Son of Sam (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 4)

by R. Lee Walsh

“Let's not sully our last moments together by lying.”

  Her eyes well up and she swallows. I watch a solitary tear roll down her aging but lovely face. Then she surprises me once again by slowly kneeling on the concrete. Bowing her head, she stills.

  “Get up,” I command, more than a little baffled.

  “Leave, and I will,” she says softly.

  Frowning, I stare at her lowered head. Is she praying? “At least have the self-respect to stand and face me.”

  “No,” she whispers.

  Exasperated, I reach down to grasp her around the throat, lifting her from the painted cement floor until her face meets mine. One patent leather pump falls from her dangling feet. Her tear soaked lashes remain firmly closed. “Look at me!” I growl, but she shows no reaction.

  Growing increasingly frustrated I shake her briskly, but she still doesn't open her eyes. Infuriated now, I lift her higher then slam her on the concrete.

  Like a broken doll, her body lays in fatal disrepair, the limbs splayed at disjointed angles. She gasps, but doesn't struggle, then slowly opens her eyes. Staring at the ceiling, her eyes cloud for a moment then seek me out, burning with a startling intensity. “Blood calls to blood,” she wheezes, her voice barely above a whisper. Her face then relaxes and her eyes dim as the last breath leaves her body.

  Frowning at her last remark, I feel a growing sense of unease. This tenacious little woman with fire in her eyes merely knelt down at my feet. As I watch her lifeblood pool around her head, the true meaning behind her last words hit me.

  She offered herself up as a sacrifice. A willing sacrifice. The question is, why? What did she expect to gain? Kneeling down, I trace my finger through a crimson drop of her blood and hear the unexpected sound of panicked breathing. A quick glance confirms it's not Paula, so I stand and quickly scan the area.

  “Hello?” I say, pausing to listen for a response.

  I hear the whisper of something soft brush against cardboard before a shadow moves some twenty feet to my left. A paint-spattered Faith Matthews, my girl's step-sister, materializes from behind an enormous paper mache boulder that's part of the scenery I'd been admiring earlier. She has paint brushes clutched in a trembling hand.

  This is the second person to sneak up on me today. Either I'm losing my touch, which is impossible, or there's something peculiar about this building.

  I quickly calculate how much time I have left. One death can be blamed on robbery or a random act of violence, but two at the same time could get complicated.

  “Come,” I say, beckoning for her to come forward. I'm still dressed as a security guard and depending on how much she's seen, perhaps this can still be salvaged. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

  She takes a reluctant step forward, her bottom lip trembling.

  “What are you doing down here?” I ask, scanning the area for others.

  “I h-h-huh had to make some last minute touch ups,” she stutters, bursting into tears.

  “Who else's with you?”

  “No one, I swear it,” she sobs.

  Her hysteria confirms she's seen too much and I stare at her, weighing my options. A metal door squeaks open in the distance and we both turn toward the sound.

  Rather than call out for help, Faith darts behind a rack of costumes. At a loss for what to do myself now, I too disappear into the shadowy recess behind a row of boxes.

  What should have been a simple abduction has somehow turned into three ring circus. What the hell is Simon doing upstairs? His only job was to keep everyone busy and at this point I can't be sure how many other people are down here.

  Fortunately, I always have a plan B. However, at this point my only option is to retreat.

  ~Three~

  Frustrated muttering identifies the next visitor as my girl, who wanders among the storage room paraphernalia, a red leather journal clutched to her chest. Scowling, she seems to be holding an imaginary argument with someone, her expression mirroring her internal struggle with whomever has caused her such ire. I quickly survey the area for any sign of Faith, but she seems to have disappeared--or at least I think she has. For all I know the National Guard could be lurking somewhere in this infernal basement.

  When Hope starts near the area where an enormous set lies in pieces for tomorrow's big event, I quickly dart the other direction. Before I can reach the loading dock ramp, I hear her startled gasp.

  Slipping behind a row of bookcases, I watch as she stares at her aunt's body, her posture rigid. Anticipating a blood-curdling scream, I make a soft clicking noise with my teeth to distract her. Her shoulders tense and she slowly turns, squinting in my direction. A fluorescent bulb flickers above her head and her eyebrows furrow as she anxiously surveys the area. Concerned her step-sister will come rushing forward at any moment, I dart closer to the loading dock exit. A metal door once again screeches in the distance, followed immediately by the staccato click of high heels on concrete. Seriously? Simon is so going to pay for this fiasco.

  My girl turns toward the approaching footsteps, a look of desperation and indecision on her face. Like her step-sister, rather than run toward help, she darts past me, heading straight for the loading dock. Just as she reaches the exit door, her mother, Elizabeth Matthews, appears in the doorway of the other entrance. Her dark eyes narrow and even from here I can see her annoyed scowl.

