Blood of Saints

by Maegan Beaumont

  He stopped for a moment and listened, remembering what his mentor had told him once about why he liked to chase his prey. Why he turned them loose and ran them down.

  It gives ’em hope. It ain’t fun if they don’t have hope.

  He hadn’t understood what Wade had meant at the time, but he did now. He could feel it—exhilaration. Anticipation coupled with an almost crippling sense of inevitability. He would find her and he would kill her. Nothing she did would stop that now. The power of it was intoxicating. A drug he could quickly come to crave if every step he took didn’t cause him pain.

  Fun, ain’t it, boy?

  “Margaret?” he called out to her, his voice calm and steady while he clipped the bolt gun he carried to the belt on his pants. “I know you’re out here,” he said loudly, dangling hope and then ripping it away. “There’s nowhere for you to go. No one out here to help you.”

  He fell quiet. Listening. Waiting.

  Around him, the desert was a living thing. Moving and breathing. Skittering and crawling. The flap of wings. A rustling burrow. But that was it. The frantic bleat had gone silent. The desperate scramble of bare feet across sharp rocks had stopped.

  She’d gone to ground. Margaret was listening and waiting too.

  Visualizing the wide, flat expanse of land that surrounded him, he could see it—a shallow ravine about fifty yards to the west. Carved into the desert by flash floods, lined by palo verde and brittlebush. To someone who didn’t know better, it would seem like the perfect place to hide.

  He stooped, running his hand over the ground, sifting dirt between his fingers, quickly finding what he was looking for. A rock—roughly the size of an orange. Standing, he walked toward the ravine, making no attempt to hide his approach. Each footfall sent smaller desert creatures scurrying for safety.

  Fight or flight. All animals possessed it. The instinct to either run or stand their ground. It was in their nature—who they were. A preprogrammed response they were unable to deny. Uncontrollable. Unstoppable. Marking them as predator or prey from the moment they were born.

  He’d known what Margaret would do—what she was—even before she did.

  Stopping a few feet from the edge of the ravine, he scuffed his shoes in the dirt, sending loose rocks and clumps of dead grass tumbling into the chasm. It had been a raging torrent of water only hours ago, a flash flood, fed by the storm cell that’d ripped across the desert. A few inches of water slowly soaking into the bottom of the ravine was all that was left of it, but the rain left the earth soft and unpredictable beneath his feet.

  There she is. In the bush, right in front of you.

  “I see you,” he whispered loudly and like he’d fired a starting pistol, she popped up from the bush she’d been crouching behind, no more than six feet below him. She tumbled down the slope of the ravine, terror knotting her feet together, making it impossible for her to find them until she reached the bottom. Rolling herself up onto her hands and knees she forced them beneath her, those panicked bleats pumping out of her lungs with every scrambling footstep. He was close enough to hear the words they formed, over and over.

  “Please, God, please …”

  He let her run. Let her think she was going to get away. Let her believe that her prayers would be answered. That miracles were real.

  He gave her hope. Then he took it away.

  Lifting the rock to chest level, he held it tight, splitting his fingers around it while he curved his thumb around its base. Taking aim, he lifted his knee, letting it kiss his elbow for just a moment before he lowered it, planting it firmly in the dirt. His shoulder snapped forward, turning his arm into a rocket as it exploded away from his chest. The rock left his grip, missiling toward its target in a blur of speed and accuracy.

  It struck her just where he knew it would, where he meant it to: in the space where her ear joined her head. She fell instantly. Face down in the mud, hands still bound and pinned awkwardly beneath her.

  He waited. Watched her crumpled frame from the edge of the ravine. She didn’t move. Didn’t try to get up. He wanted to leave her there. It could be days—possibly weeks—before someone found her and that would be after the coyotes made a meal of her corpse. They were at least two miles from where they’d started. He could leave her here without fear of leading the authorities to their secret place.

  Don’t get sloppy now, boy. That ain’t how I taught you.

