by Lou Paduano
She waved him off. “I know how it sounds.”
They’re bringing them back to life. Loren tried to hide his own feelings on the matter, but failed miserably. “Bringing people back from the dead? Only one way it sounds, unfortunately.”
“I’ve seen it,” she pleaded, begging to be believed.
“Your mother-in-law, right?”
She nodded. “Three months ago. She went in her sleep. Peaceful. She had been in such pain that her death was a blessing. Not to my husband, though. He became detached. Got lost for a bit. Little to no sleep. Long walks in the dark. I worried about him.”
With good reason. Portents wasn’t safe after the sun went down, though most didn’t realize the true reason why. Loren stirred his coffee absentmindedly. “Something changed?”
“I didn’t know what at first. He was just back and I was so thankful for it. The kids were too. Laughing and playing. He met someone down our street, he said.”
“You’re talking about Susan Barton?”
“Yes,” Kelli said after another satisfying sip. “But nothing scandalous, which I hate to admit was my first thought.”
“In this day and age—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “She lost her husband a year ago. Heart attack. Talking with her helped him. I thought it did, anyway. There were still the long walks, the sleepless nights, but it was different now. Like he had a purpose. If I had known….”
She trailed off, staring out into the darkness. Loren joined her, giving her the time, enjoying the silence. Few cars sped by outside. One sat parked on the far side of the street. A beat-up Chevy. It looked familiar. Loren took a long sip of liquid fuel, shaking off the lack of sleep. The last thing he needed was to start feeling paranoid, even with the connections Kelli made.
“Kelli.”
She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I saw her. In my kitchen. He brought her back with these people he’s met. They are bringing them all back. But that’s impossible…isn’t it?”
Loren’s hand reached for hers. “Let me take you home. I can ask your husband a few questions. Straighten the whole thing out.”
“That won’t be necessary, Greg.”
A shadow grew along the table. Both turned to see Richard Crowne approach, followed by two large men in trench coats. Another pair took up position at the entrance of the diner.
“Richard? What are you—?”
Kelli’s eyes flared. “You.”
“Kelli?” Loren asked, eyes shifting between her and the newcomer, his suit worth more than the detective made in six months. “You know this man?”
“He’s one of them,” she spat, pulling back to the wall. “One of the people with my husband. At their church.”
Richard grinned, his hands out and waiting for the woman in the booth. “Mrs. Andrews, you’re distraught. Please come with us. Your family misses you.”
Despite her silent refusal, her head shaking frantically, one of the men behind Richard moved for her. He snatched her wrist, clutching it tight, and pulled her out of the booth.
“Richard, what the hell are you doing?” Loren tried to stand, Kelli’s terror filled eyes stabbing at him. A hand fell on his shoulder, forcing him back on the bench of the booth, the other silent member of Richard’s crew keeping him in place.
“Sit, Greg,” Richard said, calmly joining him at the table. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Detective, please…” Kelli begged while being pulled across the restaurant. One of the men by the door joined the first to assist. No one else budged in the restaurant. The staff looked the other way. The tip jar was overflowing.
“You’re not well, Mrs. Andrews,” Richard called out, trying to calm the frantic woman. “We want to help.”
Kelli kicked and screamed, her cries echoing even through the closed door once outside. The final member of Richard’s crew joined he and Loren at the table, leaning close to their ringleader.
“Take her home,” Richard whispered. “I’ll be there soon.”
The man nodded, joining his silent brethren outside in the parking lot. Kelli’s screams faded. Lost in the darkness. Loren felt the pressure on his shoulders. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.
“I apologize, Greg. Not what I wanted you to see.”
“Too late for that,” Loren snapped. “What’s to stop me from carting your ass down to Central? You and your goons?”
Richard smiled. The woman behind the counter walked up and delivered a cup of coffee. The attorney’s eyes never left Loren as he pulled the cup close for a long sip. “An offer.”
“Pass.”
“You’ll want to hear me out, Greg. You of all people.”