  “Hope? Where are you going?” she calls out. “And where are the flyers you were supposed to get?”

  My girl pauses, turning to look at her mother. Her conflicted expression and the slight wince at the sound of her mother's voice speaks for her. They stare at each other with every emotion but trust. Hope glances toward where her Aunt lies and a shadow passes behind Elizabeth. Unaccountably, Faith appears to be sneaking out behind her.

  Oblivious to everything but the daughter in front of her, when the metal door screeches again, Elizabeth glances back for a moment surveying what must be an empty hall because she shrugs and turns her attention back to my girl. A cell phone rings and she fumbles with her jacket pocket, answering on the second ring.

  “Hi, honey. Yeah, I found her. We're on our way up.” Her brow furrows and she pauses to listen while staring at Hope, her eyes narrowing.

  “Bye Momma,” Hope whispers, then pushes open the exit door. Without a backward glance, she runs from the building.

  “Get back here this instant!” Elizabeth commands, reaching a manicured hand toward her fleeing daughter. Rushing further into the room, she stops suddenly.

  Surveying the room with narrowed eyes, her nostrils flare and she takes another step forward. Strikingly beautiful, with long dark hair, even now her posture is regal. Impeccably dressed in a navy suit, she exudes perfect self control. Her public persona may be the gentle matron of the Matthews family and Omega Alliance empire, but there's no doubt in my mind that this woman is the power behind the throne. “I know you're here,” she says.

  Turning her ear toward the area where her sister's body now rests, she cocks her head like she hears something. Closing her eyes, she places a hand on her chest.

  “What have you done?” she whispers.

  Opening her eyes, she quickly makes her way toward where her sister lies, as if guided by some internal radar. Intrigued, I move closer, silently weaving my way through the man made forest of surplus materials.

  “No, no, noooooo!”

  Collapsing over Paula's broken body, Elizabeth gently touches her sister's face. I watch in fascination as she carefully straightens her clothes, muttering words of comfort as if Paula Temple could hear her.

  “You're a fool,” she says suddenly, pausing from her ministrations. “You can kill us all, but it won't change the outcome.”

  At this point I can only assume she's talking to me. As Hope's mother she must also have some kind of supernatural perception and I briefly wonder if she can also smell me. The thing that bothers me most however, is that I cannot sense her. Reeling at this bizarre turn of events, before I can decide how best
to proceed, she takes a cell phone from her pocket and dials 911, calmly requesting police assistance. Hanging up, she immediately dials again.

  “Daddy?” she says, her voice breaking.

  I hear a male respond, asking her what's wrong. Only it's not the voice of a human man--it's the unmistakeable voice of an Irin.

  Stunned, I wait in breathless silence as she tells him to come to the OA storage room under the sanctuary.

  “Bring Mama,” she says softly. “Paula's gone.”

  Disconnecting, she lays the phone next to where she kneels.

  Daddy? If Elizabeth's father is Irin, then my girl is a half—no, a quarter breed. It would explain why they can smell me, but also means I've somehow been horribly deceived.

  My mind races to come up with an explanation, but outrage tends to cloud my judgement. Before I do something rash or anyone else decides to make an untimely appearance, I need to get away from this building.

  When I reach the loading dock Elizabeth Matthews laughs. The sound is so unexpected I pause.

  Her tear-stained face slowly turns and she looks right at me. For a split second I feel something uncomfortably close to panic. “Go ahead and run, you coward. The Irin have always been here.”

  ~ Four~

  I hear sirens in the distance and keep my head down as I round the building, heading for my vehicle. The security guard from earlier jogs toward the front entrance, his keys jangling on his belt. When he disappears inside I quickly open my car door, slipping behind the wheel.

  Trembling with indignation, for a moment I consider burning the entire place down. However, a thousand unanswered questions need to be answered first, starting with who the hell are these people?

  As the distant flashing lights of the first police cars race toward the scene, instead I start the car and drive across the empty lot, taking the service route along the east side of the building. I notice Hope's car still parked by the loading dock, which means wherever she went, she's on foot. Veering onto a weedy patch of undeveloped land the OA currently uses for overflow parking, in my rearview mirror I see a half dozen police cars race up to the main sanctuary. By the time I reach the paved road on the other side of the lot, more than a dozen officers have exited their cars and are dashing up the stairs.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out, cursing at the familiar number.

  “You're a dead man,” I growl into the receiver, slowing to a halt at a stop sign. “You have no idea who you're messing with.”

  “What have you done?” Simon hisses. “You never said anything about murder!”

