“That’s why Hank Santos is marked,” Moira muttered.
“What?” Jared said, turning to her. “My dad? What happened to my dad?”
Shit, Moira, that was smart. “Jared, we’re trying to find a solution, but we really have to get out of here. Now.”
Donovan said, “I’ve got other plans, and you’re all coming with me. No one is going to stop it this time.”
Matthew was only feet from Donovan, who was focused almost solely on Moira. No surprise; Fiona had probably offered a sweet reward for Moira’s heart in a box. To distract her away from Matthew, Moira said, “You know, Nicole—right? Nicole Donovan? It’s over. We know who you are, and no one at St. Michael’s is going to let you get away with imprisoning the Seven Deadly Sins—if every last one of us has to die to ensure it.”
“Good to know,” Donovan sneered.
Suddenly, with feline grace, Matthew leapt onto the woman and they tumbled to the ground. He grabbed her wrist and slammed it on the cement walkway. She screamed and cursed, and Moira ran over and grabbed the gun, aiming it at Donovan.
“Shut up or you get a bullet in the brain, and I don’t think you’re a good enough magician to stop it.”
Donovan screamed in frustration, and Matthew got up with the witch, holding her wrists.
Moira told Jared, “Take Ari with you. Get to one of her altars as fast as you can and break it apart. Destroy all three and then head to Skye’s house and stay there. If Ari gives you shit even after what she’s been through, tie her up, I don’t care. Just don’t let her do anything stupid.”
“My dad—”
“I’ll find a way to save him. I promise. He’s acting weird, but he hasn’t done anything wrong.” Yet. “Go.”
Jared carried Ari to her car and Moira breathed slightly easier. “Thanks for your help,” she told Matthew, who stood contemptuously next to a weepy Nicole Donovan. “If you want to call the police, tell them Pennington is a con artist, whatever you want. But you might not want to mention what happened here. No one would believe it.”
“You can say that again.”
Donovan started crying in frustration. “You can’t do this!”
Moira ignored her. “I have to go. They hurt a friend—” She stopped. Matthew had helped her, but he didn’t need to know details.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“Fine.” She pulled out the papers to the property where she felt Rafe was most likely to be. She hoped and prayed that the ritual Donovan spoke of was nowhere near this place. She looked around for Jared’s truck. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I don’t have a car.”
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“No—”
“Please. I would feel better. After tonight—I’ve never seen a … a demon … like that.”
“Neither have I.” Not the black ooze, anyway. “But this is going to be dangerous. These people don’t play nice, and they’ll condemn you just for helping me.”
“Just a ride. And maybe a little backup? You might think I’m a male chauvinist, especially since you can obviously take care of yourself.” He grinned, revealing boyish dimples that clashed charmingly with his square jaw. “But I don’t like the idea of you going off by yourself and fighting anyone, human or … not.” He lost his smile.
Moira didn’t want to accept his help, but she didn’t know how long it would take for Anthony to arrive if she called him for a ride. And Pennington wasn’t dead—he could come up those steps any minute. And the longer Moira waited, the more danger was not only to Rafe, but everyone in town.
“All right, thank you.” She glanced at Donovan. “Can you tie her up downstairs with Pennington?”
“Gladly.”
Matthew went down the stairs and Moira picked up his keys, which had fallen to the ground when he’d tackled Nicole Donovan. Moira sprinted across the church parking lot to Matthew’s car.
Matthew Walker’s timing was too good. He might be exactly who he said he was—after all, he had taken down the teacher. But Nicole Donovan hadn’t seemed concerned about Walker. And the demon knew his name. She wanted to trust him, but she’d rather be safe than dead.
Besides, if he wasn’t involved with Fiona, she didn’t want to risk his life. She didn’t know what she’d face when she found Rafe.
Walker’s car had a GPS. Great, he could call in a grand theft auto and the cops would be on her ass in minutes.
She’d have to take her chances.
She typed the address of her first-choice property into the GPS and it gave her a map. Ten point four miles away, near the ocean. She memorized the route, then ripped the device from the dash and tossed it out the window as she drove off.
She called Anthony. “I have a lead on Rafe. I’m following up on it.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m leaving Good Shepherd now.” Moira filled him in on the highlights. “This place has been used as a center of black magic for some time, at least since Pennington arrived,” she said. “I sent Jared off to destroy Ari’s altars and break the energy vortex.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“Tonight? Hell yeah, he got a good scare. Oh, speaking of Pennington, he’s unconscious in the so-called church basement. Can you call your girlfriend and get her to arrest him? He tried to kill me. I’m happy to press charges. And Ms. Donovan, the teacher from the school, is there too. She pulled a gun on me. Fiona’s web has spread far and wide. And she implied they’re working another ritual to recall the Seven. I’ll find Rafe, you find where they’re setting up.” She put on a brave front, but she knew tonight was it. She would walk straight into the lion’s den, and she was no Daniel.
Anthony said, “The photo you sent. Of the box? You didn’t touch it, did you?”
“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 are
as, 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 frowned. 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.
Tha
t 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?”
Original Sin: The Seven Deadly Sins Page 31