Loren gritted his teeth. “You’re part of this. Digging up corpses.”
Richard shrugged. “A crude act, but necessary. For the work.”
“What work?”
“The work of God, Greg,” Richard replied, leaning close, his eyes shining under the lights of the diner. “The work of miracles. Miracles like you’ve never seen.”
Loren said nothing, fighting the urge to reach across the table and grab his so-called friend. He needed answers. It was why he was in the diner in the first place. But this? Miracles of God? Did he even know the real Richard Crowne?
“I know that look,” Richard said, reading his face. “I shared that look for awhile but then I realized the truth. It saved me, Greg. It can save you too. Will you let me save you, Greg?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Richard?”
“I can show you.”
Richard nodded slowly, and Loren felt the pressure on his shoulder dissipate. The silent man stepped away from the table, his brisk steps carrying him out the door to their waiting car. When he returned he stopped at the entrance, holding the door for someone.
A woman stepped inside, a thin coat around her slender frame. Her heels clicked with each step along the tile floor of the diner. Catching sight of her at once, Loren peered back to Richard in confusion then back to the woman. His mouth fell open, and Richard’s smile grew wide.
“Impossible,” Loren muttered.
The woman slid into the booth. Her fingers slid between Richard’s and he pulled her close. “You remember my wife, Jennifer?”
Chapter Ten
The squealing sound echoing through the street outside the diner was not the late night traffic skirting up the Knoll for the Expressway. Nor was it the pedestrians hooting and hollering at their freedom under the bright moonlight, lashing out against curfews and rules. It was the sound of Robert Standish’s head slamming against his steering wheel.
He had been following Loren all night. After reading the review letter, it was an easy choice to make: follow the man and see if he had any fight left in him. Everyone saw the changes over the last few months—hell, probably the last few years. Loren always had a short fuse, ever since the loss of his wife, but the way he systematically wrote off every friend in the department—with the exception of that damn captain—Standish knew a winning bet when he saw one.
His bookies told him so all the time.
Loren was a man lost, one deserving to be knocked down further. From their very first meeting, one that ended with an unconscious Standish on the floor of the Second Precinct, payback was in the cards. Their partnership served as little more than his first opportunity but Loren always managed to skirt away from conflict. Again, the influence of Ruiz. Protection from above. But now?
It was Loren’s turn to play the fool. The lout. The loser.
Standish followed his target nonetheless. Insurance. Whatever case Loren managed to snag with the help of the harlot that was there the night the two officers first met—giving Standish a welt on his cheek, one never forgotten—it kept Loren moving, distracted.
Good. Or so Standish thought.
Until the diner.
Loren’s first guest—a woman, attractive but plump along the thighs and a bigger rump than Standish preferred—made him curious. They appeared to share
a heated discussion, but were interrupted by another player. Standish stared at him, then banged his head against the steering wheel in frustration.
Richard Crowne. Assistant District Attorney Crowne.
A mouthful, but one that resonated with the officer. What was he doing there? Meeting Loren secretly in the middle of the night off the beaten path? Why?
“What the hell are you two talking about, Greg, old buddy?”
Did he know? Could he have figured it out? Standish cursed his enthusiasm at finding the review letter, at confronting Loren just to dig the knife deeper into the man’s gut. The idiot.
Standish started the car. He needed to move, to think. Jacobs still owed him for the save at the courthouse. Standish wanted his money, and closing accounts seemed to be the best play. Especially if Loren figured things out.
Loren was not supposed to be engaged. He was supposed to be distant, detached and lost. He needed him that way. He needed him seen by the department as a man at the edge, the hairpin trigger about to explode.
It was time for Loren to fall.
Standish put the car in drive and shifted into the light traffic up the Knoll. Inside the diner, the district attorney and Loren were lost in conversation. Planning and plotting. Standish sneered.
It was time to make a few plans of his own.
