by CJ Lyons
Ryder dialed a number. “Get some men over to apartment 304, west wing of the Tower. See if you can find me some witnesses on this girl’s disappearance. Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.”
He hung up once more, shoving the phone into his belt holster like it was a weapon. “Thanks, Vance. I’ll be back to talk with you more as soon as I can.”
“When can I see Patrice?” Vance asked.
“It will be awhile. I’ll see what I can do.” He started out the door, then stopped and held it open. “We’ll need to check everything in this office and Sister Patrice’s room. I’ll send some men.”
There was an awkward pause. Then Vance stood and walked past Ryder. I followed. Ryder closed the door. “Can you see that no one goes in there?” he asked Vance.
A smile barely surfaced on the priest’s face. “Glad to see I’m not a suspect.”
The smile faded when Ryder didn’t answer. He glanced at the door, then shrugged as if realizing the futility of locking it. There would be more than one key. I wondered how deep the friendship between the two men ran if Ryder was willing to risk evidence on it. Of course, if Vance had killed Patrice, he had plenty of time to destroy any evidence before he called 911.
“I’ll be back.” Ryder took two steps down the hall toward the massive front doors, then stopped at a station of the cross surrounded by candles. He glanced at the painting then back at Vance. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
His words didn’t sound empty. Or like a last-minute thought. Vance nodded.
“Find Esme,” Vance said, echoing Patrice’s last words.
I shivered and hurried after Ryder. I needed to get out of this place where my every movement was followed by the spying eyes of a dead god.
Ryder and I walked together to the front of the church. He opened the thick oak door leading to the vestibule for me, and I crossed over. The door closed with a sigh. No hollow thud like I expected from such a tall, heavy, ancient door. Just a tired exhalation, carrying with it the grief of a thousand lost souls.
I placed my hand on the cold iron of the even larger exterior door, ready to push it open, when I realized Ryder was no longer at my side. I looked back. He stood, barely, slumped against the oak-paneled wall, his face crisscrossed by shadows.
His eyes met mine. He said nothing. Didn’t have to. I understood his grief, his pain. I’d carried them myself. Maybe not for Patrice or his friend the priest, but for other victims.
I stepped toward him, settled my hand over his, and stood with him. That was it. No words, no sentiments, no tears. A simple, private pause. Breathing room before facing the outside world.
His exhalation echoed in the small space, a plaintive note that spoke volumes. About the world, about the waste, about how weary he was. Fighting for justice when justice always came too late. Losing the fight more often than not. Returning to the battle every waking day.
I heard him. Each unspoken word.
Not like I had heard Patrice’s words. No, this was more normal—one exhausted professional recognizing another. Comrades in arms.
His gaze rested on mine, his face edged by the chiseled glare of the overhead light caught in its ornate cage, and I felt closer to him than I had to anyone since my dad died. Even closer than Jacob when we were married.
As if he knew every inch of me, inside and out.
A scary thought. More scary: It didn’t frighten me.
Was it one more symptom? Another diversion from reality? Yet, Patrice’s voice had been real.
Was this feeling I had truth—or delusion? I wanted to believe it was real, but I knew nothing about Ryder, nothing at all to explain this sudden feeling of harmony. This certainty of rightness.
For one frozen moment in time, we were closer than any two people could be. It felt very much like the moment when I had held Patrice’s heart in my hand—poised between life and death, between surrender and denial, between action and consequence.
Then it was gone.
He blinked. Released my hand. “I’d better get back to work,” he said, his voice as rough as if we had kissed, even though we’d barely even touched.
I didn’t move away from him. Not because I was frozen—because I didn’t want to leave. I wanted time to stop again, wanted to re-create that sense of belonging.
A wicked wind blew a stray draft through the crack in the outside doors, leaving goose bumps in its wake. He flushed as I kept staring, then he looked away. Embarrassed? Had I scared him off?
Disappointed, I stepped back, turned to the door. His phone shrieked, bouncing echoes off the stone walls. “Ryder. Yeah, on my way.” He hung up. “They found another body. A woman. In the Tower.”
