Blood of Saints

by Maegan Beaumont

  Wade had kept journals.

  We both know you’re dyin’ to, darlin’, so why don’t you just ask?

  He’d been heckling her for a while now. Pushing her. Poking at her. Reminding her she’d never be rid of him—not really—and she’d been a fool to think otherwise.

  She needed to talk to Ellie. It was obvious she knew more than she was letting on. If she could just talk to her, ask her—

  You want to know if I told him about all the things I did to you in the dark …

  Before she knew was she was doing, she jerked the wheel to the right, piloting the car into a deserted dirt lot. She barely had the car slammed into park before she was grappling with the door handle, getting it open only seconds before she threw up, coffee and stomach acid splattering against the hard-packed earth beneath her.

  It was something she never talked about—couldn’t talk about. Twenty years later and she’d never told a soul. What he’d done to her. How badly he’d hurt her. How she hadn’t been able to stop him. The shame of it stung. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes and she squeezed them shut, forcing them back.

  Come on now, darlin’ … be a brave little toaster and ask. Isn’t that why you came here? To figure it all out? To finally understand why?

  Knowing that Wade had written it all down, pored over the pages, carefully choosing each word, using them to describe what he did to her so he could relive it. So he could share her shame with someone else …

  The truth. She was here for the truth.

  She pressed her forehead against the armrest attached to the car door and squeezed her eyes shut. “Did you?” she whispered, ignoring the loosening sensation in her gut that saying the words out loud caused. Like her fingers were peeling back from the edge she always seemed to be dangling over. “Did you …”

  Did I what? Laughter rang inside her head. Did I tell him all about it? Every time I chased you. Every time I cut you. Every time I forced my way inside you …

  “Stop.” The word ground against her throat, harsh and angry, like a threat. She wiped her mouth against the back of her hand before pulling the door shut. Sitting in the dark she wrapped her hands around the steering wheel, tightening their grip until she could pretend they weren’t shaking.

  Ohhh … The voice went velvety soft within her head. You wanna know if I told him how much you liked it.

  Her hands cranked around the steering wheel, lip curled in a snarl, lifted by the guttural sound that ripped its way from her mouth. “You disgusting piece of—”

  Something thumped against the glass, the hard, fast knock of it jolting her in her seat. She wrenched around in her seat, aiming her gaze out the window, at the source of the sound.

  There was a man standing on the other side.

  As soon as she turned to look at him, his knuckles fell away from the window, leaving dark, bloody smudges in their place.

  Twenty-seven

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  The voice on the other side of the window sounded concerned, the question it conveyed at odds with the blood his hand left behind on the glass between them. Shrouded in shadow, the man was nothing more than a towering figure, his features lost in the dark.

  Behind him Sabrina could see the squat outline of a low-slung building sprawled in the dirt. From the gentle peak of its roof rose a plain wooden cross.

  Looking at the blood he’d left smudged on the window, the man took a step back. She caught a flash of white at his collar. Relief washed through her as she reached down to open the door.

  Ain’t this how things went down between you and me? I coaxed you out of the car and then I shot you … good times.

  Her hand stalled on the handle for a moment, her gazed fixed on the blood streaked across her window. A priest. He was a priest.

  She could trust a priest.

  And I was a cop. You trusted me and look what happened.

  She yanked on the handle, pushing the door open to step out, driving him back even farther. “What church is this?”

  “Saint Rose of Lima,” he said, looking around like he wasn’t sure himself. He glanced hopefully at his watch. “Are you here for mass?”

  Saint Rose.

  Somehow she’d ended up at the same church where Wade had left her for dead. How was a mystery. She didn’t remember this place. Had never been here that she could recall. “Why is there blood on your hands?” she demanded, her words hard and fast, gaze falling to his hands. They were stained dark, clasped in front of him. Her hand found the grip of her Kimber, wrapping around it. “I’m not going to ask again.”

  “I—” He looked down at them, his expression going blank for a moment before he reached into one of his front pockets.

  She pulled the gun off her hip and waited.

  “There’s a stray cat in the prayer garden,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief. He was frowning, too busy rubbing at his blood-coated hands to realize she’d drawn her weapon. “I think a coyote got hold of it. I was trying to—”

  “Show me,” she said, reaching into the car to pull the keys from the ignition. Turning back around, she caught him shaking his head no.

  “It’s dead. There is nothing you can—”

  She reached into the car again and pulled out the credentials Church had given her. “Show me,” she said again, flashing the badge before using the key fob to lock the car.

  He finally noticed the gun, his gaze falling to it for a moment before finding her face again. This time, instead of refusing the priest merely nodded. “This way,” he said, tipping his head to indicate the direction. If he thought it was strange that a semi-deranged FBI agent wanted to investigate a dead cat, he didn’t say so—just led the way around the side of the church toward a wrought iron gate. “I think she must have climbed the wall, trying to get away from the coyote,” the priest said, angling his body away from the gate so she could pass through it ahead of him.

