook off the feeling, tried to think straight.
Her assailants stumbled away, and she let them go. They vanished down the alley past the grocery store.
Tears streaming down her face, she lifted her son from his seat.
"Ma. Da." He grabbed her hair and giggled, tugging at the curls with wild abandon, his daddy's brown eyes clear and free of worry.
"What was that, little man?"
"Da. Ma."
"Yeah." She kissed him, squeezed him, and frowned. Who are you, little man? She brought him to the truck, broken car seat in her other hand, and snatched up the gun, but it felt wrong in her hands. She put it on the dash, got him situated, and only then called the police.
A county deputy told her to go somewhere public, which at this time of night meant Tony's BBQ Bar and Grill, a honkytonk not too far from their house. She stayed in the truck, not trusting herself in a bar, even though Tony loved her too much to serve her. Deputy Broadbent arrived eight minutes later, took her statement as Adam slept—she didn't have much to go on, but mentioned the gray Chevy Cobalt just in case they were related—then he told her to go home.
She moved Adam's crib to the bedroom and lay down.
Her alarm went off nine hours later and she opened her eyes, having slept no more than five continuous minutes. In the other room Ted whined and scratched at the door, so she forced herself to her feet and stumbled out into reality.
Chapter 5
Matt stepped into the confessional, and
Father Rees hurried out, stumbling down the low step and slamming into the pews. He stalked across the church toward the rectory, and Matt followed.
The priest whirled and pointed a finger at him in a gesture that Matt took for menacing. "You get out of my church before I call the cops."
Matt held up his hands. "I'm not here to hurt you, Jason."
St. Martin's church on a Tuesday afternoon smelled warm like cheap cinnamon potpourri, but overlaid with the metallic tang of burned-out vacuum cleaner motor. The tan walls, tan carpet, and U-shaped pews inspired not the slightest reverence, and the cherry-stained mahogany cross over the altar needed a once-over with a Swiffer wand.
"I haven't spoken to her. Not once." Jason wasn't quite as tan as the last time they'd seen each other. His black hair still sported the boot camp buzz cut, and dark bags ringed his intense gray eyes, just a bit bloodshot to go with his just-too-red nose. He backed up as Matt approached, shuddering in panicked fear.
Matt stopped and folded his hands in front of him. "Father, calm down. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd be in pain already. Can we go somewhere and talk?"
Rees's eyes flicked toward the exit next to the altar. "About what?"
"St. Martin."
"What do you mean?"
"You're the priest at St. Martin's parish. I'm sure you've heard of the guy. I've got questions you seem ideally equipped to answer."
Rees leveled him with an exasperated stare, reminiscent of their time as high school friends. "Really, dude?"
"I'm here for some help. Isn't that what you do?" Matt tried to strangle his temper and only half succeeded. "You're a priest, dammit."
Rees's neck stiffened and he started to lecture. "Last time you were here you assaulted—"
"—and you tried to get me killed—"
"—trying to protect Monica—"
"—almost killed her—"
"—I thought was best—"
"You FUCKED my WIFE!" Matt's voice reverberated in the empty church. He kept his clenched fists at his side so he wouldn't use them, and almost failed.
Jason swallowed, then collapsed into a pew. "I did. A long time ago. She came to me in a moment of weakness, and I was drunk and heartsick, and I've paid for it every day of my life."
Matt let his knees buckle, sitting in the pew a few feet away. He looked at the floor, at his hands, his feet, the cross behind the altar. "That's not even why I'm here. I came to ask you about the saint."
The main door creaked open, and an old woman shuffled inside. She didn't appear to notice them as she lit a candle and knelt to pray.
"What do you want to know about St. Martin?"
"I researched him on Wikipedia and whatever, the connection to advent and chaplains and chapels. Roman soldier, monastic life, goose pen and so forth. Is there anything you can tell me that's not easy to find? Anything about little girls or demons?"
Jason shook his head. "No. Nothing like that. There's nothing in the records about him exorcising little girls."
Matt sat back.
"Why?" Jason asked. "Why come here to ask me something you could learn on the phone? Why this sudden obsession with St. Martin?"
A long, slow exhale bought him a moment. "Look, I don't know. I just got back from some weird shi—stuff, and lately I haven't been much one for coincidences."
"What kind of weird stuff?"
Matt pulled out his phone and loaded the video of the girl on the ship. "This is national security stuff. It goes nowhere, understand?"
Jason nodded.
"Like, trials and prison and rendition to black sites?"
He nodded again.
"For both of us?"
Jason rolled his eyes. "You're going to show me, so show me."
They watched it together, and when the screen went black Jason's eyes filled with tears. Matt described his time on the drillship, the missing girls, the skin cloak, his unnatural attackers. Even now, Janet LaLonde poured over the dossiers of the men involved, looking for a connection she had yet to find.
Jason turned his wet eyes to Matt. "I need to come with you."
"Pardon?"
"With you. I've been waiting for years for something more, something greater than . . ." He gestured around him. ". . . this. And that's it. I have to help you help those girls. I have to."
