by Kay Hooper
“Yeah, years ago. You sensing something?”
“Not sure. We’ll take the back.”
Deacon was just about to admit that his weapon was locked in the trunk of his car down on Main Street when DeMarco bent and removed a Glock from an ankle holster. He straightened and handed it to Deacon.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” DeMarco unzipped his jacket, revealing a very large silver pistol in a shoulder harness.
Deacon had heard that this former military man carried a cannon and was uncannily accurate with the powerful weapon. He’d thought the first part an exaggeration. He saw Trinity’s brows rise slightly, but she didn’t comment on the gun.
Instead, she said, “There’s a key to the back door on top of the door frame. I have a key to the front doors.”
“Let’s go,” Hollis said.
All four moved toward the church, Hollis and DeMarco following one of the faint paths that appeared to lead straight to the small back porch, while Trinity and Deacon followed another that led to the church’s front doors.
They were all alert and watchful, but only Deacon carried his borrowed gun in his hand.
They had moved no more than a few yards when Trinity glanced to her right—and then came to an abrupt stop.
Deacon, a step behind her, stopped automatically and followed her fixed gaze. “Oh, shit,” he breathed.
Hollis and DeMarco were just suddenly there, with them, also staring at what the shrubbery had hidden from them when they had first arrived.
“Too late,” Hollis said.
Without discussing it, they all moved very slowly toward the end of the main walkway that led from the street in front of the church to its front doors.
In a very steady voice, Trinity said, “I hope to hell he was already dead before—before that was done to him.”
Just a few yards from them, straddling the main walkway that led to the front door of Trinity Church, someone had constructed an A-frame structure, like a child’s swing set, only larger. It was made of heavy, old timbers, the sort common in an area with many barns and old buildings about, fastened together with a certain amount of care with heavy bolts that also looked old.
In the exact center of the top crosspiece, a heavy rope was tied without any particular skill, the other end wrapped several times around a man’s bare ankles.
He was naked. His eyes were wide open. Duct tape covered his mouth. His arms dangled, the limp fingers just touching the ground.
The very bloody ground.
He had been gutted with a single long slice from crotch to rib cage. His intestines spilled out. Organs glistened wetly. Blood was still dripping sluggishly.
“He was still alive,” Trinity said. “Wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” DeMarco said. “The killer was careful. None of the organs look cut, damaged. Just the skin and muscle. Just enough.”
“How long could he live like that?”
DeMarco turned his head and looked at her. Evenly, he said, “Someone can be disemboweled and live a long time. Hours. Even days. But this killer was impatient. Or maybe he knew we were coming. It isn’t obvious with so much blood and—tissue—from the gash everywhere, but he opened the carotid arteries at some point. This man bled to death within a minute or two. He was gone before we started up the mountain.”
Deacon said, “You couldn’t have saved him, Trinity. We couldn’t have saved him.”
She drew a breath through her mouth, as though instinctively trying to avoid the smell of death that was, here, mostly the smell of blood and terror and pain. “He—the killer—took something again. From the body. He was still alive when that was done to him, too, wasn’t he?”
It was Deacon who said, “That was probably done first. A . . . special kind of torture to a man.”
The victim’s penis and testicles had been removed.
Not neatly.
—
THEY COULDN’T ASSUME that the killer wasn’t still somewhere about, perhaps even watching to see the reaction to what he had left for them.
Her voice steady, Trinity said, “The parsonage is a lot larger, just two entrances, front and back. You three take it, and I’ll take Braden and go through the church.”
Hollis noticed only then that the black dog had joined his mistress, standing exactly at the “heel” position. “Key to the parsonage?” she asked.
“Under the back flowerpot in that grouping beside the front door is its key. The back door just has a kind of trick handle. Lift up and lean in.”
Deacon murmured, “Some security.”
“We’ve never really needed it up here.”
All four of them had their guns drawn now, and with a nod to Trinity, the three federal agents made their way cautiously toward the parsonage. They gave the body a wide berth to avoid disturbing any evidence there might be, though just a few steps showed all of them that the ground was all but frozen up here, and dry, and they weren’t likely to find any footprints.
It was almost eerily silent, even for a winter day. They all looked at the small graveyard as they passed, its no more than two dozen headstones very obviously old. Some were crooked, some were almost absurdly decorative, and some were . . . very small.
“Anything?” Deacon asked Hollis.
“No. But I’ve only rarely seen spirits in graveyards or cemeteries. Not exactly where they want to hang out, I gather.”
“Always wondered about that. First chance I’ve had to ask.” Deacon paused, then added, “I’ll take the back door.”
“Watch yourself,” DeMarco advised.
“You, too.” He split off from them, moving swiftly but cautiously along the edge of the graveyard on the parsonage side.
Hollis said to her partner, “I gather your primal sense hasn’t offered a warning?”
“Not exactly. No weapon pointed at us. But . . .”