“A woman?”
“Not a girl,” he reassured me. “Preliminary ID is a Jessalyn Willard.”
Esme’s mother. Two women and a child. Why would a killer target them?
“Stay here with Vance, will you?” He pulled the heavy outside door open. “I hate for him to be alone.”
“I want to help find Esme.”
“I’m not letting any civilians into those tunnels. You’d only be standing in the rain doing nothing.” Now he turned back, his body half-hidden in the shadows of the overhang. “I’ll call as soon as we find anything.” My doubt must have been evident, because he met my eyes with a smile, brushing my arm with his hand. “I promise.”
He was gone, the thick door clicking shut behind him. I stood alone in silence. The high-ceilinged vestibule was an echo chamber, my own breathing suddenly bombarding me like cannon salvos from heaven.
One door leading outside to the storm, one leading inside to sins I refused to confess. I hesitated between them, not sure which one led to the greater hell.
CHAPTER TEN
Devon had to force himself to walk, not run, past the cops rapidly surrounding the Tower. Just another black man out for a stroll in the rain with his dog. No, that’s not a gun, take no notice, Officer. Nothing to see here, nothing at all….
Good thing the police were more interested in getting Tyree’s boys under control. Good thing they were short-staffed because of the holiday. Good thing it was foggy and dark since there was no fuckin’ way he could control the waves of fury and panic roiling off him, colliding with the raindrops popping against his skin.
His daughter. His goddamn daughter. Everything he’d done, he’d done for her and Jess. His fingers twisted a corner of the photo he’d shoved into his pocket. Esme. She looked just like Jess. Except her eyes. She had Devon’s eyes. All he’d ever hoped or dreamed was for her to have a life different than his.
He couldn’t stand the thought of her alone in the dark. Running scared. Had she seen Jess get killed? Terrified. She must be terrified. And if the men who killed Jess found her before he did?
For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even swallow his own spit. First time since that awful night with Jess in the tunnels that fear overwhelmed him, a fear so deep it made the blood in his veins tremble.
They’d been two kids, crazy in love. Crazy enough to break Tyree’s rules and trespass on his territory in an effort to find a private place that was theirs alone. Only to have their night of pleasure turn into a horrifying inferno.
Thanks to Tyree and his paranoia. He’d set a fire bomb to protect one of his stashes. And Jess and Devon had triggered it. Devon’s pace quickened at the memory of Jess’s screams, the searing pain, flames dancing across his skin as he dragged her to safety…
The damn dog decided it was a good time to take a piss. Devon about strangled the beast. Turned out for the best because as the dog raised his leg against the storefront, a man dashed out of the church doors. Not just a man, a cop. The cop in charge from the way the others ambushed him as soon as he approached the alley choked with patrol cars.
“Good dog,” Devon muttered. A fire truck pulled up, double-parking, blocking the street, and he used its bulk as cover to approach St. Timothy’s. Dayut-beri, the Russians would say. When you are given, take it.
He jogge
d up the steps, the dog at his side. Never thought he’d be coming back here to St. Tim’s. Not in a million years.
Pulling the heavy wooden door open, he let the dog enter first. He followed, bounding across the vestibule to reach the inside door before noticing the woman standing there.
Not Patrice. Instead, a too-skinny white girl with dark hair, too-small tits, and a nice ass. Eyes dark, very dark. Serious, as if she might actually know something worth knowing.
“Where’s Patrice?”
She said nothing, like one of the goddamn statues littering this place. He brushed past her, didn’t have time for this shit, and ran into the church proper, yelling for Patrice.
“She’s not here,” the woman said, following him.
Before he could answer, a tall black man appeared, his hands fumbling as he adjusted a clerical collar and the final button of a black shirt. Holy shit. Marcus.
Devon hadn’t thought of Marcus Vance in years. But as soon as he saw the man, he remembered him. Remembered those beefy fists pummeling him when he was twelve, being jumped into the Royales. Remembered the fight with rival drug dealers from Baltimore that left Marcus with the scar on his face.
