Sinners and Saints

by Jennifer Roberson

  I offered Molly a casual smile, set two fingers against my forehead and snapped them forward in tribute. “Be seeing you.” Then I walked myself right out of that bar.

  * * *

  —

  I was still grinning about undermining Molly as I popped the locks on the truck with the remote, and then I heard a noise from the breezeway. Half the exterior lights along the strip mall were out, so I couldn’t see anything within the narrow tunnel between buildings. I knew it was possible Molly had slipped out the back door and was coming for me, so I went right to the passenger door, opened it, moved behind a makeshift shield even as I unholstered the Taurus. With my left hand I worked my phone out of a pocket, thumbed the flashlight app, and threw illumination into the breezeway. It wasn’t truly powerful light, but even a match in utter blackness can light up a cave.

  A person was huddled on the ground, tucked back inside the breezeway about half-way. I saw a tangled spray of blonde hair spilled across the asphalt, darkened by blood, and one spread hand flattened against the masonry wall. A smeared reddish mark on the bricks was either old paint, or fresh blood.

  My mind registered female, though I couldn’t be sure. Plenty of men, myself included, wore their hair quite long. But the body knotted upon itself with its head down, one hand braced against the wall, was too slight even for a short man.

  I shone the cell phone light around the breezeway as best I could, saw that the left hand remained pressed against the wall. The right hand was spread against the asphalt. As my light reached the person, the hand rose, fisted itself into hair.

  I heard a low moan. It rose slowly, sustained itself a moment at a higher pitch, then died away. Definitely female. On the heels of the moan came a rising wail. It was a woman’s keening, the gut-deep, involuntary sound of an emotional pain so deep it could not be kept in.

  The confines of the breezeway lent the tone a hollow, muted echo. I saw movement, saw the hand against the wall tighten, and then fingers scraped themselves along rough brick and left ruddy smears. She attempted to push herself up, to rise. She failed, fell back.

  The woman lifted her head. Light bled across her face and showed me one eye puffy and empurpled, a split and bloodied lip. The uninjured eye was wide, fixed on the cell phone’s light. Lips parted as she rocked forward, rose to her knees, reached both hands out toward me as far as she could, palms up. Her head was kept low. It was a posture of supplication, of pure vulnerability. She was placing the next moments of her life into my hands. There was no future for her save the one I gave her.

  The unbloodied portions of her hair were a true blond, springing from her scalp in long tangled waves. Beneath the hair, as she rose onto her knees, I saw badly torn fabric. One breast was partially exposed within strips of shredded fabric.

  With bloodied hands outstretched, she spoke for the first time. Her voice was broken, hoarse. “Believe.”

  Gun in one hand, phone in the other, I approached. All my instincts were shouting to forget self-defense, to think only about an injured woman and not the potential for a surrogate attack. But the first couple of days of denial had been overtaken by a sharp, almost paranoid awareness that this war at the End of Days was legitimate. As Mulder was told repeatedly on X-Files: Trust no one. Yet she asked me to believe.

  As I came up on her she sat back down, settling on tucked feet. The one eye was so swollen that all I could see were the tips of her lashes. The other eye, a clear, pale blue, was stretched wide as she stared up at me. The pupil shrank down as I played my phone’s light across her face. “Believe.”

  My dad, who had worked rape cases with the department, once said that victims of rape or assault usually didn’t want to press charges because no one would believe them, particularly if the rapist was well-positioned in society.

  This woman’s plea for me to believe carried an undertone of despair, not for the act but for the reception she anticipated.

  As I hesitated she whispered the word again: “Believe.”

  Okay.

  I shoved the revolver back into the holster beneath my left arm and sank down onto one bent knee and boot toe, giving myself over to whatever was meant to happen.

  Just as she had.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I kept my voice low. “I’m going to call 911, okay? The paramedics will take care of you. I’ll wait right here with you. I’m not leaving.” I had the phone in my hand. “It won’t be long before they arrive. I’ll stay right here with you.”

