Deliver Us from Evil

by Allison Brennan

  And why had the killer removed the weapons? Perhaps to make it appear that something supernatural had happened when it was simply another example of human violence? The weapons probably didn’t belong in the mission. Someone had brought them there. Skye’s head hurt as she contemplated that someone had drugged twelve men, put weapons in proximity, and watched the brutal show. The weapons themselves must hold significance to the killers, or be traceable, otherwise why would they need to reclaim them?

  She wanted to ask Anthony. He obviously understood religious nutcases.

  That’s not fair.

  Skye ran a hand through her hair, messing with the ponytail, and she undid it, shaking her head.

  Someone must have drugged the men after Davies left. If, in fact, Davies was involved at all. Perhaps she had been a scapegoat? Maybe the men had been drugged by someone inside, and Rafe Cooper arrived and pointed a finger at Corinne Davies. Maybe she was truly an innocent, but knew something. Could she, too, be in danger?

  She’d gone off to a spa and her daughter was alone. Had her daughter reached her? Where were they now? Could they also be victims, and in Skye’s exuberance to find a suspect and close this case she had put potential victims in the suspect column?

  She called Rod. She had one more question for him.

  “How were the drugs administered to the men the night they died?”

  “All I can tell you is that they ate stew the night they died.”

  “Stew?”

  “You know, beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, gravy. Stew.”

  “What about additions? Were the drugs in the stew?”

  “The drugs had to have been in the stew. All but one of the men ate it. The richness of the food would have disguised the bitterness. I don’t have the lab reports back yet to confirm.”

  Just like the sugar she added to her coffee disguised the bitterness.

  “Who didn’t eat the stew?”

  She heard him flipping through papers. “Jeremiah Hatch. He had lettuce, carrots, onions, and bread, no stew.”

  “Why wasn’t Rafe Cooper affected?”

  “He wasn’t dead. I couldn’t examine his stomach contents,” he said sarcastically.

  “What about tox screens? Wouldn’t the hospital have run tests?”

  “Is this important?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call over to the hospital and find out. I had the lab test his blood and he had no mercury or heavy metal poisoning.”

  “Didn’t you say that you could see traces in the hair of the priests?”

  Rod paused. “Yes, but that ended two weeks ago. And your comatose friend was only there for a few weeks before.”

  “Can you check, anyway?”

  He sighed. “Of course.”

  “And don’t forget the prints at my house.”

  “I have someone working on it.”

  “Thanks, Rod. I didn’t mean to snap at you. This case—” She didn’t have to say anything else.

  “I know. Be careful.”

  She hung up and considered the new information. Either Cooper hadn’t eaten the stew and he was involved, or as the evidence showed, he was locked in his room. A room with no locks.

  If Cooper had suspected the housekeeper of drugging the priests, why hadn’t he pressed charges? Nothing had come through her department. And if Davies was no longer in the picture, how was the food tainted? By this Hatch guy who had no stew in his stomach? But he was dead when the fire started—had Davies broken into the mission to set it? Had they been working together? Why? And what purpose would she have had for drugging those men and turning them into killers?

  Motive. That’s what was bugging Skye. There was no damn reason for those men to be drugged.

  By the time she walked into the station late that evening, she was exhausted, but Juan was still missing and she’d get no sleep knowing he could be injured, imprisoned, or worse.

  She ran the delivery guy and Hatch through the database. Nothing. Hatch didn’t even have a driver’s license, in California or any other state. Which made sense because there had been only one car at the mission, a ten-year-old Chevy Suburban registered to Raphael Cooper.

  Deputy Tommy Reiner dropped a thick file folder on her desk. “Background on the dead priests,” he said.

  She opened the folder. “Anything pop out at you?”

  “Lots of holes. Only three were United States citizens. The other nine were from all over the world. Got one guy from Argentina, another from Nigeria, another from Denmark. A regular melting pot up there.”

  “Why’s the folder so thick?”

  “I pulled medical records, at least what I could get without a court order. They were all under the care of the same doc, a shrink named Charles Wicker.”

  “I spoke to him this morning.” And then she’d let Anthony talk to a potential witness. How could she have done that?

  She had more questions for Dr. Wicker. Because it was after hours, she dialed his home number first.

  After four rings: “Wicker residence.”

  “This is Sheriff Skye McPherson from Santa Louisa. I’d like to speak with Dr. Wicker regarding a patient of his.”

  A long pause. “Badge number?”

  She didn’t expect that, but she recited the number from memory.

  “Sheriff, this is Officer Timothy Young from the Santa Clara Police Department. Dr. Wicker was shot earlier today. We arrived on the scene an hour ago after his daughter discovered him and called 911.”

  “How?”

  “Gunshot to the head. He apparently surprised a burglar. We think his attacker may have been after drugs.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Dr. Wicker was a psychiatrist. His garage was converted into an office. We believe it happened between one and two when he returned from lunch.”

  “Will he make it?”

  “Touch and go. He’s in surgery now.”

  “Do you know what was taken?”