Chapter Eleven
Soriya Greystone hoped Loren enjoyed her performance. The drama behind it, the over-the-top yelling in the dead of night so everyone heard, especially the woman in the small Cape Cod in the Riverfront district. Mostly, though, the young woman tucked behind a thick row of bushes hoped Loren saw through it all.
Susan Barton was hiding something. After three poorly received interviews, Soriya was convinced of the fact. She needed answers, and the right track to get them ignored Loren’s procedures. This is the job only went so far. Even Loren could have told her that, but instead he half-assed the work. The way he had for weeks, if not months. They were going to have to talk about that. Eventually.
At the moment, however, Soriya had better things to do. Loren’s departure with a strange woman gave Soriya the time necessary to double back on the house and curl up in the shadows. After hours of waiting her body ached for release, joints stiff from the lack of any movement. Mentor asked for patience. She gave him patience.
It paid off. In spades.
Susan Barton slipped out into the night, a light shawl covering her shoulders and neck. Another figure joined her, tall and lanky, his back to the snooping woman in the bushes. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and heavy coat, escorting her up the walkway and down the street.
“I knew someone was in there,” Soriya said, inching out of the bushes. “But why hide him?”
Was Loren right? Was she simply ashamed about moving on with her life after the loss of her husband? Were the rest the same? Their loved ones forgotten to the past, allowing them to reclaim their own lives?
She kept her distance, always close enough to keep the pair of midnight strollers in sight. Another mistake like the Christian Fuller case was the last thing Soriya needed. I can be patient, Mentor. I’ve got patience coming out of my ass on this one.
They stopped seven blocks away at an unimpressive corner lot home to a modestly built church. It appeared run down from the front, its use limited in terms of services. Yet Mrs. Barton and her companion were not alone in their approach to the holy place. Dozens of others gathered, arm in arm with loved ones. They greeted each other with smiles and open hands, guiding others to the double-door entrance.
Soriya remained outside, letting the worshipers enter. She climbed to the roof of the small coffee shop across the street, getting the lay of the land. Despite appearances, the church was more involved than Soriya imagined from the ground. The roof opened up, shielded by glass stained in a deep crimson red with black grids throughout. Work had been done to the place recently. New stone archways. Elaborate carvings along the towers to the rear.
“It’s a little late for a church service, isn’t it?” Soriya asked. “Midnight Bingo league?”
She left the safety of the roof, sneaking quietly over to the church. Soriya ducked along the side of the structure, opposite the small parking lot, and found a side entrance. It had been chained shut, bolted with a large lock. She grinned. Her finger grazed the stone at her hip, the light beaming from its surface.
Strength rippled up her arm. The lock snapped in her hand. The chain loosened and the door opened gently to avoid the loud wrenching noises.
After ducking inside, Soriya found herself on a lower level to the church. The dull hum of machines, their fans whirring to remove excess heat from the room, drowned out all other noise. Soriya turned away from the noise, passing a lavatory on the left before coming to a stairwell. Chatter from the patrons gathered above, little more than murmurs. She followed the sounds, sticking close to the wall.
Susan Barton stood at the top of the stairs, her companion close to her side. They held hands, squeezing each other.
“Tommy, I missed you so much.”
“I know,” the man replied, his face still shadowed from Soriya.
Susan smiled, pulling him toward the main hall of the church. “Don’t ever leave me again.”
“Never.”
They kissed before entering the church proper. Everyone else waited inside. The doors closed behind her, engulfing Soriya in darkness. She inched to the glass dividing the entrance with the nave of the church. She stayed low, afraid of interruptions from both sides.
“Tommy?” she muttered, scanning the pews. “Her husband’s name was Thomas.”
Soriya’s eyes flared, everything coming into focus. Marc Andrews, the man that had stonewalled them prior to Susan Barton. He stood with his two children and an older woman. Not his wife. He had lost someone too—his mother, Loren had said.