“I know. Feels weird, doesn’t it? The energy in the air is way above normal.”
They were moving cautiously toward the front door, both of them watchful.
“Geographic?” DeMarco suggested.
“Maybe. I noticed an awful lot of lightning rods on the drive up here. But it’s something else, too. I just can’t put my finger on it.”
They reached the porch, and Hollis found the key to the door while DeMarco kept his wary gaze roaming all around them. Within a minute, they were standing inside a dim foyer.
Hollis looked at her partner. “Well?”
He was frowning. “There’s nobody here. Just us and Deacon.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
Hollis reached over and flipped a light switch beside the front door. Immediately, the overhead light fixture in the foyer came alive, as did a lamp on an entry table against the stair wall—and sconces going up the stairs.
“I’ll check upstairs,” Hollis said.
“We’ll check upstairs.” DeMarco raised his voice. “Deacon?”
“Yeah?” His voice was distant but clear.
“Don’t think there’s anybody in the house but us. We’ll check upstairs, you take this floor.”
“Got it.”
Hollis briefly considered being indignant about DeMarco refusing to leave her side but discovered she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for being in here alone.
There was something distinctly . . . odd . . . about this place.
So she didn’t object as they went up the narrow staircase together, and together checked out the landing, four bedrooms, and two bathrooms. All the rooms were furnished plainly and simply, with quilts on the beds and rag rugs on the dull wood floor. Nothing matched or looked too elegant for its place; this had been a home, the furnishings assembled from family and thrift stores and a few precious things bought new.
A long, long time ago.
They discovered a door that opened to a second set of stairs, these even more narrow, and found a huge attic space with three windows and, oddly, nothing else.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an empty attic in a furnished house,” Hollis murmured. “There always seems to be piles of broken and discarded furniture, and boxes and old picture frames.”
“I guess they used all they had and fixed what got broken,” DeMarco responded. “Let’s get out of here.”
They holstered their weapons, both of them, Hollis noted, doing so almost reluctantly.
There was no one here, they were sure of that. No killer lurked in this house.
And yet . . .
They met up with Deacon at the foot of the stairs.
“All clear,” he said. “But my skin’s sort of crawling. Hollis, is that you?”
It took her a moment to understand, but finally she shrugged. “I dunno, maybe. It feels weird in here. It felt weird outside. I don’t like this place.”
DeMarco took her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
They did, and Hollis didn’t try to pull her hand free of her partner’s even once they were outside.
Trinity and her dog had clearly finished their sweep of the church and were standing several yards away from the hideous contraption where a dead man hung.
“Church is clear,” she said steadily.
“Parsonage, too,” Hollis reported.
Trinity’s face was pale, but her gaze was as steady as her voice. “I need to go back to the Jeep to use the radio and call in Doc and my techs. Cells don’t work up here. Neither do walkies.”
DeMarco turned his head to study the position of the body relative to the streets below, then said, “If you want to keep the details of this scene quiet as long as possible, better tell them to bring a tarp—or a tent. In the meantime, I can park the SUV over there, in front. It won’t contaminate the scene, but it should help block the view from anybody close enough and curious enough to see anything once other vehicles get here and people below notice the commotion.”
Trinity nodded and took a couple of steps toward the vehicles before Hollis’s voice stopped her.
“Trinity? Do you know who he was?”
“Yeah. His name is Barry Torrance. We were in high school together.”
—
MELANIE REALLY DIDN’T want to go back to her apartment after she finished lunch. She had lingered as long as she dared but finally made herself leave. And she considered several alternatives to going home before finally sighing and heading for the bank.
If she was lucky, her boss had already left for the day; he generally did unless he had late-afternoon appointments. And nobody else would probably notice or care if Melanie slipped back into her office. Especially since it was near the front doors and sort of back in a niche, so she could pretty much come and go as she pleased.
But she had barely settled behind her desk when a brief knock made her jump and brought her attention to the doorway. She frowned slightly at Toby Gilmore.
“Hey. Something up?”
Toby was chewing her bottom lip, a sure sign she was upset. Not that she was ever able to hide her feelings. Dark and exotic-looking she might be, but there was nothing in the least mysterious about Toby.
“I’m not really sure. That is . . . Melanie, have you got a minute?”
“Sure. Don’t have any afternoon appointments scheduled, and so far it hasn’t been a day for drop-ins. Have a seat.” She was slightly surprised, and more than a little uneasy, when her friend closed the office door before sitting down.
“What’s up?” she more or less repeated, warily this time.
“I’ve been reading the cards.”
Melanie sighed. “Toby, why can’t you just play solitaire when you’re bored, like everyone else? Or mahjong. I know you have both on your computer at work and your tablet for home.”
“That’s not why—I wasn’t reading the cards because I was bored, Melanie. I was reading because of the murders.”
“Murder,” Melanie said, automatically. “Just one.”
“No. I think there’s been another.”
“The cards tell you that?” Melanie asked dryly.