  She remained on her knees, but she no longer rocked. No longer positioned herself as a supplicant. She placed trembling hands in her hair, tried to pull it back from her face. It was in complete disarray as she made an attempt to tuck it behind her ears. I saw more clearly the damage done to her features. The right side of her jaw was bruised and swollen.

  I wondered if Remi had any kind of first aid kit in his truck that I could use in the meantime. Maybe even a chemical ice pack to place against her jaw, some antiseptic wipes.

  “I’m calling now, okay?” I pressed numeral nine, then held off as she spoke again.

  “The god must have his way. The god must punish.”

  My brows shot upward. “A god?”

  “A god must punish. I angered him.”

  Well. And just like that, the game changed again. Not a bad-guy surrogate, but an actual deity.

  Well, unless she had some kind of mental disorder. But still, these days? I was placing no bets. “A god punished you by assaulting you?”

  “He will find me. When he wants me, he will find me.”

  A week before, I’d have chalked up her words to medication gone wrong, or shock. But an African god tended bar in the Zoo, an Irish goddess lived in a motorhome, a fallen angel danced on top of a bar, and Lucifer’s shock troops were on our asses.

  I didn’t input the last two numerals. This was a woman whom a god had assaulted. Where could I take her that was safe? Where could I take her that no gods or demons could track her? A hospital was not the best choice despite her condition, because any of the medical staff could be hosting a demon . . . or, hell, the god could walk right in and drag her out. Same with a police station. There was the Zoo, but it was not quite ten pm, and the place would be in full swing. The back door opened right into the pool table alcove, so even there it would be difficult to take her in discreetly. And shutting the place down, kicking everyone out would take time and cause questions even as it left her vulnerable.

  I set down the phone with the flashlight app turned on so it lighted the breezeway in a dim glow. I sat my butt down on the ground and crossed my legs, with mild protest from asphalt-battered muscles. I needed to get her somewhere safe so we could tend her ASAP, but I was concerned that rushing her, touching her with any kind of urgency, might be the worst actions to take.

  “He will punish,” she said. “The god will punish you.”

  And now it was me as potential victim. Great. “Because I’m helping you?”

  “He came into the temple. He took me.”

  ‘Took’ could mean he took her out of the temple, or raped her there. Possibly ‘took’ her virginity. It was a turn of speech I hadn’t heard for years.

  Temple. Temple. Could she mean synagogue? Mormon temple? Hell, Masonic temple?

  “Believe me,” she whispered. And then she looked beyond me, cried out, and ducked close to the ground.

  I lunged up from asphalt and spun even as I unholstered the Taurus, aware of twinges in my muscles, a slowed response. I expected to see Molly’s host body, or whatever Molly might look like in demon form, but no one was there. No thing was there. The truck sat silently with its passenger door open, interior light glowing, just as I had left it. Dim parking lot lighting showed me nothing. No one.

  We couldn’t remain here. I needed to get her into the truck and moved.

  Okay. Zoo it was. I’d call Remi an
d have him bring out a blanket when I pulled up. We could wrap her in it, hide her against the stares, get her upstairs where we could help her clean up. She might not want two strange men doing anything, but Mary Jane Kelly was there. She understood what demonic threat meant now, knew Ganji was a god and Lily a goddess. Kelly could help her. And as a Park Service employee I was certain she’d had thorough first aid training.

  I turned back, lowered the gun. My phone still sat on the asphalt next to her, but was dimming as the battery ran down. “We need to go,” I told her. “Will you come with me? Will you let me help you into the truck? I’ll have to touch you. I’ll have to put my hands on you. But I promise I won’t do anything more.”

  Hell, that promise was all I could think to offer. I could not put myself in a woman’s place, particularly one who had been raped. My empathy was intellectual. I couldn’t feel it.

  I holstered my gun, showed her my empty hands. “I won’t hurt you. For whatever a stranger’s promise is worth, I offer it.” I paused, then said the one word that might make a dent. “Believe.”

  She gazed up at me, weighing my words, studying my eyes and expression. Then she looked at her own hands, her bloodied hands, and offered one to me.

