Damned (Shaye Archer Series Book 7)

by DeLeon, Jana

  “Get up and sit in the chair,” he said. “It’s time for atonement.”

  She drew in a deep breath, trying to think. Maybe if she got on the chair, she’d have a better chance of making a run for it. Finally, she inched her head up to get a look at her captor.

  Then wished she hadn’t.

  He was dressed in a long black robe with a hood. A giant crucifix hung around his neck. But it was the face that bothered her the most. It wasn’t there. He wore one of those solid material masks that eliminated features. It was black, like the robe, and utterly terrifying. All of the hard work she’d done to remain calm flew right out the window. She choked back a cry and every muscle in her body knotted. Her stomach roiled and the room began to spin.

  He reached down with one gloved hand and pulled her up and into the chair. Any chance of running was dashed when he slipped the ropes around her hands, tying them together and then to the chair.

  “There’s a locked door at the top of the stairs,” he said. “In case you thought about trying to get away.”

  “What do you want from me?” she cried out.

  He stared at her silently and even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she could feel them on her.

  “I want to save you,” he said.

  She started to scream.

  18

  Thursday, May 19, 2016

  St. Mary’s, New Orleans

  Nicolas was in the courtyard again. It was night and a storm brewed overhead. The moon slipped in and out of the clouds, exposing parts of the lawn for seconds, then eclipsing them in darkness once more. He was in his wheelchair on the walkway to his living quarters but for some reason, the wheels wouldn’t move. He leaned over, checking each side to see if something was jammed in them or if he’d run up against something on the sidewalk, but he couldn’t find anything.

  About twenty feet from him, the hedges rustled. He froze, staring at the foliage, trying to see what had caused the movement. It wasn’t wind because the night air had suddenly gone still and silent. He couldn’t even hear cars on the street. It was as if the entire world had been put on pause except for this little piece that he existed in. The moon slipped behind the clouds and he heard the rustling again.

  He grabbed the wheels and tried to move the chair again, but to no avail. He even tried rocking them in reverse, but it was as if the chair were being held in place. As the clouds passed on, a dim glow of moonlight began to illuminate the courtyard. A figure stood next to the hedge from where the noise had come. He’d been trying to convince himself that the noise had been made by a feral cat, but he’d known a cat couldn’t make that much noise. It was a man. It had always been a man.

  He was nothing more than a shadow outlined on the lawn, and Nicolas knew that even if there were bright spotlights shining on him, Nicolas wouldn’t be able to see his face. The man took a step closer and Nicolas shoved the wheels, twisting backward and forward, praying that whatever sorcery held them in place would let go of its hold on them. He kept his gaze locked on the man as he took another step closer. He never took two in a row. Just a single step, then stopped. Then another second later, he stepped again. Nicolas knew the action was intentional. It was just a way to scare him, and it was working.

  He reached into his pocket and fumbled for the Mace, relieved that it was still in place. He slipped the cap off, making sure he kept his hands low and in his lap, not wanting to give away his advantage. When the man got close enough, he’d strike. The man’s mask was made of cloth. The Mace should penetrate some of it. The man took another step closer and Nicolas prepared to fire. One more step and he’d be within feet of the chair. Two more steps and Nicolas would make his move.

  One step.

  Two steps.

  Nicolas flung his hand up, but he wasn’t quick enough. The man blocked his arm and shoved it to the side, causing him to lose his grip on the Mace, which went sailing across the courtyard. The man took one more step toward him and leaned forward, his hands reaching for Nicolas’s neck. Nicolas opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He tried again, this time forcing himself so hard that his lungs felt as if they were going to burst.

  But he couldn’t make even a strangled cry.

  The man’s hands closed around his neck. As he looked up into the blank face, fear coursed through him and a wave of dizziness passed over him. This was it. This was how it all ended. With the little strength he had remaining, he reached up with one hand and grabbed the mask, then ripped it from his attacker’s face.

  I know him.

  That’s when he woke up.

  He sprang upright and had to force himself not to cry out as pain shot through his shoulder and arm. His entire body was drenched in sweat and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He clutched his injured arm with his good one and leaned back against the elevated headrest of his hospital bed. He forced himself to take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. The steady beep of the heart monitor slowed and he felt his body relax.

  What had happened?

  His mind was all fuzzy. Probably because of the sleeping pill.

  It was a nightmare. That much he remembered. He was back on the courtyard walkway and his wheelchair wouldn’t move. The penitent appeared and attacked him. He frowned. There was something else. Something that flickered just at the edge of his memory.

  The mask! He’d removed the mask from the penitent.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force a face to appear, but all he saw was the black cloth stretched beneath the black hoodie. His breath came out in a whoosh and he realized he’d been holding it. Every muscle in his body was tense again.

  He opened his eyes and reached for the glass of water on the tray next to the bed. As he dragged the glass over, something fell onto his lap. He looked down and his hands began to shake. No. It couldn’t be. A single piece of folded paper lay on his blanket. The cup slipped from his hand and fell onto the floor, splashing water onto the wall. He reached down and picked it up. It contained one word.