Marcus used to be Tyree’s right-hand man, his enforcer. And now he was a fuckin’ priest?
Startled laughter escaped Devon, laughter mixed with frustration and confusion and fear. Alice in freakin’ Wonderland, that’s where he was. “Where the hell’s Patrice?”
Marcus came to a stop in front of him. Hands shoved into his back pockets, rocking on his heels, just like when they were both a decade younger. Marcus was in his late thirties now, but damn, he looked the same as Devon remembered. Except the constant smarmy smirk—that had vanished. The smile that replaced it was sad, sorrowful, as if Marcus wished Devon had stayed away.
“Hello, Devon.”
“I asked you a question. Where’s Patrice?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I need to fucking know. She ran off with—” He almost said “my little girl” before stopping himself. “She ran off with Jess’s girl, Esme.”
“Do you know where Esme is?” The woman from the foyer had moved into the doorway but stopped there, watching the two of them warily. Devon turned so he could keep them both in his sight. The dog had a thing for the woman, was yanking on his leash to go to her, so he dropped it, let the mutt do as he pleased.
“No. That’s why I need to find Patrice.”
Marcus and the woman exchanged a glance, and Devon knew the news was bad. “What happened?”
Marcus touched Devon’s arm. “Maybe you should sit down.”
“No. I don’t have time to sit down. Jess is dead, do you understand? Dead. Killed. Esme ran away. They said Patrice knows where she is. We need to find her.”
“Patrice is dead.” This from the woman. Her tone was gentle, but the words still staggered him. He didn’t sit, but reached for the back of the nearest pew to brace himself.
“Esme?”
“Patrice hid her from the people who killed her. Sent her down into the tunnels.”
Marcus looked surprised at that, frowning at the woman. She continued, “The police are organizing a search.”
“The police won’t find squat,” Devon said, shaking his head, trying to rearrange the new facts in his brain. “Not down there. But I can.”
The woman finally took a step into the church proper, the dog following on her heels, nosing at her leg. “You know the tunnels?”
“Practically lived down there when I was a kid getting chased by folks like him.” Devon nodded at Marcus.
“Runt.” Marcus smiled as he used the old name. “If anyone can find Esme, he can,” he told the woman. “And Ozzie.”
The dog perked his ears at his name and sat beside the woman’s leg. She absently scratched his head. “This is Esme’s dog?”
“Her mom’s.”
“Just who the hell are you anyway?” Devon asked, tired of being kept in the dark while seconds ticked past.
“Devon Price,” Marcus made the introductions, “this is Dr. Angela Rossi. Works Good Sam’s ER. She’s the one who took care of Patrice.”
Devon gave a grunt of acknowledgment. He didn’t have time for this shit. “The police have the alley covered. I’ll need to get in through the basement here.”
“There’s an entrance to the tunnels here?” the doctor asked. She eyed Marcus with suspicion. “Why didn’t you tell Ryder?”
“You never said Esme was in the tunnels. All the entrances are supposed to be locked. To keep kids from wandering down there.” Marcus’s frown deepened, and Devon knew the priest was remembering the night when Jess—when Devon—lost everything. Down in the tunnels.
“Patrice had a key,” the doctor, Angela, continued. “She used it to let Esme in.”
“I don’t need no goddamn key.” Devon grabbed the dog’s leash and pushed past Marcus when the priest didn’t move out of his way fast enough. Man still kept in shape despite the priest collar. Wolf in sheep’s clothing.
What the hell had happened around here after Devon left home? He jogged down the middle aisle, not bothering to pause at the altar, took a sharp left and circled around behind the altar to the staircase there. To his annoyance, both Marcus and Angela followed. He didn’t need anyone tagging along, slowing him down.
“Who are you?” Angela shouted. “Why are you carrying a gun?”
“It’s all right,” Marcus assured her. “Devon would never hurt Esme.”
Devon shot a glance over his shoulder at Marcus. Did the priest know Esme was his? Had Jess told him? She and Cece were the only people besides Tyree who’d known, but it wouldn’t have been hard for someone like Marcus to guess the truth.
