Mom
Wonderful.
I sigh exasperatedly.
Not only is it too early for this, but I already know exactly why she’s calling. Regardless, I answer it, because if I don’t, I’ll have a five minute long lecture sitting in my voicemail and I don’t care to hear it.
“Hey, ma.”
“Good morning to you, too, Maverick,” she chides.
My eyes go for another spin. “Good morning, ma,” I correct myself.
“How are you?”
“I’m good, a little tired, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“I see that case of yours is picking up speed . . .” she trails off.
And there it is, the predicted reason for her call. I’ve been waiting for it since the press conference, which I’m positive she caught live. She’s more than likely been waiting for me to call her.
“It is,” I agree, dropping my towel and slipping into a pair of briefs.
“I take it the media coverage is an added stressor?”
“In some sense, yes. These journalists over-embellish sometimes, which creates more of panic than absolutely necessary.”
“It’s a serial killer on the loose, Maverick,” she grates. “The public is going to panic despite what the media does or doesn’t say. Don’t blame them for doing their job.”
“I’m not blaming them, ma. I know it’s their job. I’m just saying I wish they didn’t add bits that aren’t accurate facts,” I retort, sliding into my dress shirt as I saunter back to the bathroom. First thing that catches my eye in that damn mirror is Kiera’s mark, the one my collar is definitely not going to cover. “Fuck.”
“Language,” my mother hisses. “What happened?”
Oh, you know, just a giant purple bite mark left by the woman I fucked in my car last night.
Correction: fucked in a bar, then in my car.
I don’t tell her that, obviously. She’d keel over and die on the spot.
“My shirt has a crease,” I lie.
“So iron it.”
“Can’t, don’t have time.”
“Make the time, Maverick. Professionalism calls for it.” Her tone is no-nonsense, but I merely roll my eyes.
If she only knew how long ago I single handedly tossed professionalism out the window.
Buttoning up my collar, I hum an agreement, so she’ll believe I’m about to be a good little boy and get right to work on that ironing.
“I will not lie to you, I am concerned.”
The other suspected reason for her call. Of course, it’s normal. In this, my mother and I are a typical mom and son duo. She’s seen me self-destruct and lives in constant anxiety of it happening again.
It is happening again.
Can’t ever let her know that.
It’s a matter of time.
“Maverick?”
“Ma, it’s fine. Everything is fine—”
“You did not look fine during that press conference, Maverick.”
Shit. Fuck. There it is. Confirmation that the lenses did catch my abnormal reactions to Elon and Kiera’s argument. The same one I haven’t had a chance to ask her about. “I’m barely sleeping. They have us working insane hours on this. I was just exhausted, I swear.” I’m pretty sure “honor thy father and mother” also means not to lie to them.
But what choice do I have?
“I really wish you weren’t working this case.”
“Ma, let’s not start this. I’m one of the best qualified”—to fuck up my life over it—“and it falls under my precinct’s jurisdiction.” I shrug into my blazer, tugging my collar as high as it can go. “It’s all going to be fine.”
“Just don’t start drinking again. That evil demon destroys you each time.”
My eyes fall to the mark on my neck in the mirror, the one my collar is barely hiding, and I can’t help but think:
This time, it’s not going to be the liquor that brings me down.
This time, it’s going to be a pretty little thing named Kiera DuBois.
* * *
I didn’t even make it to my car to head to work when the call came in.
Another body’s been found.
As soon as I hear it come in, I’m frozen in the driver’s seat, in shock. How the hell did she get it inside the church? There’s a detail stationed right outside, watching every angle of the place.
But no. This one’s not in a church. This one’s been left in Symphony Park, mere blocks away.
Gunning the engine, I turn on my lights and take the road like a monster, zooming in and out of lanes with slow-driving cars. It takes me no less than fifteen minutes to get there, and of course I’m greeted by mayhem.
Police tape.
Civilians outside the perimeter, all trying to see or get a recording of what’s going down.
My captain. The rest of the team.
The well-dressed man face down in the bushes, a very familiar black blade sticking out of his neck.
The next few hours is spent canvassing the scene. Interviewing the poor soul that stumbled upon the body during his early morning jog. CSI arrives to do their thing; photograph the body, and then it’s promptly removed, the blade still in his neck.
Leaving it out in the open any longer than necessary is a huge no-go. Not with this many people around and the mounting public panic that’s taking shape. The M.E will end up removing it after he’s run all his tests.
Which means I might be there for it, with Ruby at my side, and I’ll have to pretend as I always do—like it’s just another piece of evidence rather than a personalized warning I’m ignoring time and time again.
Will she actually kill me? The thought hits me as I watch the body bag being rolled away to the ambulance.
That familiar chill settles at the base of my spine. Works it way up in a slithering crawl that quickly riddles every inch of my skin with goosebumps.
Will she really?
Or does she simply want to scare me away? Deter me from pursuing her demise? Clearly, she’s already trying to work in the latter with the new dumping spot. She has to know we’re actively watching for her, waiting for her.
