What You Can’t See

by Allison Brennan

  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.”

  “It should be in his seminary records.” The same seminary where Rafe was studying. Had he learned something about Jeremiah Hatch? Or had he been ignorant up until the final hour?

  “I’ll check, but they may not talk with me.”

  “This is important, Father. Maybe Cardinal Ciccoli can ask.”

  Silence again. While Father Philip was satisfied to be considered a relic in the church who saw demons on every corner, Cardinal Ciccoli wanted to uphold his image as a statesman. He had helped Anthony on several occasions, though as quietly and discreetly as possible.

  “I will ask him,” Father Philip finally said. “If it is truly important.”

  Anthony watched as Skye left the sheriff’s department with a uniformed deputy. They jumped into her Bronco and left. He followed.

  Anthony couldn’t say for sure Hatch’s past was important, but the more information about how Ianax had been summoned from Hell, the better. He already feared he wouldn’t be able to save Skye.

  “It’s important, Father.”

  “Very well.”

  “Assume that Hatch was a willing participant for the demon, but the ritual couldn’t be completed. What would Ianax do? He didn’t go straight back to Hell. I felt him in the fire.”

  “He must have a human body. The longer he is without one, the weaker he becomes.”

  “But he needs a willing participant.”

  “He needed three people to draw him out of Hell, but now that he’s here, he’ll take anyone he can. And remember—he can move in and out of souls at will. He may have used people without them knowing it. Protect yourself.”

  Anthony watched Skye turn toward the coastal highway. Fear gripped him. He stayed far back. He now knew where she was going; he couldn’t let her see him.

  “I have more important things to protect.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  S KYE HAD TAGGED Deputy Tommy Reiner to join her in the stakeout of the Davies house that night. Though it was only nine when they settled into their hiding spot in a cove of trees to the north of the house, she was beat. There was a connection and she kept circling her mind around possible answers. Everything went back to the Davies and the poisonings. But why? Was Corinne Davies a serial killer? One of those mercy killers? Women serial killers were more likely to use poison or another less “violent” method of death. Male killers usually stuck with knives and guns and hands-on strangulation.

  She watched the house and sipped lukewarm black coffee from a thermos she had picked up at Starbucks earlier in the evening. The house was dark and the car registered to Corinne Davies wasn’t in the carport. More than that, the place felt as empty as it had when she’d been here this morning with Anthony. Was she wasting her time?

  What was Anthony up to? Was she wrong to have put an APB on him? How else to explain his fingerprints all over her coffeepot?

  He’d checked the grounds when you came back from the cliff.

  Whoever poisoned the coffee would have worn gloves, wouldn’t they?

  Was Anthony himself in danger? Dr. Wicker was fighting for his life. Perhaps the killer would go after Anthony if he—or she—thought Anthony had damaging information. She should have put him in protective custody instead of sending him off.

  She rubbed her head. It was going to be a long night.

  Anthony hid in bushes on the far side of the Davies house. Skye was in a grove of trees, but he could barely make out a glint of moonlight reflecting off the Bronco. He could, however, see the road. He needed to get into that house without Skye knowing, before the Davies women returned home. But first he had to break the spell protecting the cottage.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered with a quiet, “Yes, Father.”

  “Twelve-year-old Jeremiah Hatch found his parents murdered in their bed. Stabbed to death.”

  “Did they catch the killer?”

  “A drug addict claimed demons made him do it. He committed suicide his first night in jail.”

  “And?”

  “He choked on his own tongue. He’d apparently smuggled in a razor blade, severed his tongue, and attempted to swallow it.”

  “A razor blade. Are American prisons that poorly monitored?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Someone brought it to him. Forced him to do it.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “And Jeremiah? Where was he during his parents’ murder?”

  “Asleep. In his bed down the hall.”

  “That would be enough to traumatize a child. Enough to be interested in demons.”

  Silence.

  “Father?”

  “Maybe he was interested in demons before the murders,” Father Philip said quietly.

  The realization hit Anthony hard and he swallowed. He heard a car on the highway.

  “Pray, Father.”

  Anthony hung up and walked the long way along the cliff to the back of the house. There was a twenty-five-meter open stretch. The moonlight decreased as filmy clouds moved rapidly overhead.

  Thank you, Lord.

  He ran low across the ground whispering the prayer he’d memorized off the tabernacle. The cliff moaned and the house swayed in front of hi
m.