  “Not exactly. The file cabinets were broken into, drugs all over the place, the room is a mess.”

  “I need you to do me a favor,” she said. “Can you check for a specific file?”

  “Is this related to a case?”

  “I’m working the murders at Santa Louisa Mission. Dr. Wicker was the psychiatrist for the men who lived there.”

  Skye could almost see Officer Young nodding. “I’ll have to talk to the detective in charge; he arrived a few minutes ago. I’ll have him get back to you. What are you looking for?”

  She read him the list of names of the dead priests, Raphael “Rafe” Cooper, and asked for any files related to Santa Louisa.

  She hung up and told Reiner what she’d learned. “I don’t think Wicker’s shooting was a coincidence.”

  Reiner was reading her report from her meeting with the bishop. “Hey, I don’t know if this means anything, but it says that the housekeeper, Davies, had worked in Salem. One of the dead guys, Hatch, was in Salem about five years ago. Think they knew each other?”

  Hatch hadn’t eaten the stew.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I made a call to the diocese earlier today, but haven’t received a call back.” She called again, but it was after hours. She wondered if Anthony would be able to get information from them tonight, but again she hesitated to ask for his help. She could just as easily make the call in the morning. “Let’s assume that Davies and Hatch knew each other, what does it mean?”

  Reiner shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe they had a thing going on. Maybe they hated each other. Maybe she wanted to kill him, but poisoned everyone so there wouldn’t be a connection.”

  “Let’s go out to the Davies property again.”

  Her phone rang again. It was Rod.

  “What do you have for me?”

  “Hello to you, too.” His words were slurred.

  “You okay?”

  “Never been better,” he said sarcastically. “Just came home from the morgue to shower the stench of death off my body
.”

  “You’re drunk. Let’s talk in the morning.”

  “I have the report from my team who went to your house.”

  “And?”

  “The only fingerprints are yours, Juan’s, and Mr. Zaccardi’s.”

  That made sense. Juan was a regular visitor, they often had drinks after work, especially when his wife took the girls out of town to visit their large extended family. And Zaccardi had gone through her entire house.

  “What about the coffeepot?”

  “Yours and Zaccardi’s. You told me he’s the one who checked the grounds.”

  “What about the jar I keep my coffee in? The back of the coffeepot where the water goes?”

  “I know how to do my job. The entire coffeepot was checked. Mercury-laced grounds, a borderline lethal dose. You’re lucky Zaccardi was there.”

  Lucky? What if he had poisoned her to begin with? To distract her while his accomplice searched her house? Destroyed the journal? Or replaced the journal with blank, torn pages? She’d told him to leave the country; what if he had helped the killer? What if he was part of a larger conspiracy?

  Her head pounded. “Thanks,” she said quietly and hung up.

  It was Anthony all along. He’d poisoned her coffee, his were the only fingerprints on the pot. There was no other explanation.

  How could she have been so wrong about him? How could she have screwed him? He’d filled her mind with doubt and confusion, steering her away from the truth, giving her hope through trickery. She’d wanted so much to believe him when he told her he never lied. Even her heart lied to her, telling her she was safe in his arms.

  Anthony was a master of deception.

  “I want an APB put out on Anthony Zaccardi,” she told Reiner. “Call the front desk sergeant. I told Zaccardi he could pick up his passport. When he does, I want him arrested.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  ANTHONY FOUND ROD FIELDING at his house. The head CSI was three sheets to the wind, and still drinking.

  “Hey, preacher,” Rod said, opening the door wide, looking like an old man.

  “I’m not a priest.”

  Rod shrugged. “What can I do for you?”

  “Can I come in?”

  He shrugged again and Anthony stepped in, closed the door. “You’re done with the autopsies.”

  “Eight of them. Four more tomorrow. Then tissue analysis, blood work to follow up on, body parts to catalogue. Fun.” He drained a tall glass that looked more rum than Coke.

  “I—”

  Rod interrupted. “We found the eyes, by the way. Skye was upset about the eyes, but I found them.”

  “Where?” he asked quietly.

  “In the hands of another victim.”

  Anthony swallowed thickly. “I need to ask you something.”

  “I can’t tell you anything, you know that.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “But you can share the information about the missing eyes?”

  “Where’s Skye?”

  “Working.”

  “She booted you off the case.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “She can be prickly, but she’s a good cop.”

  “I know.”

  “She doesn’t believe your theory.”

  “Do you?”

  He rose, mixed himself another drink—rum with a splash of Coke. He sat down across from Anthony, leaned forward, face flushed but eyes surprisingly sober. “I don’t know what the fuck to believe, Zaccardi. This shit doesn’t happen here. I’ll never get rid of these images. I want to believe that something supernatural did this, that no human being could be so vicious. But I know we can. I saw what a man did to his family last year. Stabbed them to death while they slept. But nothing, nothing like this.”

  “Who was on the altar?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to know.”

  “Does this prove your satanic ritual theory?”

  “I never believed it was a satanic ritual,” Anthony said. Not in the way Rod did.

