Voice of the Spirit (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1)

by Raine, Charlotte

  “What?” I spit out. “How is that possible? She’s a huge fan of Mary.”

  “How certain are we that she actually is?” she asks. “Maybe she was there helping someone else kidnap her and then stayed behind to mislead the police. We have no proof that she’s a fan at all.”

  “Well, after we take you to the hospital and get this knife out of your leg, we can look her up and see what we can find,” I say.

  “It’s fine,” she says. “You changed your bandage for your bullet wound and this didn’t involve a high-speed propellant. The blade is barely over two inches long.”

  “Yeah, but this is your leg and we don’t know if there’s any nerve damage or anything,” I say. “Then there’s the matter of infection.”

  She grabs the handle of the knife.

  “No, Lauren, wait—”

  She jerks the knife out of her leg. Blood begins to seep out onto her jeans. I pull off my shirt and press it against her thigh. She winces.

  “Are you crazy?” I demand. “Why wouldn’t you just go to the hospital?”

  She grimaces. “Because I have better things to do and we’ve spent way too much time at the hospital. If you want to help me you’ll look up the name Cheryl Watts.”

  “Lauren—”

  “Look it up!”

  Scowling, I rush over to my computer and type the name into the police database. As I wait for the computer to find her information, it occurs to me that I’m half naked in the police station. I peer over my shoulder to see a couple of officers jerk their heads in the other direction, pretending they weren’t staring at me. I glance back at my computer.

  No record of Cheryl Watts

  “No driver’s license…and no criminal record,” I tell her. “You said she’s in her teens? Like late teens?”

  “Yeah, I would think she has a license by now though,” she says.

  “Maybe she’s on the Seven Servants of God website.”

  I find their website and click on it. There’s a few links—their mission, a link to donate to them, their contact information, their blog and their current members. I click on the link to their current members. There are photographs of the members with their names and their testimonies of how they became believers in what Seven Servants stands for. Scrolling through the list, the median age seems to be eighty. Finally, the second to last photo is of a pink-haired teenage girl.

  “Is that her?” I ask.

  Lauren peeks over my shoulder. “Yep,” she says. “And her name isn’t Cheryl, it’s Bethany Chisholm. Nice. She’s been lying to me since the beginning.”

  “Well, why don’t we go to her address, bring her down to the station, and you can get her to confess all of her sins?” I suggest.

  “I think I’d like that.”

  I slide my desk chair back over to her. “How about we get those jeans off and we can check your wound?”

  “You just want to get me out of my pants,” she teases.

  With a quick look around to make sure everyone else is busy, I kiss Lauren, heat rushing throughout my whole body the moment our lips touch.

  “Maybe,” I murmur. “But I want you to be healthy and safe first.”

  She kisses me back. Her finger slip in between my fingers and she holds onto me tight enough that I’m certain she could raise me out of Hell.

  * * *

  After I get Lauren patched up, we find Bethany’s real address, and a couple of officers go to her house to find her. I know I’ll have some time before Bethany is brought back to the police station. I’ve still got half an hour before my dad leaves for rehab, so I decide to go to my childhood home to see him.

  The house is made of brick, two stories high, with a small garage that barely fits two cars in it. There’s a tiny porch that my father used to call “the matchbox” because of its size. It’s so strange to see it all now after being away for so long. Memories sprout up like weeds, except I’m not sure if I want to pick them out before they overwhelm me or if I should leave them and see if I like having them around.

  I knock on the door. Their Mercury Sable isn’t here, but I can hope and pray that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe since I’ve been gone, my mother got a car and her car broke down, so my father had to go get her before he went to rehab. Maybe Dad finally cleaned his shit out of the garage and the car’s parked inside for once. Maybe my parents are waiting for me, not knowing that someone came by and stole the Sable straight out of the driveway. I need to believe anything other than the idea that he left without saying goodbye.

  I knock one more time, but I know they aren’t here. My mother will probably be back soon enough, but I don’t want her to see me waiting on her porch like the prodigal son. As I turn to leave, something crinkles under my foot. I look down to see a white envelope. I pick it up and flip it over. My name is scrawled across it in my father’s handwriting and a small piece of tape on top of it. It must have been on the door and fallen off.

  I open the envelope and unfold a letter.

  Tobias,

  I know you wanted to see me before I went to rehab and I thought that’s what I wanted too, but this morning I realized that I wouldn’t be able to do it. I couldn’t look at you, my son who is supposed to be the person who looks up at me, and know that I had failed in so many ways. So, like always, I have taken the coward’s way out.

  One day, I’ll be able to face you and admit all of this to your face, but right now, I just need space. Right now, I don’t even want the idea of someone looking up to me—so, when you don’t hear from me, don’t think it’s your fault. It’s just me trying to change until I’m someone better and we can talk, man-to-man.

  I love you, son.