Beyond them, upon the vestibule, was an altar. The stone resting upon it appeared scarred from age. Ancient. Out of place from the rest of the room, imported from somewhere else. Behind it, carvings littered the wall, all indiscernible from the rest except for one in the center. A dove. Rising from the ground.
Rising.
“Oh, no,” Soriya said, falling back for the stairs. She needed to get out of there. She wanted answers but never had she imagined what secrets they were hiding.
“What are you people doing?”
Chapter Twelve
The review ended early. Ruiz assumed any meeting with Mathers and the commissioner included a catered lunch and possibly dinner—all this mixed in with off-color humor not fit for print and the occasional circle jerk. Only after this would they actually work. With Loren’s involvement, however, Mathers was all business. He hated the detective, one of the few to earn his ire, if for no other reason than he was Ruiz’s friend.
It went as expected. For the most part. Ruiz did what he could, said what he could, pushed back when he could, but it wouldn’t be enough. Mathers preached until his face looked like a cherry, quoting Bible passages as if they had a clear bearing on events. Ruiz hoped the lecture played as horribly as it looked but knew it would be enough to win the attention of their superiors. What didn’t help matters, what surprised Ruiz more than anything, was Loren’s silence.
The beaten captain watched his friend depart the proceedings and stop at the closest drinking fountain. Loren looked terrible, as if sleep decided to take a vacation from his schedule with no return date in sight. Personal grooming joined the strike, the man’s beard uneven and itchy just from the look of it. His hair dangled over his face as he drank from the lukewarm dispenser. He splashed water on his cheeks, rubbing his eyes deeply. He settled on the wall adjacent, popping a stick of gum between his lips.
Ruiz rolled his eyes, stomping over to Loren. He pointed down the hall. “My office. Now.”
Loren followed slowly, and Ruiz held the door open for him before slamming the thin oak shut. The silent detective crashed on the couch to the right. Ruiz paced maniacally around the
enclosed space. Each pass unsettled the piles of paperwork on his desk, files falling to the floor in a heap.
“That pompous ass,” Ruiz muttered, hands behind his back. “That wasn’t a hearing, it was a damn execution. Mathers. If I could wrap my hands around his throat….”
Loren snapped the gum between his teeth. Ruiz hated the sound, and cringed with each pop. The detective kept his head low, between his knees, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were distant. Lost.
“We’ll fight this, Greg,” Ruiz continued, his pace slowing. “I’ll dispute it until I’m blue in the face. Something goes missing on his watch and we’re to blame? Bull. Commissioner can have my badge before I roll over for that prick.”
Still nothing from his friend. Ruiz let out a long sigh, circling the desk. He pulled his chair around, settling on the deflated cushion that caused more pain than comfort most days.
“Where are you right now, Greg?”
Loren stopped snapping his gum. “What do you mean?”
His eyes were an abyss. Dark as night. His friend was falling and there wasn’t a damn thing Ruiz could do.
“You just took it,” Ruiz replied. “You. No patented snark. No sarcasm. Not a damn word.”
Loren settled deeper into the couch. “There wasn’t anything to say.”
“Are you kidding me? There was everything to say!” Ruiz shouted. “They want to railroad you out of here. Put a giant sign on you that says, ‘Here’s the problem in the department but it’s all good now. We fixed it.’ Evidence be damned.”
Loren shrugged, turning to the window. Gray skies settled into the area overnight. The first drops of rain greeted them. The storm arrived, building with each passing cloud.
“Still nothing?” Ruiz asked, astonished at the lack of fight in his friend.
Loren stood, reaching for the door. “Ruiz.”
“Sit down,” Ruiz commanded. “Ass on the damn couch.”
Loren’s hand fell away. He sat, chewing his gum. He wasn’t pleased. Ruiz failed to care at the moment.
“Out with it,” Ruiz said.
Loren shook his head, hands running the length of his thighs. He kept his eyes everywhere else, refusing to make contact with the man in the center of the room. He spoke with a distant voice. “Do you…do you think people can come back, Ruiz?”
