Blood of Saints

by Maegan Beaumont

  “Pink pony,” he repeated, turning toward him as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “He also told me to tell you that he spoke with Sabrina a few hours ago. She’s still in Yuma and, all things considered, she’s safe.”

  The last of his message had Michael wavering. Again, as far as he knew, Ben was the only one who knew where Sabrina was. But that didn’t make it so. He’d been flying blind for days now and he was getting sick and fucking tired of operating on assumptions. “Who’s Sabrina?” For all he knew, Livingston sprung Dunn himself and dropped him in his backyard just to mess with him. Maybe to confirm Sabrina’s whereabouts so he could send in a team to snatch her up. Either way, he wasn’t telling Noah Dunn shit.

  “You always were too smart for your own good, O’Shea,” Dunn said, a slow grin spreading across his face as his gaze flickered to the platinum band on his finger before finally focusing on the rifle aimed at his face. “I could have killed them, you know. The kids. The old lady. The dog. That I didn’t should count for something.”

  “It does,” Michael said from behind his TAC. “It’s the only reason I’m not dragging your dead body into the woods and leaving it for the wolves.”

  “I could’ve killed them and you, O’Shea,” Dunn countered, “long before you and the boy found my chute. So how about we stop measuring dicks and get down to business.”

  “Business?” he said, shaking his head slightly. “You and I don’t have any business, Dunn.”

  “Sure we do,” Dunn’s tone hardened slightly, telling Michael the man was a hell of a lot more pissed off than he wanted to admit. “The way I see it, you owe me.”

  “Seems like all that alone time has left you confused,” Michael said. “The only reason you’re even here is because I decided to bring you in instead of kill you like I was ordered to.”

  “Four years in The Box.” Dunn chuckled. “Thanks for that.”

  “Better than a bullet.”

  “Guess that depends on who you ask.” Dunn shrugged. “Either way, you’re gonna help me now.”

  “Last time I helped you, I got myself into a bit of a pickle.” Michael smirked, despite the ever-present pressure of the device Livingston Shaw had grafted to his spine—his punishment for bringing Dunn in alive instead of carrying out his kill order. “I think I’m finished helping you.”

  “Did you ever wonder why he sent you after me?” Dunn said as he turned, giving Michael his back. “Why he had to?” Lifting the shirt he wore, he revealed a neat, horizontal scar across his lower back, as thick and long as his finger.

  Michael took his finger off the TAC’s trigger, lowering it just enough so that he could see Dunn’s back. He didn’t have to ask what it was. He knew what the scar meant. Dunn had been chipped; now he wasn’t. That’s why Shaw had to issue the kill order instead of just making a phone call. He had to because there was no other way to get him.

  Dunn had removed his own chip somehow.

  “How? How did you do it?”

  Dunn turned, lowering his shirt while giving him a grim smile. “Still think we don’t have any business together?”

  Sixty-five

  Yuma, Arizona

  As soon as she gave Croft the address where Vega had stashed Graciella Lopez and sent him on his way, Sabrina headed for her car. Instead of getting in and driving back to the station or going to find Santos to tell him that Alvarez was their guy and that he’d taken Ellie, she leaned in through the driver’s door long enough to retrieve the red silk pouch Phillip had given her before slamming the door and resetting the lock. Church was across the lot, talking to the quartet of uniforms she’d rescued from Father Francisco’s frightened flock.

  Leaving her behind, Sabrina followed the path around the side of the building until she came to an unassuming door with nothing more than a shallow concrete slab to mark it as an entrance. Trying the door, she found it unlocked. Either what happened to the priest had come as a total surprise to him or he’d felt it was inevitable and taking precautions was a waste of time.

  Or maybe the ol’ padre felt like he deserved what was comin’.