  The prayer garden was small, a nearly perfect square surrounded by a stucco wall easily twice as tall as she was. Cobblestone pavers cut down the middle of it, lined on either side with rain-battered rose bushes. Under the garden’s tree stood a bench—black marble stretched between two squat cement pillars.

  Sure you don’t remember this place? I sure do.

  Splayed across the bench was a cat. At least she thought it was a cat. It looked like a lump of dark fur, tattered and matted with blood. Without even thinking about it, Sabrina reached into the pocket of her jeans for a pair of gloves but came up empty. It’d been a long time since she’d broken the habit of carrying gloves with her wherever she went.

  Old habits die hard, huh, darlin’?

  Scanning the cobblestone for footprints, she hunkered down to examine the cat, hands hovering at her sides. She didn’t need to touch it to know whatever killed it hadn’t been a coyote. Looking up, she found the priest watching her, standing a few feet away. “Poor thing,” she said, not having to fake the remorse in her tone. “I’ll take care of this for you.” She forced her mouth into a small smile. “Do you have a paper bag or a box to put her in?”

  He nodded, seemingly relieved she’d given him something to do. “Yes, I’ll go get it,” he said, ducking back into the church.

  As soon as he was gone she pulled her cell out and started to take pictures. Snapping off several, she caught the glint of something with the flash. Circling around the bench, she reached into her pocket. Pulling out the knife Michael had given her, she used the tip of it to lift at the collar. An ID tag, the name Cuervo engraved across its front. The cat was no stray. It belonged to someone.

  Snapping a picture of the tag, she moved on. There were footprints in the dirt surrounding the bench but their impressions were obscured. Whoever had left them had worn shoe covers. She took pictures anyway, hoping there would be something similar in the file Maddox had given her.

&n
bsp; “Here you go.”

  Sabrina looked up to find the priest standing over her again, a cardboard box in his hand. “I got new shoes last week,” he said, a regretful smile on his face. “The first time in ten years.”

  That’s when she realized how young he was. His hair was dark. His olive skin smooth. He looked to be only in his mid to late forties. “I’m Claire Vance,” she said, hoping manners would force him to tell him her name.

  “Father Francisco.” He held out his hand as if to shake hers for a moment before he remembered the blood. “I’m the parish priest here at Saint Rose,” he said, his hand flopping back to his side, untouched. “Thank you for your help, Agent Vance, but now if you’ll excuse me”—he looked at his watch—“I have a service to prepare for.”

  “You usually have mass this late, Father?” she said, standing quickly, her question stopping his retreat. It was nearly midnight.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, more regret showing on his face. “The majority of my congregation work the fields that surround this church and their hours are long. Midnight mass is a luxury most of them can’t afford.”

  “Then what is so special about tonight?” she said.

  “It is the feast of Saint Rose, our patron saint,” he said, reaching for the door. “Tonight everyone will be here to pay tribute to her.”

  For some reason Sabrina looked down at the cat sprawled across the bench. Something about his tone told her that no matter what he said, he knew that it hadn’t been killed by a coyote.

  “Father—” She started to ask him why, even if a coyote could get over a wall nearly twelve feet tall, why would it leave a cat, mutilated but not devoured, on the garden’s only bench … but she couldn’t.

  Because he was gone.

  Twenty-eight

  Kootenai Canyon, Montana

  The challenger started on the first try. Those hours spent changing its oil and spark plugs paid off. On the seat beside him, Avasa wagged her tail, excited to go.

  He’d rolled the barn door opened to find Miss Ettie standing on the other side of it with a thermos of coffee in her hand.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said shaking his head against what he was sure was about to be a lengthy lecture. “I’ve got to try to help her as much as I can—”

  Instead of arguing with him, Miss Ettie laughed. “Well, of course you do,” she said, holding the thermos out. “How long will you be gone?”

  He thought about it. Thought about leaving the valley, driving until he’d traded Ponderosas and black bears for palo verdes and rattlesnakes. That’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to go to her. It was what he’d always wanted. From the first moment he saw her. For as long as he could remember.

  Protect her. Keep her safe.

  To be the kind of man who could do those things for her.

  But that’s not what she needed from him. Sabrina had never needed him to protect her. She saved herself. Always had.

  What she needed was something he couldn’t give her. But he could make sure she got it.

  “I’ll be back before sunrise,” he told her, taking the thermos from Miss Ettie, trading it for a quick kiss dropped onto her soft, wrinkled cheek.

  “You better be in that kitchen making me pancakes when I wake up.” She gave him a quick pat on his cheek, catching him before he could fully pull away. “Be careful, Michael,” she said to him, her sharp, dark eyes meeting his, making him wonder just how much she knew about his predicament.

  “Before sunrise,” he said again, making her an unspoken promise. “I’ll even make bacon.”

  –––––

  Two hours later he pulled over, the Challenger’s tires grabbing onto the soft shoulder of the highway. Shifting into park, he killed the lights and then the engine, plunging himself into total darkness and a silence that was so loud it seemed to scream.