  Confess.

  Shaye parked in front of a café and looked over at Hustle. “You sure you don’t mind doing this?”

  He managed to hold in a sigh but just barely. It was only the third time she’d asked since they left the motel where he lived with his foster parent, an old friend of Shaye’s.

  “Mind doing what?” he asked. “Walking around in broad daylight at a church? Yeah, that’s some serious risks—all those religious people.”

  “It’s a potential crime scene, and for all I know, the perp could be one of those religious people.”

  He stared at her, not certain if she was serious or joking. “That’s seriously screwed up. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, but I have to think that way. It’s how I catch the bad guys.”

  He grinned. “You’re not going to get any argument from me. I’ve seen crazy up close. I know it’s out there. Any final instructions?”

  “No. Just be careful. Try not to draw attention to yourself.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a cover story if anyone asks. I think you’re forgetting which one of us has the street smarts.”

  She smiled. “Get out of here then, smarty-pants. I’ll be in the café with a plate of beignets. If you’re lucky, I’ll save you one.”

  “Cruel,” he said as he hopped out of the car.

  Shaye had parked a block away from the church because she didn’t want anyone who was employed there to see her nearby. Hustle hadn’t asked her for details because he knew she couldn’t tell him and in the big scheme of things, it really didn’t matter. Shaye had a client, which meant someone needed her help and the police couldn’t handle whatever it was. Hustle knew better than most how that felt. It was Shaye who had believed his story and helped him rescue his friend Jinx and ultimately get them both off the streets.

  So when Shaye asked for his help with an investigation, his answer was always going to be a resounding yes. Because he knew exactly what kind of cases she t
ook on and the difficulty involved in solving them. This one happened to be a really simple favor—walk the grounds and see how far it was from the courtyard walkway to the building with the living quarters. Take some pictures and give an assessment on the layout and how sound would carry. Living on the streets, he’d learned to make quick judgment about buildings and alleyways. Discerning all the potential pitfalls of a location was exactly what kept him safe.

  What he did know was that her client was in a wheelchair and someone had scared him and caused him to fall off the sidewalk. The fact that someone was screwing around with a dude in a wheelchair made Hustle mad about the whole thing. He hoped whatever he saw helped Shaye find the asshole who’d done it.

  He walked through the stone entry onto the church grounds, appreciating the structure in front of him. It was massive and old. And while he had no desire to work in any other art form than drawing and painting, he had a ton of respect for the craftsmen who had fit together all of that stone to create a work of art that would survive hundreds of years.

  He pulled out his phone and took a picture of the front, then started walking around, stopping occasionally to snap another shot. He was there to get information for Shaye, but already, his artist’s mind was forming the subject of his next painting. He walked around the church and into the courtyard. It was a large area with elaborate and well-maintained landscaping. Winter had dragged on this year, so the azalea bushes were late to bloom and weren’t quite done yet. He stopped to take a couple shots of the bursts of color with the stone building as a backdrop.

  He located the walkway that Shaye had indicated and made his way toward it. It was easy to find the indentations where her client had rolled his wheelchair off the cement and into the grass. He backed up, pretending to study the massive wooden doors behind the walkway, and snapped several shots of the damaged area.

  Once he’d documented the scene, he hopped up onto the walkway and headed for the living quarters. As he walked, he paced off his steps. When he reached the building at the end of the walkway he stopped and made a note of the distance. Then he began taking pictures of the building. He started with the front first, then walked around each side to get a picture of the windows. Then he returned to the front of the building and took a couple more shots of the walkway leading away from the building.

  The photos didn’t make any difference to Hustle. Once he’d seen something, it was imprinted on his mind forever. All he had to do was think about it and it was there as if he were looking right at it. But Shaye needed the pictures because for whatever reason, she couldn’t go look herself, and he doubted her client had the luxury of waiting for Hustle to sketch it all.

  “Can I help you?” A man’s voice sounded behind him.

  He turned around, forcing himself to remain relaxed and casual. The man behind him was probably in his middle thirties and was wearing a priest’s collar. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m just taking some pictures for art class.”

  The man smiled. “I’m Father Malcolm. You’re a student?”

  Hustle nodded. “Southern Artists Academy. I’m first year.”

  “That’s a difficult school to get into. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you look very young. You must be extremely talented.”

  He shrugged. “I guess. Regular school wasn’t really my thing, you know. So I did the GED and applied. I was lucky enough to get in so now I get to work on what I really care about.”

  “And you don’t have to worry about algebra or grammar or boring history.”

  Hustle smiled because he knew the priest was joking with him and it was the expected response. “I guess so. Although there’s still plenty of math that goes into painting. And I like history. Some of it anyway. That’s why I want to paint this building. The architecture is incredible. And the grounds provide the contrast in color and texture. It’s a great subject for my next assignment. We have to paint a local structure. I don’t suppose you can tell me about the construction of the church, can you?”