  Pushing the door open, she revealed a cramped, dimly lit studio. A twin bed pushed against the far wall. Next to it a squat, three-drawer chest served as both dresser and nightstand, books and a kerosene lamp within reach of the bed. A few feet away was the kitchen area and the building’s only electricity. A minute length of counter housed a mini fridge, a bar sink, and what looked to be one of those toaster oven/coffeepot combos found in college dorm rooms. On top of it was a single-burner hot plate. Above the countertop was a shelf holding a table setting for one, stacked neatly, waiting for use next to a few sundry items. One of them was a box of loose-leaf tea.

  Filling the coffeepot with water from the tap, she poured it into the tank and switched it on. A few seconds later, steam and hot water started to sputter and drip from the reservoir into the waiting pot.

  What do you think you’re doing, darlin’?

  “I’m shutting you up,” she snarled out loud, yanking the ceramic mug off the shelf. Setting it down, she jerked hard on the kitchen’s lone drawer, sending the items inside scattering and rolling around its bottom.

  I thought we decided that’d be a really bad idea.

  Ignoring the voice inside her head, she rifled through the drawer’s sparse contents. A spatula. A set of measuring spoons. Dangling from a short chain, set with a small hook at its top, was a stainless steel tea infuser. Pulling the last two items from the drawer she shut it before placing them next to the cup.

  Think this through, now. You need me, remember?

  Despite her shaking hands, Sabrina smiled as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the pouch. Using the tablespoon, she scooped a measure of tea from the pouch, filling the infuser before clicking it closed. She placed it in the cup, hooking the short length of chain over its lip. “Yeah, you keep saying that but you haven’t told me why. Why do I need you, Wade?” It was the first time she’d addressed the voice inside her head by name and doing so tipped her over the edge. She was acknowledging that he was more than a figment of her traumatized imagination. More than a PTSD-fueled hallucination constructed out of survivor’s guilt and fear.

  She was admitting he was real.

  The coffeepot let out a final, steamy gasp, signaling it was finished. She reached for it. “Real or not,” she said, carefully pouring the carafe of hot water over the infuser, “I don’t need you.”

  Yes, you do. You need me. You get rid of me, you’ll never find him.

  “I already found him.” She gave the tea infuser an impatient dunk. “I know who he is and I’m going to stop him, just like I stopped you.”

  You don’t really believe that. You want to stop him? You need me to do it.

  Instead of answering him, Sabrina took her tea and carried it across the room. Reaching out, she placed it on the dresser to steep before pulling out her cell phone and the card Ellie had given her when they’d met here earlier. Dialing the number listed as her private cell, she listened to it ring and ring before her call was directed to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message. Not ready to give up, she sent a text to Church.

  Put a trace on Elena Hernandez’s phone.

  Don’t ask. Just do it.

  Settling in to wait, Sabrina studied the spines on the stack of books next to her cup. The Bible was sandwiched between Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. At the bottom of the stack was a book, its spine worn and without title. Pulling it out she flipped it open. It was a journal. The realization turned her stomach and she immediately moved to close it. Setting it on her lap she looked at its smooth back cover. Seeing it, she realized that this was the book Father Francisco had been reading earlier when she’d found him in the prayer garden. That forced her to open the book again and had her flipping through its pages. Snippets of prayers
jumped out at her. Scattered lines of poetry, some recognizable, some not. Random thoughts, obviously private, crowded the book’s margins. Feeling like an intruder, Sabrina turned the pages fast, only half reading what was written. At the back of the book was an old photograph, taped to the inside of the back cover.

  The picture was of a much younger Father Francisco. He was handsome, dark hair and eyes smiling at the camera. On either side of him were a pair of young women, arms wrapped around his waist, heads tilted, resting on his shoulders. The women were pretty, grinning widely for the camera. Behind them she could see the Vegas’s sprawling ranch-style house, its front door flung wide open. People littered the background, holding plates of food and plastic cups.

  Despite the fact that the photo was at least thirty years old, she recognized one of the women instantly. She pulled the picture from its mount and flipped it over. There, in a faded, ball-point scrawl, she found what she already knew.