  The voice in his head came through loud and clear. He ground his teeth together to keep from arguing. “Yes, sir,” he said instead, even though the mere thought of it made his knee ache. He stepped off the lip of the ravine to pick his way down its crumbling side. The moon was high and bright. Full enough to show him the dark splotch of blood matted against her hair, its glossy fingers sliding along her cheek, the rock he’d thrown now at his feet like it was waiting for him. He bent and picked it up, jamming it into his front pocket. A few inches from his shoe, Margaret’s hands clenched in the mud, her fingers digging in it like she was trying to push herself up.

  You ain’t got all night, boy. Get to work.

  Unclipping the bolt gun from his belt he crouched down, brushing his hand over the back of her head, moving her tangled hair to the side, exposing the base of her skull. She turned her head under his hand, trying to shake him loose. Knotting his fingers in her hair, he yanked, forcing her face into the mud. Her hands were no longer scrambling in the mud; they were shoving against it. Trying to push herself up. He stepped on them, flattening them until they sunk into the sodden dirt beneath them.

  “Robert is dead.” He pulled back on the bolt, pressing the barrel of it to the back of her head. “You failed to save him, Margaret,” he whispered, his voice carried on the warm desert air that surrounded them. “You aren’t at all what I’d hoped.”

  She was trying to talk, her mouth open and full of mud. Eyes squeezed shut against the sight of him. He used his free hand to grip her chin and turn her head to the side. “I tried.” The words were muddled and sluggish, her brain clearly not fully present. “I did what you said. I did everything …”

  “Shhh.” The hand on her face went gentle, stroking her cheek softly. “Yes, you did. That’s why I’m willing to make you a deal. Tell me the truth and I’ll let you live.” He pushed the barrel of the bolt gun against the base of her skull. “Can you do that, Margaret? Can you tell me the truth?”

  She nodded blindly, the blood from where he’d struck her with the rock skating around his fingers, pulled by gravity along the curve of her jaw. “Yes.”

  “Do you still believe in miracles?” He brushed his fingertips against her mouth, staining it red. “Do you think you’re worthy of what He gave you?”

  Margaret shook her head. “No.” Her tongue peeked out, brushing against her lower lip, and she recoiled slightly at the taste of her own blood.

  “Do you still think God saved you for a reason?”

  She shook her head again, too frightened to say the word out loud.

  “Good,” he told her, fisting the hand he’d used to soothe her in the bloody thatch of hair at her crown so he could reposition the bolt gun he still held against her skull.

  Forcing her face back into the mud, he cut off the cry she let loose at his word. He pulled the trigger, releasing the bolt. The force of it made a loud snapping sound, punching a quarter-sized hole in the base of her skull.

  Beneath his shoe, her hands stopped digging in the mud.

  “Now what?” he said, watching blood and tissue ooze from the hole in Margaret’s head. The heat of the hunt and the kill that followed had cooled in his veins. He knew Wade was right. His DNA was all over her. He couldn’t just leave her here.

  The voice inside his head chuckled softly.

  Don’t worry, just trust me, boy. I’ll take care of everything.

  Thirty-three

  After standing by while Ameli
a received communion, Sabrina piloted her through the doors leading to the prayer garden. It was nearly deserted, most people hurrying off for a quick meal and to change clothes for their early shift in the fields. All that was left were a few old women chatting quietly by the gate and Ellie, sitting on the bench, the angel statue looming over her.

  When she saw her daughter, Amelia frowned. “There you are, Elena,” she said, clucking her tongue while she held out her hand like she was a child. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come on, let’s get home so I can get dinner started. Your father will be home soon.”

  At the mention of her father, Ellie’s face went still, her gaze landing on Sabrina face before finding her mother again. “I’m sorry, Mamá,” she said, standing as she took the hand her mother offered her.

  Sabrina followed behind, worried that Amelia would turn toward her again, like she had in the church. Expose her for who and what she really was, but her worry went unrealized. Amelia did nothing but ramble on in Spanish about what she was going to make her husband for dinner and how Valerie had a history test in the morning.