“Did you hear me, Quinn?” Porter’s voice cuts through my internal struggle.
I drag my gaze to up to his awaiting stare in a haze of confusion. Shake my head just slightly. “Huh? What?”
“I said you and Saunders can go. Blackstone and Lee have already begun interviewing the witness. No need for the four of you in that poor man’s face. They can update you later.”
“Oh, right. Of course. We’ll head back to command and work on Digby’s background some more,” I tell him, just as Ruby sidles up beside me.
Porter nods and swivels away without another word, leaving Ruby and I alone.
“You ready?” she queries, eyeing me as speculatively as always.
Her and that damn analytical eyebrow.
First thing that comes to mind is thank fuck Kiera’s bite mark is somewhere on the other side. There’s no way she can see it from where she stands. It’s gonna be a big fucking problem back at the office, though, given how our desks are positioned.
Shit.
“Yup. You lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”
Wasn’t a lie, at first, but after getting in my car and making it down a block or so, the ambulance hauled ass past me, and an idea came on its own.
Has nothing to do with the body they’re transporting either, but rather, Digby’s . . . and all the recent slayings.
The church.
How the hell did she get those bodies in the church undetected, and how the hell did she get out? From personal experience, I know she’s fast, but the priest definitely didn’t state she bolted out the front doors.
And even if he had missed it, no way anyone on the street would’ve been oblivious to a latex-clad bombshell running in death-defying heels.
So how? How else could she have gotten out?
As soon as Ruby’s vehicle cuts a right at the light,
I zoom through the intersection and head for St. Cecilia’s. Like I said, there will absolutely be a detail sitting outside on watch, but I’m going in anyway. I need to speak with Father Wilson and get some sort of answers.
It also gets me out of the office, allowing me to hide my little secret a bit longer. Not that Ruby won’t start hounding me in the next twenty minutes or so. The second she realizes I wasn’t, in fact, behind her, the inquiring texts will begin.
Not sure what the fuck I’m going to tell her, but it’s not important right now.
I park my car and head to the entrance of the church. As I already suspected, the detail consists of two parked cruisers, one in front of the church and the other across the street.
Bet money there’s more of them at each of the other church entrances.
I ignore them and continue on my way. The two officers stationed in front will have to be spoken to, of course. It’s bad enough I’m waltzing by the two in the cruiser right up front. It’ll look even more suspicious if I don’t address the other two.
Especially since I didn’t let either of my bosses know about this impromptu stop. Risking a write-up, as usual. I’ve always been an impulsive bastard but got to admit, this case is making every one of my weaknesses so much worse.
Just like last time.
I stop at the top of the steps and greet both officers, flashing them my badge. Think I recognize them as regular POs from my command, but they definitely recognize me. After a few minutes of shooting the shit, they wave me right on in, fully believing that I was sent here by higher ups.
Beautiful. Lying right on the steps of the church. Add it to the list of transgressions. Sadly, the thought doesn’t distress me like it did before. The main preoccupation is catching this killer once and for all.
The altar is empty at this time, and surprisingly so is the confessional. There’s some people in the pews praying, but mostly it’s unoccupied.
Wonder if the recent killings have something to do with that.
Searching around, I spot an older woman off to the right, busy lighting some candles with a long match. I walk up to her and softly clear my throat. “Ma’am, do you happen to work here?”
She turns to me with an open, kind smile, blue eyes glittering. “Oh, yes. I volunteer actually. It’s good for the soul, you know?”
Returning her smile, I duck my head in a nod. “Of course. Do you happen to know if Father Wilson is in and where he would be?” I bring out my badge. “It’s official police business.”
“Yes. Yes. He’s in his office. Please follow me.” She begins leading me to a door to the left of the altar. Within minutes we’re down a narrow hall and in front of a door. She knocks and awaits Father Wilson’s response before opening it and peeking in. “A detective is here to see you, Father. Must be about those horrible crimes.”
“Please, let him in.”
I thank the lady as she steps aside, holding the door open, and make my way into the office. Father Wilson rises to greet me and I respectfully shake his hand.
It takes about two more minutes for me to confirm that the priest really didn’t see which way the killer escaped to. “Is there by any chance any hidden places here that are easily accessible from the main area of the church?”
His eyes light up. “Actually, there is—the catacombs. Between the confessional and the front doors, there’s a small entryway. That entryway leads down to them.”
“Catacombs?” I sound as astonished as you’re imagining. “This church has catacombs?”
I literally had no idea.
Father Wilson nods and rises behind his desk. “Yes, yes. Come, let me show you.”
I follow behind the priest through the church in silence, wondering to myself how the hell I didn’t know this information already. That in turn leads to wondering what other secrets may lay hidden in this church that I’ve been oblivious to as well.
Minutes later, we stop before another door. At first glance, it doesn’t even appear as such. It almost blends in with the walls which is probably why none of us noticed it while canvassing this place after each body turned up.