  I helped her up, steadied her. Bent and scooped up the phone, wincing as I did so. I was going to turn it off, but she seemed to find security in the lighted screen. I gave it to her, began to guide her to the truck. At the open door, as I told her to get in, she climbed up unsteadily, sat stiffly. I debated belting her in . . . for all I knew she’d been bound, tied to a bed or something. A seat belt across her lap, the shoulder strap cutting down through her breasts, might well make her worse. So I resolved to drive very carefully. I raised the window, shut the door, went around to the driver’s side, opened the door.

  Just as I started to climb up, I saw the envelope on the seat.

  Manilla envelope.

  My name printed on the outside.

  Now I knew that the woman had in all likelihood seen a demon delivering the envelope.

  I clamped my left hand around the steering wheel and wanted very badly to rip it out of the truck just to expel some of the rage. But a traumatized victim sat across the console and did not need to see any form of male aggression.

  I settled myself behind the wheel. Stared at the envelope in my hands and debated whether I should open it, or perhaps simply dump it out the window and let good ol’ Jack the Ripper discover that I wasn’t playing his game, either. Not anymore.

  But it was because of the other envelopes, the other photographs, that we had found Mary Jane Kelly, been able to keep her alive.

  I tore it open, slid fingers inside, found the 8x10 photo as expected. As I removed it I took care not to view the actual image. It would serve nothing. I’d seen similar. A kidney resided in our freezer. I turned it over, read the writing on the back.

  ‘It didn’t end with #5. And any order serves.’

  So Kelly continued to be endangered, and others as well. Remi had said it was believed the Ripper killed women other than the five whose names were known. Obviously, this version of him wasn’t renouncing his habit and entering rehab.

  A woman in comparable danger sat next to me. I had no time to remain here and debate, so I sailed envelope and photo into the back seat with a flip of my hand, thrust the key into the ignition and started the truck. It took all I had to speak calmly to the woman, to keep the anger and frustration at bay.

  “I’m taking you somewhere safe,” I told her. “It’s noisy. Lots of people. But my friend and I will take you upstairs where it’s private, and a woman friend of ours can help you clean up. Okay?”

  She did not reply. She sat there clutching the phone, staring into its glow.

  * * *

  —

  The Zoo’s parking lot was nearly full. I pulled around behind the building where the area was absent of vehicles. I had no clue whether Ganji had a car, or if he even drove. Did a god need to? Or did he just translocate at will?

  One yellow buglight outside the back door, one old-fashioned sodium street light hung high on a battered wooden telephone pole, which also bathed the immediate area in pale yellow illumination. While the woman hung onto my dead cell I once again pulled the magic phone from my pocket and hit Remi’s contact icon. Hoped I wasn’t interrupting anything of an intimate nature between him and Kelly.

  He answered right away. “What’s up?”

  “We’re going to have a visitor,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole story once we’re upstairs, but I’m outside the back door and need you to bring a blanket. I’ve got a woman with me who’s been sexually assaulted and I want to bring her in without exposing her to curious eyes. And tell Kelly, if you would . . . this is going to need a woman’s intervention. She’s barely speaking. I don’t even know her name.” I used my lowered tone to underscore the situation. “She did say that a god raped her.”

  He didn’t ask any questions and didn’t suggest I take her to a hospital. He understood the delicacy of the situation and simply said “Okay” and disconnected.

  I looked at her. She sat in the seat with her head tilted downward, staring at the phone.

  “You can call someone,” I said. “It’s still got a little juice.”

  But she said and did nothing. I couldn’t even see her profile because hair obscured it.

  “My name is Gabriel,” I said. “Gabe Harlan. We’re going to go inside, then up some stairs. Remi—my friend Remi McCue, a cowboy—is going to bring a blanket for you, so you can wrap up. And a woman friend, Mary Jane Kelly, will help as well. No one will harm you. I promise that. We’ll take you upstairs to our apartment, and Mary Jane will help you clean up. Okay? No one will touch you except Mary Jane, if you want help.”