  Ellie played along, nodding and answering while she opened the passenger door of her late-model compact and settling the old woman inside. “Wait here, Mamá,” she said, adjusting her mother’s seat belt before shutting the door. “I’m sorry about that,” she said, turning away from the car to look at Sabrina. “She’s gotten worse recently. It used to be she couldn’t remember what day it was or where she put her purse but now …” Ellie shrugged. “I’m not sure how long I have until she’s gone completely.”

  The thought of Amelia, lost, broke Sabrina’s heart. “You mentioned a sister—what about her? Can’t she help?”

  “She keeps threatening to come out here, but …” Ellie shrugged, shaking her head. “Val’s pregnant, with a cop husband and a toddler. The last thing she needs is to deal with this mess.”

  Val was pregnant. Something sharp and sweet lanced through her—happiness mixed with sadness and regret. Lucy, Val’s daughter, would be nearly two years old by now. Jason and Riley—her own brother and sister—were close to twenty. Strickland, her old partner, would have a new workmate.

  Life had moved on without her.

  She nodded like she understood even though she didn’t. “If she’s offering to help—”

  “This is my responsibility, Agent Vance.” Ellie rounded the front of the car. “And my business,” she said, reminding her that she’d overstepped her bounds. “Good night.”

  Sabrina watched her leave, pulling out of the deserted dirt lot, her taillights disappearing into the dark. Ellie was right; it wasn’t her business. She got busy convincing herself of that fact while she walked to her car on the other side of the church. She had enough to worry about—finding out how and why her DNA ended up on a dead girl and hopefully catching a killer, for starters.

  “Hey, Kitten.”

  Sabrina’s head turned so fast her neck cramped up. Church was sitting cross-legged on the trunk of a car parked a few spots down from their rental, a sugary smile on her face. She recognized the car. It was Croft’s dark green Jetta.

  Shit.

  “How’d you find me?” she said, stopping in front of Church.

  Church waggled her phone at her. “Cloned your cell.” She said it like she was admitting to eating the last doughnut from the office breakroom. “Was that the tech that took Graciella Lopez’s shoes today?”

  “Where is he, Church?” Sabrina said, ignoring her question completely. Hernandez was a fairly common last name. There was no reason to tell her psycho sidekick that the crime tech assigned to their case was actually Valerie’s little sister.

  “Where’s who?” Church answered, drumming her fingers on the lid of the trunk.

  Walking the perimeter of the car, she half expected to find Croft hog-tied in the back seat. Save for a pile of fast food wrappers and a few books, it was empty. “Quit dicking around, you know who,” she said, yanking the driver’s door open. She reached down, finding the trunk lever. “Get up.”

  Church reluctantly slid off the trunk to stand next to the car, hip cocked against the fender, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re a ruiner.”

  “So I’ve been told.” She popped the trunk before slamming the driver’s door and making her way to the back of the car. “Is he alive?” she said, her hand on the lid. As many times as she’d threatened to kill him, Sabrina wasn’t sure she was prepared to see a dead Jaxon Croft.

  Church gave her a sullen shrug. “I don’t know—open the trunk and find out.”

  Sabrina’s fingers tightened for a few seconds before she lifted the lid, suddenly sure he wasn’t alive. That she’d been the cause of yet another death. That Church had killed Croft simply because she’d been late.

  He was blindfolded and trussed up with a set of what looked like police issue cuffs and chains. There was a ball gag strapped around his face and a pair of earbuds stuffed into his ears.

  Other than a cluster of Taser burns on his neck, he looked unharmed. And alive.

  “Jesus,” she said. Reaching into the trunk, she grabbed onto the blindfold. “How many times did you tase him?” He jerked away from her but she snagged the blindfold anyway and pulled it down. As soon as he saw her his whole body relaxed and he started yelling, his words a muffled mess behind the red rubber ball stuffed in his mouth.