  Avasa shifted on the seat next to him, whining softly. “Shhh, it’s okay,” he said to her, not even really sure what he was waiting for. The bright, blinding lights of a fleet of black SUVs speeding in to surround him. A platoon of Pips to drop out of the sky. A sudden, violently painful death.

  Whatever it was, it never came.

  One minute turned into ten and nothing happened. No one came for him. He kept breathing. He had no idea what kind of safety nets Ben had Lark devise to block the signal that would set off his chip, but whatever they were, they seemed to be holding.

  He reached up and clicked on the dome light on the roof of the Challenger and the dog sitting beside him woofed softly. “Okay, okay,” he said to her, reaching across the bench seat to open her door. She gave him a swift swipe with her tongue before darting out into the dark. “Stay out of the road,” he called out to her flagging tail, but he needn’t worry. She only went a few yards before she sat in the dirt to keep watch.

  The dog took her job seriously.

  Unlatching the glovebox, he found what he was looking for. Closing his hand over it he pulled it out. An old analog cell phone. It was his contingency plan. His escape hatch. He had identical phones stashed in the bunker and buried in the woods where the kids liked to play.

  He turned it on, waiting for the small green screen to power up before he searched the short list of contacts. Finding the number he was looking for, he hit send.

  As he suspected, his call was dumped into voicemail—an automated message that did nothing more than recite the number back to him and beep. “This is Michael O’Shea,” he said into the phone. “We need to talk.” He hung up, clicking off the dome light to wait.

  Two minutes later, the phone rang.

  “Is she alive?” No greeting. No surprise or disbelief. Just the question. The only thing that mattered to him.

  Michael leaned his head against the Challenger’s headrest and closed his eyes, his jaw suddenly tight. “Yes.” He forced the word out, fighting the urge to hang up the phone. To run it over. To drive to San Francisco and commit murder.

  He listened to breathing on the other end of phone, the silence waiting for him to elaborate. To explain. He didn’t.

  “I don’t think you called me a year later, at two a.m., to tell me that, Michael.”

  “She needs your help.”

  “My help?” Phillip Song chuckled softly but there was a smug, satisfied edge to the sound that made Michael want to cut his tongue out. “What could I possibly—”

  “You know what, asshole,” he said through gritted teeth. “You helped her once before. I need you to do it again.”

  “Wade.” It wasn’t a question. Hearing Phillip say the name told Michael all he needed to know about how close Sabrina and Phillip had become. Close enough for her to confide in him. Close enough that when he said Wade’s name out loud, it sounded like a curse.

  “Yes.”

  “If she’s in need of my help, why wouldn’t she call me herself?” Phillip said, sounding both wary and concerned. “She knows I’d do anything for her.”

  “Because of me.” He’d known, as soon as he asked her to call Phillip and ask for help, exactly what she’d do. She’d agree in order to placate him and then stubbornly refuse to do what they both knew was best for her. “Because you’re in love with her—or at least you were.”

  More silence. For a second, Michael was sure he’d hung up the phone. Finally, he spoke. “Where is she?” Phillip said quietly, not even trying to deny it. “Tell me where she is and I’ll—”

  “I don’t want it to be you,” he said, matching Phillip’s tone perfectly. “Because I know what you’ll do. You’ll play knight in shining armor with your fucking tea and your expensive suits that cover up the tattoos that spell out just what kind of man you really are. You’ll call her sweetheart and you’ll do for her what I can’t.”

  “And what is that?” Phillip said, sound equal parts pissed and amused. “What can I do for her that El Cart
ero can’t?”

  “You can be there.” Michael caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and looked away. “Got a pen?” He rattled off the number to the cell phone he’d given Sabrina and listened to Phillip write it down.

  “I can protect her. Give her her family back. Her friends,” Phillip said, warning him he was right: he could do more for her than Michael ever could. “With me, she could even be a police officer again if that’s what she wanted.”

  “Pretty lofty proclamations for a simple businessman,” he said, but he knew Phillip wasn’t overstating his abilities. With him, Sabrina would be what she could never be with him.

  Free.

  “I’m not bragging,” Phillip said. “I’m telling you how it will be. What I’ll offer her.”

  Michael turned his head to look out the open car door. Avasa sat in the wedge of it, watching him with what looked like pity. “Do what you gotta do, Song,” he said before ending the call. He patted the seat next to him and she jumped onto it.

  She was ready to go home.

  Twenty-nine

  Yuma, Arizona

  Her phone was ringing in the front seat. She could see it through the passenger-side window, next to the box Croft had given her. She put the shoebox with the cat inside it on the roof of the car and popped the lock, reaching for it just as the sound of it was cut off. Six missed calls and eight text messages.

  Five of the calls were from Church. One of them was from a number she didn’t recognize, save for the area code.

  San Francisco.

  Before she could even figure out how to deal with that one, the phone buzzed again, signaling another text. A picture of Croft’s dark green Jetta, parked in a slot in front of a cheap motel. Room 122.

  Hitting redial, Sabrina wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder, bending over to grab the box. Church let it ring. She hung up and looked at her watch. It was 12:05 a.m.