  Dad

  I slip the letter back into the envelope, unsure of how I should feel. Relieved that he’s finally admitting that he has feelings? Angry that he took the easy way out and there’s no telling if he’ll continue to take the easy way out? Indifferent because there’s no way to tell if this letter will change anything?

  If Lauren could see me now, I imagine she would talk about how my lack of faith in God reflects my relationships with my father—distant relationship with my father, nonexistent relationship with God. Angry at my father, angry at the idea of God. Then she would wonder: if I reconstructed my relationship with my father, would I be able to reach out to God?

  That’s where the core difference lies between the two “relationships.” I can stand in front of my father and demand respect. I can’t stand in front of God.

  Though, considering Bethany is coming into the station, I might be able to stand in front of the Devil.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lauren

  Bethany sits across from me in the interrogation room, her pink hair tied up in a bun. The policemen who brought her in said that she put up quite a fight and two officers had to restrain her before they put her in cuffs. She now appears completely calm, although that could be because she’s handcuffed to the table.

  “So, Bethany, you told me your name was Cheryl when we first met,” I say. “If I remember correctly, you specifically said that it was your legal name.”

  She forces a smile, and I try to interpret the smile, her facial expressions, without showing her that’s what I’m doing. She looks smug, but a part of me wonders if it isn’t just bravado.

  She says, “You must have me confused with someone else. Do you have any evidence that I was the one you talked to? Because I would never take a single step into a filthy, sin-ridden church like the one that man was murdered in. Don’t you think that’s interesting that a murder occurred in a church? Maybe God refuses to care about those inside it because He knows they aren’t His true followers.”

  “Or maybe because people have free will and He can’t stop them from using their free will,” I counter. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I know it’s you I talked to and that’s why you ran when you saw me.”

  “I ran because I felt like running,” she says. “Last time I
checked, that wasn’t a crime. This just feels like religious persecution to me. You can’t just drag me into the police station because you don’t respect God’s truth.”

  “You were dragged into the police station because you stabbed me with a knife!” I hiss, slamming my fist against the table. She doesn’t flinch. “Last time I checked, that is a crime.”

  “You were chasing after me. I defended myself.”

  “I had no weapons on me. You weren’t in any danger,” I say. “So, let’s just get this out in the open right now. You don’t like Mary, correct?”

  “Mary Fitzgerald is the symbol of everything that’s wrong with so-called Christianity today,” she says. “Except she is heard by believers everywhere. It seems to me that she was sent by the Devil. As it is stated in the Second Epistle of the Corinthians, chapter eleven, verses thirteen to fourteen: For such men are false apostles, deceitful workers, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. No wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.”

  “Funny, I would use the same verse about the Seven Servants of God,” I say.

  “We don’t disguise ourselves as angels. We only speak the truth and people cringe from it because they don’t like it. It was never meant to be easy to be a servant of God.”

  “If that’s what you want to believe. Let’s say, hypothetically, that you were at the church the day Mary disappeared. Why would you be there?”

  She leans back in her chair. The handcuffs jerks her arms straight, which must be uncomfortable, but her face remains stoic. “Hypothetically, I was planning to get close enough to Mary that I could find evidence that she was a false prophet. I was getting closer, but she is rather good at hiding her evil soul.”

  “What has she done that’s so evil?”

  “She puts out the idea that He is a loving God more than a God that should be feared. That’s wrong. He is someone that should make everyone tremble in fear. He has the ability to damn us for eternity. He should be respected, not made into a silly little song.”

  “Are you telling me that you didn’t kidnap or assist in kidnapping Mary Fitzgerald?” I ask.

  She chuckles, her tongue sliding between her teeth. “Detective, there’s a few rules in life you should know. First, fear God. Second, worship God. Third…never kidnap the Devil because you can’t bring the Devil up to your level. He…or she…can only drag you down to his level. So, the answer is no. I did not kidnap Mary Fitzgerald. I’m not a fool or a masochist.”

  The interrogation door swings open and Tobias steps in. His face is pale.

  “They found a body in Ray of Light Cemetery,” he tells me. “The first officers on the scene think it’s Mary.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tobias

  The wooden cross is beginning to lean forward; the soft dirt of the cemetery doesn’t offer enough resistance to counter the weight of Mary’s body. She’s crucified right in front of an angel headstone.

  Some of her blond hair is stained by blood, and her eyes are closed. She doesn’t look as if she’s sleeping, though—there is nothing at peace about her. She went through incredible pain before she died.

  “That’s not Mary,” Lauren says.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yeah. This woman looks like she’s in her late twenties. They look very, very similar, but…it’s not Mary. I’ve seen enough photos of her on celebrity magazines and CD covers that even without the retouching, make-up, and lighting, I can tell this isn’t her.”

  “Who is she then?” I ask.

  Jack Hamlin, Romano’s partner, strides up to the two of us. “She’s Sarah Lurie,” he says.