  Church gave her a disinterested shrug. “It’s not like I counted,” she said before rolling her eyes at Sabrina’s expression. “Relax, Kitten. I had the juice dialed down … most of the time.”

  “You’re a true humanitarian,” she said, reaching behind Croft to unbuckle the strap that secured the ball gag to his face. As soon as it was loose, he kicked his yelling into high gear. She held it gingerly, fingers pinched lightly around the strap. She didn’t even want to know how many people Church had used it on. “You own a ball gag?”

  “You don’t?” Church said, leaning into the trunk to press a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” She aimed her finger at Croft and his mouth clamped shut like it was on a timer. Holding up her hands, she wiggled her fingers before reaching into the trunk to pop the buds out of his ears. “Clark Kent and I have been getting to know each other, isn’t that right, Clark?”

  “Fuck you, you crazy bitch.”

  Church sighed. “Name calling isn’t nice,” she said, winding the earbud cord around the iPod it was plugged into. “He told me everything. Eventually.”

  Everything was a relative term when dealing with Croft, but the word worried her. Especially since she had no idea what everything was. “Great,” she said, feigning disinterest. “Uncuff him so we can get out of here.”

  “Don’t you want to know what he told me?” Church said, sliding along the length of the fender until she was standing next to her in front of the trunk. “I’m pretty sure you do, Kitten.”

  “Now, please.” Sabrina spit the words out, still pretending to be disinterested.

  “Suit yourself.” Church shrugged as she dug into the front pocket of her jeans. She produced a key and held it up, twirling it in the air like a magic wand. “Roll over, doggie.”

  Croft did what she told him. She was sure he’d make a grab for Church as soon as the cuffs were unlocked, but he didn’t. He lay there for a few moments, rubbing the feeling back into his wrists while he glared up at them.

  “Come on, Clark, be a sport,” Church said, totally unaffected by the fact that he obviously wanted to kill her. “Tell her what you told me.”

  “You tase me, kidnap me, and torture me with Yanni and now you want to act like we’re friends?” Croft swung his legs over the lip of the compartment and dropped them onto the dirt so that he was sitting on the edge of the trunk. “I liked your old partner better, Sabrina,” he said, aiming a look her way.

  “Me too,” she said, looking at Church. “Yanni?”

  �
�My patented playlist.” She smiled and held up the iPod. “Yanni. Michael Bolton. Kenny G., a little Hasselhoff. Very effective.” She tucked it into her back pocket before rounding on Croft. “So, tell her what you told me or you, me, and The Hoff are gonna go for another ride.”

  He folded instantly, the fight going out of him before she could blink. Whatever Church had done to him, it’d involved a bit more than a Taser and an iPod full of crap music. “Okay, okay.” Croft nodded and looked at Sabrina, swallowing hard against the words that welled up in his throat. “He was here. Wade.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Croft said, each word scraping along the inside of his mouth like he had to force them out, “he was here—in Arizona.”

  She split a confused look between the two of them. “I know that. I was here too, remember?”

  “No,” Croft shook his head. “He was here after you … died,” he said, struggling to find the right words to describe what’d happened to her all those years ago. “He flew into Sky Harbor under the name Wayne Conway at least three times between 2000 and 2008.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth like the words inside it tasted bad. Like he wanted to spit them out but couldn’t.

  “The guy he was writing to—he wasn’t just some sick pen pal he exchanged torture fantasies with. He was teaching him. Showing him how to hunt. To kill.” Croft looked away from her for a moment, his jaw flexing with what looked like anger and more than a little self-disgust. “He was Wade’s apprentice.”

  Thirty-four

  Berlin, Germany

  “Mr. Shaw … Mr. Shaw.”

  The words were delivered on an exasperated tone, followed by a sigh, the kind usually reserved for unruly toddlers and carpet-pissing puppies. He knew it well—his babysitter couldn’t go five minutes without using it on him.