  She did not respond.

  I unlocked the truck with the remote, stepped out and quickly rounded the front end to the passenger door. I heard the squeak of the screen door hinges and saw Remi and Kelly come out of the building. Mary Jane carried the blanket, which was probably best.

  I turned back to the woman. “Remi and Mary Jane are here. Mary Jane has the blanket.” I opened the door. “You can come on out. You’re safe.”

  It was Kelly who came up, while Remi hung back. I moved out of the way, let Kelly take point. She stepped closer, nodded at the woman. “You’re safe now,” she said. “Let us help you. Come on out of the truck and we’ll get you wrapped up.”

  The woman looked beyond Kelly to Remi. With her undamaged eye, she examined him hatted head to booted toe, but did not seem alarmed or hesitant. She gave Kelly the same once-over. Then she climbed down awkwardly even as I stuck out my hand. She took it, held on a moment, as if she felt better for the contact, then let it go.

  She was tall, taller than I expected, and wearing something akin to a long gown, but torn. Yellow light showed a shadowed starkness in her face where illumination didn’t reach. Blood, bruises, and swelling altered her face so much that her true features could not be evaluated.

  Kelly stepped forward, slowly unfolding the blanket. She shook it out, held it up and made eye contact. “I’m Mary Jane. Will you come with me?”

  The woman nodded. Kelly wrapped her up in fabric, then guided her toward the door.

  Remi stayed back to ask a couple of questions. “What happened?”

  “I found her outside the bar. She’s been beaten and raped, is mostly non-verbal. She did specifically say it was a god, but, you know, maybe yes, maybe no, these days.” I rubbed at the back of my neck, remembering her words and tone. “She also said he could take her at any time, and that he would punish me as well. Which probably means us, since we’re working together. But she hasn’t ID’d the god, so I have no clue whom it may be.” I hit the remote, locked the truck, handed the keys to Remi with thanks. “Oh, and Molly was there. At the bar. She is bound and determined to screw with us, one way or
another.”

  Remi and I walked to the back door. “God Almighty,” he said as he opened the screen door, “we have got ourselves in one hell of a mess.”

  Indoors it was as I had described it to the woman: full of people, full of noise. Jukebox music, clacking pool balls, raised voices, dancers whooping and hooting on the parquet during a very rowdy song. We cut through the pool tables rapidly, went right to the stairs and climbed quickly. Inside the apartment we heard the sound of a shower and occasionally a woman’s voice recognizable as Mary Jane Kelly’s.

  Remi looked startled. “They say don’t let a rape victim shower,” he said urgently. “Evidence is being washed away.”

  “I thought about that, but if she reports a god as the attacker, they’ll probably shackle her to the hospital bed for her own protection, then haul her away to the looney bin.” I shrugged. “And, if there is one, who is better prepared to deal with a rogue god anyway: us, or police?”

  “I’m not so sure we’re prepared to deal with a rogue god,” Remi shot back. “Maybe more’n the police, sure, but I think we’re in over our heads if a god is out to get her. Or us.”

  I pulled the iAngel phone from my pocket, pressed Grandaddy’s icon. To my great annoyance, he didn’t answer. I left a message:

  “We’ve got a woman here who says she was assaulted by a god. She hasn’t said much to us, but maybe she would to an angel. Give me a yell, or just show up. Help would be appreciated.”

  Remi went poking through kitchen cabinets, pulling things out to look behind them, digging around through drawers. I finally asked him what he was doing.

  “I figure there’s a first aid kit around here somewhere. Most likely in the bathroom, but I thought I’d check.”

  I walked down the hall to the bathroom Remi and I shared, tapped quietly on the door with a knuckle. “Do you have a first aid kit in there?”

  “I found it,” came Kelly’s voice. “She’s mostly got bruises, some lacerations. Nothing broken. But her clothes are wrecked and she needs something to wear. I haven’t been home since you brought me down off the mountain, so I’ve got nothing other than what I’m wearing. Do you have a washing machine?”