Matt looked up at the cross with an ironic smirk. "Will your boss allow that?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life." If Jason had caught the irony, he wasn't symptomatic.
* * *
Matt pulled into the dying strip mall, his government-owned, rusted-out '93 coupe classing up the place by at least fifteen years. Despite the time of year, the thermometers in Sparta, Georgia, flirted with a hundred degrees, and the substandard air conditioner kept the car almost but not quite pleasant. His black T-shirt clung to his enormous frame, dripping wet the moment he stepped out of the car, though the dark gray skies brought no rain.
The tiny town boasted some fantastic architecture, a majestic brick courthouse, a quaint little main street, one beautiful Victorian home, and a collection of mid-century ranches in various states of decay. Once past the half-dozen blocks that consisted of "downtown," rural life took over full force, and even the populated blocks boasted more trees than some parks. A mile out it could have been White Spruce, but hotter. And muggier.
A lady pushing a stroller looked up as the car door slammed, and waved. He returned her gesture, smiled, hopped up onto the sidewalk, and pulled open the glass-front door of J & M Recruiting. Three of the oil workers had come through this service, whose proprietor, Caren Widner, could suffocate under her rap sheet. From extortion to wire fraud to falsifying records to felony possession of a firearm to assault with a deadly weapon, the mother of five had spent as much time on trial as she had being pregnant.
The pixie-cut bottle blonde behind the desk favored him with a brilliant smile that didn't touch her green eyes. "Well, ain't you a big one?"
"Ma'am." He tipped a nonexistent hat.
"What can I help you with, Mr . . . ?"
"Dexter. Marty Dexter." He shook her proffered hand and sat down. "I was wondering if you could help me find these three gentlemen."
He put photos of the oil workers on the desk and slid them across to her.
Her smile vanished. She didn't even look at the pictures. "Get out."
"Ma'am, I—"
"GET OUT!" Her hand dropped under the desk.
Matt sat back and let a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. "A thousand dollars, you help me find them."
"I don't talk to bacon, pig, I fry it."
"I'm not a policeman." True, as far as it went. "My client hired me to track them down—"
"I don't help bounty hunters, either, or private detectives. Get the hell out of my office."
He snorted. "Or you'll shoot an unarmed man? You think life in prison will improve things around here?"
Once it left his mouth, Matt realized it would improve things. For everyone but Widner, including and perhaps especially her children. So he kept talking.
"I just need to know who hired them."
She let out a giant, exasperated, exaggerated sigh, and put her hands on the desk. "Mr. Dexter, y'all ain't from around here, so let me try this again. I. Am. Not. Going. To. Help. You. And I don't go back on my word, so you're wasting your time."
Matt chuckled. "With a rap sheet like yours, I don't think I'd be pleading integrity. Two thousand."
She scowled. "You calling me a liar?"
He looked up at the water damage on the ceiling tiles. "Well, yeah. A liar and a cheat and a fraud and a hustler, a two-bit thug too dumb to quit and not smart enough keep herself out of jail. Twenty-five hundred, final offer."
"What part of 'Get the fuck out of my office before I blow your goddamned head off' wasn't clear? I ain't afraid of jail."
Matt pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pushed it across the desk with a finger. "This part."
She flushed bright red as she scanned the federal warrant, then murdered him with her eyes. "You said you ain't no cop."
"I said I'm not a policeman, and that's true." He shrugged. "But I am a federal agent. So I need the information on those gentlemen, and I need it right now, or I'm going to take a peek under that table and see what kind of weapons charges we're talking here."
Shoulders hunched, she lowered her eyes and bowed her head. "Give me a second."
Widner stepped through the door behind her. Matt gave her three seconds, then followed—he couldn't allow her the chance to destroy whatever information she had.
The gun loomed large in his vision, the shot deafened him. The impact sent him stumbling backward as he opened the door, a raw burst of pain and shock that went right through his thickened, solid-fused ribs—so when he opened the door, he rolled right and chopped downward on Widner's wrist, pulling the blow short of snapping bone. The .45 caliber pistol fell to the floor, and she clutched her wrists to her chest and stumbled out of the back room into the office.
Matt grabbed at her shirt, letting his fingers brush her collar before she leapt over the desk and bolted for the door. He ran, human speed, and slammed his knee into the desk, knocking it askew. She reached her beat-up Camaro by the time he got to the front door, and he almost reached her trunk before she peeled away, tires shrieking as the car drifted just out of reach. He ran a dozen futile steps, then stopped and put his hands on his knees.
The moment her car disappeared from view he whirled and walked toward his car, fishing his ear bud from his pocket as he did so. He put it in.
"That went better than expected."
"Okay," Sakura said in his ear. "Headed north on . . . just turned on Route 16. Signal is strong."
"Keep on her, and call in the techs. She's got a dozen filing cabinets in that back room, and by the looks of things her file clerk is a methed-up ferret."
He got in the car, started it, and pulled out onto Jones Street in no particular hurry. It didn't matter how fast Widner drove, she couldn't outrun the magnetic tracker Sakura had slipped into her wheel well, and he had a helicopter on standby just in case.
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