  Magda with Frank Vega and Amelia Macias

  Photo taken by Gracie Lopez ~ 1979

  Sixty-six

  Valerie’s mother stared back at her from the picture in her hand. She’d been Amelia Macias then. No more than sixteen or seventeen, the photo had been taken years before marriage and children found her. She and the other girl posed happily with a young Father Francisco who, despite the obvious summer day captured on film, wore black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt that was closed at the collar. He’d already been enrolled in seminary when the photograph was taken. He was a Vega and he knew she was investigating his family. And yet he said nothing about his relation to them.

  The padre’s last name ain’t what’s important here, darlin’ …

  Sabrina shifted her attention to the other woman in the picture.

  According to the inscription on the back of the photograph, her name was Magda. She was pretty. Long, dark hair flowing down her back, her light-colored eyes a startling contrast against her golden brown skin. She smiled for the camera, her face radiant, mouth stretched wide, flashing even, white teeth. At first glance, she looked happy but the harder Sabrina looked, the more she could see something … anxious about her.

  Anxious? That girl looks downright desperate …

  Magda wore a loose-fitting sundress, her bare arm wrapped around the young priest’s waist. Looking at the image of Val’s mother for comparison, she could see it. Where Amelia’s arm casually stretched across his back, hand loose against his shoulder, Magda’s arm curled tight around his waist, as if trying to pull him closer, her fingers digging into the dark fabric of Father Francisco’s shirt. The young man beside her held on just as tight, the hand at Magda’s waist gripped lightly, its fingers extended to gently caress the softly rounded belly she’d taken care to hide under the flowy fabric of her sundress. Magda had been pregnant, and if his body language was any indication, Father Francisco was the father.

  “Coffee break?”

  It took her a second to realize that the voice she was hearing wasn’t inside her head. When she looked up she found Santos standing in the doorway that led out into the sanctuary, watching her. “Tea,” she said picking the mug up off the dresser with her free hand. She blew gently across the rim of the cup, sending fragrant steam curling into the air. “Any luck on the canvass?”

  Our boy is good. Too good to get spotted.

  “A field worker noticed a dark-colored hatchback leaving the area around the time you called in the attack.” Santos shrugged. “No plate number, no description of the driver.”

  In other words, no luck at all.

  “Did you find something?” he said, eyeing the picture she held in her hand.

  She set the mug down without taking a sip. “Just an old picture of Father Francisco,” she said, flashing him the picture in her hand rather than try to hide it. “Who’s Magda?”

  Santos furrowed his brow. “Magda …” He peered at the picture in her hand, confused for a moment before recognition dawned. “Oh,” he said, smiling at some memory that seeing the picture produced. “That’s Magda Lopez.”

  The shared surname and the fact that she was the one who took the picture led Sabrina to take the leap. “Any relation to Graciella Lopez?”

  “Yeah.” Santos nodded his head, the recognition bleeding away, leaving a vague sort of sadness in its place. “Magda was her little sister.”

  Was.

  Before Sabrina could ask what happened to her, Santos spoke again. “The techs are finishing up in the chapel. Dusting for prints proved to be a nightmare but they found a ball cap in the confessional. They’re pretty sure they can get DNA off of it.”

  “Have them send it to our lab.” Sabrina nodded like it was the first she’d heard of it. “We’ll run it against all databases—including department personnel.” It was the best she could do without coming right out and saying, Hey, by the way, I’m pretty sure your partner is a serial killer.

  “What?” Like she knew they would, her words put the detective’s back up. “You think the guy doing this a cop?” he said, his voice raising on the last word. “An hour ago you were convinced Paul Vega was our guy.”

  “And now I’m not,” she said with a shrug. “You said it yourself—you’ve had a car sitting on Vega since he left the station and he hasn’t left his house. We’ve got to consider the fact that he might not be our guy.”