  “You found ID on her?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, but I knew her face because there’s been some controversy about her in the local paper for the last few weeks. She took over her parent’s gift shop, Handful of Wishes. Before she took over, her parents sold homemade items and gave twenty percent of profits to various charities, but—according to the papers—Sarah put her parents in a cheap retirement home. Then she began buying mass-produced knick-knacks from other countries and is keeping all of the profits. There’ve been people protesting outside of her store and people trying to force her out of business. It’s a pretty crazy situation.”

  “Well, thank you for that overshare,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I thought it could be helpful. Maybe one of those people who were angry about the store were pushed over the edge—”

  “And how would that involve Gavin Lively? And the fact that this murderer is crucifying people?”

  He raises both eyebrows. “I guess that would be your job to figure out.”

  As he walks away, I turn to Lauren.

  “I really hate that guy.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “He’s a prick. He acts all self-important and tries to involve himself in other people’s cases more than he should—”

  “Okay, the Captain sent us all down here, so we’re all working on it and I’m fairly certain the only reason you don’t like him is because you see him as a replacement for Richardson.”

  “Why would I be upset that he’s not Richardson? Richardson was annoying too,” I say.

  “You may not have liked Richardson, but he was a constant presence in your life and then the PVP Killer murdered him. Now, nobody is going to live up to him.”

  “Okay, I don’t need you to do your psychology profile on me. We need to figure out why the killer chose these two people to murder in the same way that the Bible says Jesus was murdered.”

  “Again, it’s a historical fact that Jesus was crucified.”

  “That would be relevant if He was here. Should I try to see if Judas is around?” I retort.

  She just shakes her head. “Do you think her controversy is relevant to her murder? Gavin wasn’t involved in any kind of scandal.”

  “That we know of. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet,” I say. I turn toward Hamlin and shout, “Go see if there’s a connection between Gavin and Sarah.”

  Even from here, I can see his body stiffen and his chin tilt up—signs of impending aggression—but a second later, he turns and heads toward his police car. I suppose it would be really bad press if we found this new victim and then there was a shoot-out between two police detectives, so he made a good call.

  “Do we know if Sarah went to church? Maybe the Pious Church?” Lauren asks.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember her being one of the people we questioned there,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Gavin wasn’t supposed to be there at all and you said he doesn’t go there half the time anyway, so she could have been somebody that skipped out, too.”

  “Yeah, he worked instead of going to church, which violates one of the Ten Commandments, so clearly neither of them were that religious.”

  “Really?” I drawl. “You think they’re not that religious because they didn’t go to church on Sunday, but you’re going to ignore the part where Sarah completely screwed over her parents?”

  She shrugs. “It’s also in the Ten Commandments to honor your parents and all sins separate you from God, so—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “They both broke the commandments?”

  “It’s not that uncommon,” Lauren says. “But maybe there’s a connection.”

  “Aren’t the Ten Commandments numbered?” I ask. “Which one says you can’t work on Sunday?”

  “On the Sabbath?” she asks. “I think it’s…let’s see…the first one is that you can’t worship any other gods, the second one is about not having any graven images of God or other gods, the third one is…not taking God’s name in vain, and the fourth is…don’t work on the Sabbath.”

  “I can’t believe you memorized all of that.”

  “It’s only ten things.”

  “Okay, which one says to honor your parents?”

  “It’s the next one. Number five,” she says.

  I stare up at the victim. Annette Har
ris is examining her body, checking her wounds caused by the nails.

  “Do you think that’s a coincidence?” I ask Lauren.

  “I don’t know,” she confesses. “It could be. I mean, a lot of people work on Sunday and a lot of people are mean to their parents. But it could be something. It is strange that they’re right in a row. I haven’t noticed any distinct pattern for this killer—other than the crucifixion—but this could be how he chooses his victims.”

  “So…what’s the next commandment? Who would he be aiming for next?”

  She swallows. “The sixth commandment is, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

  * * *

  “How about…the Commandment Killer?” Romano says. “Catchy, right?”

  “Are you a detective or a tabloid journalist?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Come on, Tobias. We can’t just keep calling him that-guy-who-crucifies-people-and-kidnapped-Mary-Fitzgerald.”

  “Why can’t we just call him a murderer?”

  “Because we happen to have a lot of those in this city and we need to distinguish the psychopaths from the regular assholes,” he says.

  “So, you think that once someone kills more than one person and kidnaps at least one person, they should be upgraded into having a title?” I ask.

  Lauren strides over to us with two coffees. She hands me one.

  “Really?” Romano asks. “Nothing for me? I need to date one of my co-workers.”

  Lauren leans against my desk. “You both need to actually work instead of inventing names for a killer we haven’t caught.”

  “That was just him!” I protest.

  Romano laughs again and walks back to his desk.

  Lauren takes a sip of her coffee. “So, are we going to go with this Ten Commandments theory?”

  “It’s really the only one we have, but how are we supposed to figure out which killer he’s going to go after? Like Romano said, we have a lot of killers in the city. There’s ones who have walked free, ones we don’t know about, ones in prison—”