  “I’m afraid not. We don’t have a shared love of history, and what I know about architecture wouldn’t fill a thimble. But Father Bernard is quite studied on it and has regaled me with tales of the church construction many times. Let me get him for you.”

  Before Hustle could protest, the priest slipped back inside the living quarters. What the hell. Might as well talk to this Father Bernard and keep up the charade. Shaye might need him to come back for some reason and at least he had a good excuse for it. He took a couple more shots of the walkway leading to the courtyard and finally heard the door open behind him. He turned around and saw an older priest with silver-and-black hair step out, favoring his right knee.

  “I’m Father Bernard,” the priest said. “Father Malcolm tells me you’re an art student with an interest in old architecture?”

  “Yes. Can you tell me about the construction of the church?”

  “Absolutely. New Orleans architecture is one of my favorite subjects and I’ve spent a lot of time studying this building in particular.” Father Bernard launched into a detailed explanation of the construction process and materials and even the tools that would have been used.

  Hustle nodded as he talked, impressed with the depth of the man’s knowledge.

  “What’s unique about this church,” Father Bernard continued, “is that all the additions and other structures were part of the original build. It showed either great forethought or great ego to assume this size would be necessary, but it worked out.”

  Hustle nodded. “One of the first things I noticed was that the stone is the same hue on all the buildings. And the mortar possesses the same amount of aging. When things were constructed at different times, it’s impossible to match both. I mean, plenty of people won’t notice but…”

  “The artist, or builder, or historical architectural scholar would,” Father Bernard finished. “But I agree. Most wouldn’t. You have a good eye but then I assume that’s why you were accepted to such a prestigious school. Have you determined what part of the church you’ll use as the subject of your assignment?”

  “Not yet. I’m walking around the grounds today and taking some pictures. Things look different in person than they do in photos, but the pictures help refresh my memory. Usually I get a feeling about something—like it calls to me to be painted. It’s hard to explain.”

  Father Bernard smiled. “You’re speaking to someone who understands a calling more than most.”

  Hustle laughed. “I guess you’re right. I see very minor repairs on the outside surfaces, so I assume there has been minimal shifting. Do you know anything about the foundation?”

  “Yes. A big part of the reason for the lack of shifting is that a large portion of the church has catacombs beneath it.”

  Hustle perked up. Given flooding concerns, basements were rare in New Orleans. “Catacombs? Like a basement for dead people?”

  “Exactly, although no one was ever interred here. I assume they decided flooding was too much of a concern.”

  “So what is the space used for?”

  “Nothing now and not ever that I’m aware of. Given the lack of electricity and propensity for water seepage, they’re not even good for storage. But the construction of the stone walls has served as piers for the structure, preventing a lot of movement that probably would have existed otherwise.”

  “That’s really impressive,” Hustle said. “That they created an underground structure so sound that it’s held this kind of weight and only shifted a bit. They don’t make buildings like that today, that’s for sure. Heck, our doors stick every time it stops raining for more than a couple days.”

  Father Bernard nodded. “Modern buildings are necessary but not art. It’s rare to see someone put in the time to conceive of this type of accomplishment, then carry it out with the building process. Everything today is about deadlines, which is about the bottom line, I’m afraid.”

  “People gotta eat, right?” Hustle looked over the building that house
d their living quarters. “Is this where you live?”

  “Yes. The building is designed with several bedrooms and a common kitchen and living area. Each bedroom has its own bath and a good-sized living area as well.”

  “And no problems with doors sticking?”

  Father Bernard laughed. “Not so far.”

  “The windows look original. Do they still open?”

  “Yes. We open them quite often when the breeze is nice.”

  Hustle glanced over at the street that was fifty feet away. “The noise from the street doesn’t bother you? I try opening my window, but all the honking and tire squealing distracts me.”

  “We usually don’t open them until late evening when we’re retired for the night. The streets are a lot quieter by then given that there are no restaurants or bars directly across the street. But we do hear the occasional partygoer who imbibed a bit too much and is shouting at his friends rather than talking at a normal level.”

  “People here like their alcohol.” Hustle stuck his hand out. “Thank you for your time. I’m looking forward to diving into this assignment.”

  “You’re very welcome, and if you’d ever like to discuss the buildings further or decide to do something on the interior, please come speak to me again. I could talk for an hour on the woodwork alone.”

  Hustle nodded and made his way down the walkway. He officially knew more about the construction of the church than he ever wanted to, and no way was he ever asking about the inside. An hour’s monologue on woodworking would put him to sleep. He didn’t need to hear about every step of the process in excruciating detail in order to appreciate the artistry, but the priest was clearly passionate about the subject and probably couldn’t contain himself when he found a willing listener.

  He forced himself into a casual stroll as he left, pausing to take another couple shots for good measure. In the courtyard, he ran into Father Malcolm again and thanked him for his assistance. Once he was off the church grounds, he picked up his pace and hurried back to the café where Shaye was waiting.