  Santos scoffed at her. “And somehow that means our guy is one of us?”

  “Wade Bauer raped and murdered nearly two dozen women—at least one of them right here in your backyard,” she said, doing her level best to ignore the shame that crossed Santos’s face. “And almost all of them while wearing the uniform.” She stood, placing the picture on top of the book it’d been hidden in, setting both on the dresser next to her mug of tea. “No one is exempt from scrutiny.”

  Holy shit, darlin’. I think you made him cry.

  “Whatever you say, Agent Vance.” Santos nodded, rubbing a rough hand across his jaw, head angled away from her like she’d just popped him in it.

  “Wait,” she called out, stopping Santos in his tracks. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” he said to her, half turning in the doorway. “You’re right. A badge doesn’t make you a good guy. Matter of fact, it’s a damn good place for a bad guy to hide. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow though.” He jerked his chin at the steaming cup of tea next to her on the dresser. “I’ll let you finish your break,” he told her before disappearing through the door. As soon as he was gone, she lifted the cup.

  I wouldn’t if I were you. You won’t find our boy on your own. Whether you want to admit it or not, you need me.

  She lowered the mug slowly without taking a drink.

  I’ll help you. If you let me stay, I’ll help you.

  She stood, walking the tea to the sink to pour it down the drain. Pulling the drawstring on the pouch she’d left on the counter, she pocketed the rest of it.

  You’re gonna want to take that picture with you too, darlin’.

  Sabrina slipped the photograph she’d found into her pocket next to the tea before following after Santos out the door.

  Sixty-seven

  Church was waiting for her when she exited Father Francisco’s private room, sitting quietly in the back pew. And she wasn’t alone. She and her companion were sitting close, knees touching, heads bent together as they spoke quietly. As intimate as the scene was, Sabrina got the distinct feeling that they were arguing.

  “On ne nasha sem’ya,” Church hissed at the man in Russian, leaning in even closer as her hand landed on the man’s knee. “My ne obyazany yemu nichego.”

  “You gonna introduce me to your friend?” she said, walking up the center aisle toward the pair. The church was deserted now that CSU was finished and it was still considered an active crime scene. “I mean, it’s only fair considering this douche bag has been following me all day.�
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  The guy from the stairwell sat back, draping an arm over the back of the pew. “I was wondering if you saw me,” he said, mouth curved in the kind of smile that made Sabrina want to choke him.

  Let’s hate ’im, darlin’.

  “Shut up,” she growled before jabbing a finger in the man’s direction, “and you—who are you?” She shifted her glare to Church before he had a chance to answer. “Who is he?”

  Church sighed, “Simmer down, Kitten, I—”

  “I swear to God, if you call me kitten again, I’m going to shove my foot so far up your ass, my toes are gonna tickle your tonsils.” Sabrina took a cleansing breath and let it out slowly. “Now—who the fuck is he?”

  “This is Jared,” Church said, holding out a hand between them like she was making a formal introduction. “Jared, this is the woman you’ve been so ineptly stalking—FBI Agent Claire Vance,” she said carefully, gaze sharp and angled upward, silently telling her two things. Whoever he was, this man hadn’t been invited and he was not someone Church trusted with the truth.

  “My pleasure, Agent Vance.” The man held out his hand for her to shake, his tone telling her he didn’t believe for one second she was in the FBI. “You’ll forgive my earlier curiosity. Korkiva has told me almost nothing about you.”

  “Almost nothing? Well then, you’re ahead of the game because I have no idea who you are.” Etiquette forced Sabrina to give his hand a few pumps with her own before immediately taking a step back. “Whenever you’re finished here, I need to speak with you. Privately,” she said, flicking a look in the man’s direction.

  “We are finished.” Church stood. “Good-bye, Jared.”

  The man about to be left behind seemed to disagree. “You still haven’t answered my question, mladshaya sestra,” he said, reaching out to grab her hand.