Toby flushed a little but kept her gaze steady. “They did. And then just a bit ago, when I was coming here, I saw Lexie and Doug leave the sheriff’s office. With their kits. They looked grim, Melanie. I didn’t see where they went; I don’t think they wanted anybody to see where they went. But I think it’s up at the old church.”
“It?”
“The body. The second victim.” She swallowed hard. “Somebody else we know.”
Melanie hoped her own face didn’t look as closed as it felt, but judging by Toby’s unhappy expression, it probably did. “You can’t possibly know where Lexie and Doug were going, or why. As for tarot, they’re just cards, you say so yourself. Just for fun.”
“Yeah, but . . . This time, what I saw . . . It was dark, Melanie. It was really dark.”
“You’re upset. We’re all upset about Scott. Of course whatever you think the cards told you was something bad.”
Toby bit her lip again, then said, “I thought it was just a dark man, but when I looked closer . . . Melanie, is your brother coming to Sociable? Maybe already here?”
“Is that what the cards showed you?”
Toby nodded. “The dark man, connected to you. Brother to you. And he’s some kind of cop, isn’t he? FBI? It’s all over town that Trinity called in feds to help.” Almost to herself, she added, “Maybe she knew, too. Or suspected. That there’d be more. That Scott was just the beginning.”
Carefully, Melanie said, “Deacon is only supposed to be here as family. Not official. I called him because . . . Well, because. I had no idea Trinity would call in the FBI.”
“But since she did . . . he’s official now?”
“Maybe. Probably. I haven’t talked to him yet.” Dryly, she added, “I heard from Lynne at lunch that there were three FBI agents in town.”
“Monster hunters,” Toby said quietly.
Melanie frowned at her. “All cops are really monster hunters, aren’t they?”
“Not like them.”
“Meaning?”
Toby chewed her lip a moment, clearly worried. “Your brother, the other two . . . they don’t just hunt killers. Murderers. They hunt the true monsters humanity produces—or allows to exist—from time to time. The dark ones. The evil ones.”
It didn’t sound melodramatic. At all.
Since Melanie knew what Deacon’s job consisted of, and more than most people would ever guess about an FBI agent, she couldn’t really argue. So all she said was, “Killing Scott in a locked room. And now you say he’s killed someone else. Up at the church? Another weirdly broken neck?”
Toby looked suddenly queasy. “No. No, worse than that. I saw blood, a lot of blood. And . . . other things. Awful things.”
Melanie wished she had stayed in the restaurant. Or even in her apartment. “Look, if he’s done what you say, on top of killing Scott like that, I’d say those things easily put this killer into the creepy and truly evil category. So? Is it so surprising federal agents would be hunting him?”
“Not that. I mean—”
“What do you mean, Toby?”
“I mean it’s one of us.”
Melanie sighed. “I know Trinity pretty much ruled out a stranger. And I know how hard it is to accept that somebody we might know, even think we know well, could be capable of murder at all, far less like that, but—”
“That isn’t what I’m saying.”
“What, then?”
“I’m saying it’s one of us, Melanie. The murderer. It’s one of The Group.”
—
HE FROWNED AS he considered them. He had tried and failed to reach any of them, even Trinity, something that bothered him more than he wanted to admit to himself. He had the uneasy sense that the very energy that fed his abilities also enhanced theirs.
Whatever protected them, at least.
He had not factored that into his plans. This was supposed to be his edge, not anything that would help them. Protect them.
The fate he had designed for her.
Except . . . the dog had led her to the first body, and that hadn’t been part of the plan.
And now they were here, had come up here when they had no reason to. Unless they had known, or suspected. He’d planned to do something a bit later to call attention up here, judging the time right to let more of the fine citizens of Sociable have a better look at his handiwork. Maybe start a small fire . . .
Even fireworks. To draw the kids later in the afternoon, after school.
But that would be a problem now. Because here they were, a cop and three feds. A cop, a sheriff, who had shown her hand plainly: She would do everything in her power to shield her town from at least the worst details of horrible murder.
A sheriff who did not yet know she was part of this.
A fed who was connected to Sociable by blood.
And two other feds who had no idea what it was they had come here to face.
His frown faded, replaced by a smile. And he began to quietly hum under his breath as he settled down to watch them.
They stood several yards away and watched as Lexie and Doug did their work with grim white faces. None of them wanted to look over at the steps of the church, where Doc Beeson sat hunched, his craggy face ancient now and his eyes curiously blank.
It felt like an intrusion, looking at him.
“Did you arrive with a preliminary profile?” Trinity asked almost mechanically.
“Not one ready to share,” Hollis answered. “Bishop felt we needed to learn more about the victim and have a better feel for the area. Not just facts in a report or photographs, but . . . a sense of here. The place. The people. A sense of Sociable. Sometimes these extra senses of ours provide information most standard profilers never get. And sometimes we really need that.”