They reached the basement. Devon led the way past the boiler room, past several storage rooms, one covered in plastic and reeking of wet paint, then down another half-flight of stairs to a metal door. He jangled the doorknob. Locked.
“You sure she’s in there?” he asked the doctor.
“Yes.”
He handed her the dog’s leash and dug out his wallet. Sliding free two thin strips of metal he kept hidden in the seams, he bent to the door. Hadn’t done this in ages. He had others to do this kind of work now, but he hadn’t lost his touch. “You’d best call Tyree. Let him know the cops will be crawling through his space.”
“No. We should call Ryder,” Angela argued.
The lock clicked open. Devon straightened and turned to face her. She didn’t appear at all intimidated. Instead, she held her ground. The dog, traitor, wedged himself between the two of them, protecting her with his body. This was why he’d never liked dogs. Too noisy at all the wrong times, and they bartered their allegiance to anyone for a biscuit or pat on the head.
“A little girl’s life depends on us,” Angela said. “We should help the police find her.”
“I can find her faster than they can. There’s places in there that won’t show up on any map. Places that strangers stumbling into them could lead to folks getting hurt.”
“You mean booby-trapped?”
“If Tyree’s still playing his same old games.” He glanced to his side, where Marcus stood listening, considering, all Mr. Man-of-the-Cloth-King-Solomon-like. “You tell me, Marcus. Should we send the cops in?”
“No. He’s right. I’ll call Ryder, warn him.” He patted Angela on the shoulder. “It’s the best way.”
The doctor didn’t look too convinced. In fact, she looked downright suspicious of them both. Smart lady. If Patrice had had a key to the tunnels, it was a good bet she’d negotiated a truce with Tyree and was using them for her own purposes.
“We gonna surprise anyone nasty down there?” he asked Marcus.
Marcus didn’t bother looking innocent. “No. Patrice moved the last group out a few days ago.” He sighed and turned to Angela. “Wish you’d told me about the tunnels before. Patrice uses a few rooms off this end to hide people on the underground railroad—a few illeg
als, mainly women running from abusive partners.”
“She wouldn’t set booby traps for that—”
“No. But Tyree would. He has several stashes down there. No telling what kind of security he has set up near them.”
“You any idea where they are?” Devon asked, swinging the door open. There was a bookcase on the other side with a bunch of flashlights lined up on it. He grabbed one, made sure it worked and stuffed it in his coat pocket, then grabbed one more. Last thing he could risk was wandering in the dark. Not down there.
“No. I’m long out of that.”
Devon stepped over the threshold, aiming the light down the tunnel. The air was fresh here, smelled of laundry detergent and bleach. Patrice cleaning up after her guests. Farther in it wouldn’t be so pleasant. “Call Tyree. Tell him Esme might be down here.”
He drew his breath in, surprised at how much effort it took. He’d been calmer staring down men aiming guns at him. But this time there was more than his life at stake. And the tunnels… Christ, he’d never, ever wanted to return to the tunnels, to that awful night eleven years ago. Jess’s screams tore through his mind, followed by his own choked sobs as he tried in vain to help her. And the smell, that god-awful stench of burnt flesh. His stomach heaved at the memory.
He stepped into the darkness, then reached back for the dog’s leash. Damn thing better be able to find Esme, fast. His heart stuttered at the thought of her down there, alone, in the dark.
To his surprise, the doctor refused to relinquish the leash. Instead, she also grabbed a flashlight and followed him. “I’m coming with you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ryder stumbled down the steps of St. Tim’s, back out into the rain, cursing himself for a fool.
Christ on a pogo! He’d lost it, lost it good. He couldn’t explain what had come over him inside the church. Suddenly, there they were, shut up in the small, dark space, and Rossi had smelled so very good, and he was so very tired and lonely and… and he didn’t even know what. Just that he was sick of this empty feeling that greeted him every morning and haunted him every night, and he had no idea how to fill the void.