  “Altar.” He closed his eyes as if mentally going through files, then opened them and said, “Hatch, forty-seven, six foot even, one hundred eighty-six pounds.”

  A sick feeling crept in.

  “Does that mean something?”

  “Yes.” Anthony frowned.

  “What?”

  “Do you have the time of death for all the men?”

  “Time of death is an inexact science. We established they all died between four and five Monday morning.”

  “Do you know in what order they died?”

  “Three or four fatal fights broke out at once. I can tell based on blood spatter and foreign material in each body who was stabbed first, for example, but I don’t know the exact time they died. Not until we finish the autopsies, and even then we’re talking about minutes apart.”

  “What about the man on the altar?”

  “I can look it up at the office. Why? What do you think happened?”

  “I need to know if he was the last to die. I need to know how he died.”

  Rod stared at him for a long minute. “Skye would have my job if she knew I was telling you this. The guy on the altar had been stabbed in the shoulder, but that’s not what killed him. The wound was superficial. He died of a heart attack.”

  “He was young.”

  “Forty-seven isn’t too young for a heart attack. I’ve had victims as young as thirty-five on the table. But—” He stopped.

  “What?”

  “He had a healthy heart. No sign of an attack. His heart just—stopped.”

  Because the demon tried to possess him. And something happened.

  Had Rafe interrupted the process? Did Hatch have a change of heart? Right now, Anthony believed Jeremiah Hatch was intimately involved in the massacre. He had to have been one of the three. He sat on the altar watching the violence. Waiting. To willingly give up his soul. If Ianax has a willing human possession, he becomes twice as powerful than if he has to fight his way in. A willing human gained the immortality of the demon as long as they were united.

  Walk with the willing dead.

  A willing possession always ended in death once the demon was exorcized, but it was much more difficult to defeat the demon when the possessed soul wasn’t fighting.

  It was no coincidence Rafe had been on the floor next to the altar. He would have been dead or possessed had Anthony not come when he had. Rafe must have known what Hatch was doing. Stopped the ritual. But he’d been too late to save the others. He’d been held captive in his room—evidenced by the scratch marks and wounds on his hands—until the actual possession began and the demon couldn’t hold Rafe off.

  Why hadn’t Rafe been poisoned? Was it as simple as the fact that he wasn’t a priest? Or that he’d never seen evil incarnate? Or—

  “Do you know how the poison was given to the priests?”

  “I know how they consumed the last dose. In stew served late the night before.”

  “Stew.”

  “Everyone but Hatch and your friend Cooper. There’s no evidence of heavy metal poisoning in Cooper’s body.”

  “Rafe is a vegetarian,” Anthony said.

  “Since you and Skye are on the outs right now,” Rod said, “you probably haven’t heard. But it might be important. The psychiatrist treating the priests was shot today. All files related to the mission are missing.”

  Anthony froze. “Someone tried to kill Charles Wicker?”

  “Yep, he’s in surgery.” He drank half his rum. “I heard through the grapevine that Skye put out an APB on you. She thinks you’re the one who poisoned her coffee.”

  “Why?”

  “Your fingerprints, and hers, were the only ones found in the kitchen.”

  Skye was looking at the facts, the evidence—and thought he’d planned to kill her. That she had such a low opinion of him ached, but he didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity or indignation.

  “If I’m supposed to be in
prison, why did you talk to me to begin with?”

  Rod drained his rum and said, “Because I’ve been in this business a long time and something doesn’t add up. Hell, a lot of things aren’t making sense to me.” He stared at Anthony. “I don’t think you’re a killer, and God help me if I’m wrong, but I think you’re the only one who can stop whatever’s happening.”

  • • •

  Anthony sat in Rod Fielding’s personal car outside the sheriff’s department watching Skye’s police-issue Bronco. He’d talked Rod into swapping cars with him, though he wasn’t confident Rod wouldn’t let it slip if Skye called again that night. He could only hope the scientist passed out before that happened.

  It hurt and angered him that Skye thought he’d poisoned her. Her doubts—or guilt—told her he must be involved. He couldn’t convince her with words; only seeing would lead her to believe him.

  He called Father Philip. “What do you have?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “Give me everything.” He told Father Philip about the altar, Jeremiah Hatch, and his theory.

  Silence.

  “Father?”

  “I fear you are right.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Monsignor Hatch was never supposed to be at the Santa Louisa Mission. He returned to his home parish in D.C. after Guatemala and then one day asked his local bishop for a sabbatical. He asked if he could spend time at the Santa Louisa Mission, but the bishop felt he’d be better served at a retreat in Canada. He never showed up, and the bishop filed a missing persons report with the police department.”

  “How’d he get into the mission?”

  “You know they were very reclusive. They wouldn’t have turned away one of their own who was hurting.”

  Hurting.

  “What about Hatch’s childhood?”

  “I spoke with the Mother Superior at Sisters of Mercy and she couldn’t find his records.”

  “Missing records?”

  “It happens, Anthony. But—”

  “It’s suspicious, given what we know now.”

  “It’s a theory.”

  “How did his parents die?”

  “I don’t have that information.”