  It was working.

  He took out holy water and sprinkled it in front of him as he ran toward the back of the house. Steam rose from the ground where the blessed water fell. But it cleared his path and, aided by the Hebrew incantation, he reached the back of the house without pain. A swath of light cut across the house as he flattened against the back wall.

  He used his tools to quietly break the rear window—a bedroom—and eased himself in, just as the side door opened down the hall.

  Skye had a great hiding place, but she couldn’t see anyone approach the Davies cottage until the car was practically in the drive.

  It was a dark Ford minivan, similar to the one Corinne Davies drove. She couldn’t make out the exact model or color, but it could easily have been the black Windstar registered to the elder Davies.

  A plump female exited the driver’s seat. There was no porch light and Skye only made out her shape in the moonlight. Corinne Davies’s driver’s license had her at five foot six and two hundred pounds. It could have been her.

  A shorter, slimmer woman exited from the sliding rear door. Her lithe frame reminded Skye of Lisa, the daughter. The woman appeared half clothed and limped to the side door. Skye frowned. Had she been assaulted?

  “Okay, we’ll go and just talk. Take my lead. Watch them. If they poisoned those priests, we need to be cautious. No food or drink, don’t touch anything they hand you. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  She was about to open her door when the sliding door of the minivan opened again and a man exited the car. She stared. She recognized the build, though she couldn’t see his face or features. He walked like Juan Martinez.

  Why was he with them? Why hadn’t he called in? Didn’t he know she—and his wife and the entire sheriff’s department—were frantic? Maybe he’d found the younger Davies injured and brought them home. Why hadn’t he called in the assault?

  Maybe it wasn’t Juan. Just someone who had the same short, lanky build.

  She glanced at Reiner. He didn’t seem to think anything of the man. “Boyfriend?” he asked her. “Looks like he had his way with her while Mommy drove.”

  Sick. Definitely not Juan Martinez.

  She radioed in where she was and who she was interviewing, then left the Bronco.

  A cold fog had crept in from the ocean. It hadn’t been there earlier in the evening, but seemed to roll in quickly as often happened on the Central Coast. Skye cut through the mist, the house fading behind the fog even as she approached.

  The occupants still hadn’t turned on any lights, the porch was dark, but candles flickered behind the blinds.

  The door opened before Skye raised her hand to knock. Skye couldn’t hide her surprise that Juan Martinez stood in front of her.

  “Right on schedule,” he said.

  Juan’s voice was flat, with a hint of humor.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  He turned to Reiner. “You can go.”

  Reiner glanced at Skye, looking as confused as she felt.

  Skye put her hand on her gun. Reiner attempted to follow suit, but froze.

  His body shook as it rose from the ground. His head moved back and forth quickly, too quickly, and suddenly the snap of breaking bone filled the air, along with the sudden stench of sulfur.

  Reiner collapsed on the porch, dead, eyes wide and full of fear.

  Skye had her gun in hand, but suddenly her gun was on fire and her hand burned. She screamed in pain and surprise as the gun pulled itself from her grip and flew across the lawn, landing beyond her eyesight.

  She turned to run but could not move.

  “Come in, Skye. Let’s get this nasty business over with,” Juan said, arms open, palms up.

  She stared at his hands. They were burned, but he didn’t seem to notice what looked like painful blisters.

  What was happening? Reiner—her gun—Juan?

  For the first time she believed. Everything Anthony had told her was the truth. And she’d sent him away.

  “You’ve been making friends with the enemy,” Juan said, “and you’ll be the one to kill him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  S KYE WAS A cop willing to stand against bad guys when necessary to save innocents, but she wasn’t stupid.

  Juan had no weapons she could see, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t armed. She dove to the right, toward two metal chairs. She toppled them, hoping they would provide her with a shield so she could jump off the porch and buy time to call for help.

  She leaped over the railing like a horse, twisting her ankle as she fell to lower ground. She winced, knew it was sprained but not broken, and endured the pain as she ran limping in a zigzag pattern toward her Bronco.

  She thumbed her lapel mic in Morse code, sending an SOS to her department.

  Her radio broke under her thumb. The mic smoked around her neck and she pulled it off, coughing at the fumes.

  Her chest tightened and she had no air. Maybe she’d broken her ribs when she fell and hadn’t noticed. They didn’t feel broken. Only tight. Tighter. She couldn’t breathe.