Father Wilson steps aside and motions for me to open it, a tight, lifeless smile painted on his face. The poor man is more than likely still struggling with what he saw.
Can’t say I blame him; I’m suffering, too.
For an entirely different reason. This man is innocent. You? Not so much.
And there it is again, the antagonizing demon that won’t let me be, constantly reminding me I’m as far from a saint as humanly possible.
I don’t need the reminder. I know damn well I’m going to hell. The price of my sins will cost my entire soul.
On a deep breath, I will those thoughts from my mind and reach out for the knob. Every hair on my body shoots up the moment my palm makes contact. The knob is cool to the touch, but that isn’t why the now familiar arctic chill consumes me.
It’s what could possibly lay on the other side of that door.
“Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” - Joshua 1:9
The catacombs turned out to be a bust. A giant bust, I should say.
And yet, I can’t seem to get my head out of there.
Hours later and I still feel like there’s something I’m missing. I can’t figure out what the hell it is, though, which is only adding to my already astronomically proportioned frustration with this case.
I expected there to be more tucked away behind that door, maybe a clue or even just a small hint. Like I said, nothing. Nothing at all. It’s a one way entrance/exit, meaning there’s no possible way the killer could be using it as an escape route.
But as I stood within its dark, eerie depths, something deep within told me this was it, this was how she pulled it off. I searched high and low, tried finding some hidden pathway or entryway, but again, nothing. I even went as far as asking Father Wilson if blood—or any trails of blood—had ever been found there. His answer? He didn’t know.
Figures.
He did, however, go on to say the janitor might have seen something. Makes sense, honestly, so I asked him to get me that contact information.
That’s all I’ve got from my impromptu visit.
That and this gnawing ire that’s triggering my self-destructive needs—both of them. My mind keeps ping-ponging between heading to the store for a bottle of Jameson, or texting Kiera for a spontaneous meeting.
She wouldn’t deny me, either, I know it, and damn if that doesn’t make my dick even harder inside my sweats.
It’s late, though. I waited too long, lost in the computer and my research into St. Cecilia’s building plans, to bother her now. It would be inconsiderate.
Wouldn’t it?
Damn it.
Scrubbing my hands down my face, I head into my kitchen and pour myself a glass of cold water. When chugging that isn’t enough to purge me of my needy thoughts, I place the empty glass in the sink, turn on the cold water, and lean down to splash my face.
Would love to say one time is enough, but my demons are much more powerful than a few drops of water.
I splash my face a few more times, all but soaking my hair, and turn the water off. Rising, I reach for the towel to wipe my face dry—
The window on top of the sink, directly in front of me, faces the street, with its multitude of old-fashioned looking lampposts lining each side. In the glare of those lights, there’s no missing her . . .
Or the shiny reflection of those lights on black latex.
Hands limp at her sides, feet braced apart on the street directly in front of my condominium, she tilts her head as if seeing me . . . and flashes me that creepy, gleeful smile.
Barking out a curse, I rear backward, heart racing. I slam into the kitchen island behind me, the edge cutting into my back—
Is she really fucking standing outside my building?
Pushi
ng off the surface of the island, I scramble back to the sink.
Gone.
She’s gone.
Nothing’s out there.
Impossible. I know I fucking saw her.
Shirtless, barefoot, in nothing but these sweats, I run through the kitchen to my front door. Within seconds I’m pounding down to the first floor, then out the building itself.
My neighborhood is usually quiet at this time, empty, and that’s what greets me once I’m outside. If I had an ounce of common sense, I’d turn back around and give up this insane, futile quest.
Can’t let it go. Can’t get over the fact she was just out here, outside my fucking home, taunting me once again.
I come to a halt in the exact spot I saw her standing in, head tilting back to stare up at my kitchen window on the top floor of my three-story building. She knows where I fucking live. Not just the address, but the exact apartment, too.
Panting with outrage—and I hate to admit, a sick sense of foreboding—I look to my right, squinting to see if I spot her down the block.
Nothing.
I repeat the process to my left, my bare feet scraping the concrete as I walk a few paces.
Of course, she’s gone. She was gone by the time I got back to the window. No telling what fucking direction she actually went in.
The gold cross around my neck feels heavier than ever before. I clasp it to alleviate its weight but it nearly sears my palm, jerking my hand away as a hiss whirs through my teeth. “What the fuck?”
He’s smiting you. You should really take that thing off . . . before it’s too late.
I should, I know I should. Especially considering more and more of her weapons are being collected and examined. If anyone so much as glimpses the design of my cross, they’ll start asking questions.
Questions I can’t afford to answer.
Paranoia all but seeps out of my pores just thinking about what an interrogation of that nature would go down like.
Take it off.
Take it off, Maverick.
TAKE. IT. OFF. Or your truths shall be exposed.
Depraved: St. Cecilia Slayings Book Three Page 5