  She collapsed on the ground, gasping for air that would not fill her lungs.

  “Foolish daughter of Eve,” Juan said, standing over her. “You are alone. No one is coming to help you. No human can save you.”

  He picked her up as if she weighed but a feather. Her attempts to struggle left her fatigued.

  “Juan, what happened to you? Why are you doing this?”

  He laughed. And it was in his laugh that Skye knew this wasn’t Juan. Not the Juan Martinez she’d worked with for eleven years. Not the Juan Martinez who stood by her when she’d been elevated to sheriff, when others in the department snubbed her.

  This man looked like Juan, but he was possessed.

  By something…evil.

  By a demon.

  Anthony, I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you. Forgive me.

  The demon in Juan chuckled as he walked up the porch steps. “Is it ready?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  It was Corinne Davies who spoke, her eyes lit with excitement. Juan dumped Skye on the couch inside the door, which slammed shut behind them.

  The dead bolt slid closed with a sharp metal click. Skye watched—no one touched the lock.

  It. Moved. By. Itself.

  She looked around the room, trying to contain her panic. She could think like a cop, but how could she reason with an entity that knew no human bounds? That not only didn’t have a conscience, but had no soul?

  The blinds were drawn tight. Candles burned on every available surface. Someone had carved odd symbols in the walls. Painted shapes on the hardwood floor. The symbol she’d seen at the mission had been burned into the back of the door.

  Corinne Davies, late forties, overweight, wearing her long dark graying hair down, looked like the witch out of Hansel and Gretel. She glared at Skye with hateful eyes that seemed to glow, her lips parted as if she would bite. An image of Corinne and Lisa and Juan dancing and howling naked, wearing a jackal’s head and hooves for feet, clouded her vision and Skye feared she was losing her mind.

  Trapped in this room. Unable to move though no ropes bound her. These lunatics—as wild-eyed as her mother had been when she told Skye she was leaving—had controlled forces that no human should be able to control.

  They’d brought evil into her town, and if she didn’t end it here, more people would die.

  She didn’t want to die, but if that was the only way to stop them she would.

  Lisa Davies sashayed into the room. She wore a long, see-through white gown and nothing underneath. “The bedroom window is broken.”

  Juan whirled at her. “So?”

  “I don’t know who might have come in.”

  “Didn’t you do as I commanded? Protect the ground?”

  “Of course—”

  Juan closed his eyes, held up his burned hands. “No one is here.” But his face twisted in pain. “He’s fighting me. Prepare the ritual.
”

  Juan sat cross-legged on the floor, in the middle of the painted symbol.

  “What are you doing?” Skye demanded.

  Corinne slapped her across the face and Skye tasted blood. Skye couldn’t control her movements and the older woman easily pulled her up and dragged her into the circle with Juan.

  “You drugged those innocent men,” Skye said, spitting out the words, each one a chore as she fought to breathe. What were they planning on doing with her?

  Skye focused on the older woman. “What did you hope to gain by killing those men?” she asked.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. They killed each other.” Her face glowed with pleasure.

  Skye said, “You poisoned them.”

  Corinne laughed, put her hand on Skye’s neck and squeezed. “You have never experienced true power until you give up your soul. I have immortality. I will live forever. But you will die. The worms will eat your flesh, the earth will claim your bones. But I will dance on your grave in a hundred years!”

  “Quiet!” Juan hissed.

  He chanted under his breath in a language Skye had never heard, but it sounded vaguely like what Anthony had spoken earlier.

  She had sent him away, ridiculed him, accused him of awful things, and yet something was going on here that only Anthony would understand. Only Anthony would be able to stop this…this evil.

  Anthony, I’m sorry. I should have believed you. You were right. Forgive me.

  “Juan, how could you do this to me? To Beth? Your girls are going to grow up knowing their father is a killer.”

  Juan’s face wavered in front of her, as if a million bugs moved just beneath the skin. His brown eyes glowed red. Her stomach rolled and she nearly choked on her own bile.

  “Shut up, human!”

  A burning filled her from the inside out and her vision faded.

  “Don’t!” Lisa screamed. “We need her alive!”

  Juan’s fierce anger turned on Lisa. Her body flew against the wall, her feet inches from the ground, her mouth open to scream but no sound escaped.

  Then she collapsed, gasping for breath.

  “Get the knife, stupid girl,” Corinne told her daughter. “Don’t make him punish you.”