  An ambulance and two police cars race through the intersection while I focus on excruciating ways to torture him.

  “That was nothing,” I say. “Wait til' I get ahold of you.”

  “Me?” he squawks. “I did what you asked and this was not part of the agreement!”

  “Game over, junior. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about!” he shrieks, the utter conviction in his tone giving me pause.

  Staring straight ahead, I replay the last hour, taking into account everything I know about the Matthews family. While Simon's unarguably pathetic, Paula and Elizabeth are the only ones related to Hope by blood. Both have shown impressive courage as well as superior intellect but none of the instability known in half-breeds.

  Blood calls to blood.

  If Elizabeth knew I was in the room, she must've also known I would overhear her telephone conversation. What if the Irin she called was only a ruse, meant to confuse and mislead me? Then not only is Elizabeth Matthews more formidable than I thought, but they somehow know about the prophecy. Unfortunately, it also means they've already formed an alliance with the Irin.

  “You want to kill me? Fine!” Simon continues. “Why not, right? My life's already ruined. But I swear to God I'm telling the cops everything I know.”

  “No you won't,” I reply, forcing myself to calm down. Simon may be an idiot, but he's not stupid enough to double cross me. He obviously has no idea what's really going on and I doubt he's even heard of the Irin.

  “The hell I won't! If you think--”

  “Where's Hope?” I interrupt, pulling over to park in front of a convenience store.

  “You're asking me? I thought she was with you!”

  I sit for a moment tapping on the steering wheel. My girl's out here somewhere and I need to find her before anyone else does--especially the Irin. “Everyone knows you couldn't stand your stepsister and if you tell anyone about our arrangement, I'll make it look like you murdered both of them and tried to frame me for it.”

  “Oh God,” he moans. “I can't believe this is happening.”

  “Calm down, junior. Things are just getting interesting. Keep your mouth shut and you have nothing to worry about. And get rid of that damn phone. I'm not telling you again.”

  Disconnecting, I get out of the car, walking toward a convenience store. An aging wino sits on the sidewalk leaning against the building, an empty coffee cup next to him. Dropping a couple coins in his cup, I hand him my card and squat down.

  “Wanna earn some easy money?” I ask.

  He squints at the card and glances at the change in his cup. “Depends on what I have to do for it.”

  “I need someone to keep an eye out for a missing friend of mine. I think she might be in trouble.”

  Frowning, he shields his eyes with a filthy hand. “Lost your lady, did ya?”

  “Something like that.”

  He fingers my card and dumps the contents of his cup in his hand. He counts the change while licking his lips. “You hurt her?”

  “Of course not. I'd never let anyone harm her.”

  “So you want me to call this number if I see her?” he asks, already smearing grime on my pristine white card. “Then what?”

  “That's it.” I stand, surveying the parking lot.

  He drops the coins back in the cup along with my card. “How much?”

  I pull a twenty dollar bill from my pocket and hand it to him. “There's a thousand more if you locate her before the cops do.”

  His eyes widen and he takes the bill from my hand. “Cops? What'd she do? Take something of yours?”

  “It's complicated. Let's just say it would be better if I found her first.”

  He frowns, staring at the crisp bill in his hand. After a moment he shrugs. “It's your dime. What's she look like?”

  “Young. Long dark hair. Pale skin. Hazel eyes.”

  “There's plenty of girls could fit that description, mister. You want I should call you whenever I see one?”

  I nod toward a billboard across the street. John Matthews smiling face beckons one and all to take part in tomorrow's Son Rise! Easter broadcast. “Ever been there?”

  He squints at the sign. “I'm not the church going type.”

  “Yeah, me neither. Ever watched it?”

  “Who hasn't? They got it on all the time down at the mission.”

  “Hope Matthews,” I say. “Know who that is?”

  “The preacher's kid?”

  “The girl I'm looking for looks exactly like that.”

  He considers this for a moment, staring over at the billboard. Realization dawns on his face and he swallows nervously. “I think I got it.”

  “Good. And you might want to tell your friends. The reward applies to anyone and I can be very generous.”

  “Sure, whatever man,” he says avoiding my eyes. I understand his reluctance. After all, it's one thing to be on the lookout for some unknown runaway, but another when it's a famous preacher's kid. However, I have the utmost faith in the antidote for a guilty conscience.

  Money cures all.

  Retreating to my car, I watch as the bum enters the convenience store. I wait until he comes back out with a shiny new bottle of liquor, resuming his perch next to the building. After taking a long swig he leans back to watch people coming and going and I pull away from the curb while dialing my of
fice.

  ~Five~

  “I heard she was having an affair with some guy she met online,” a bottle blonde woman comments to her dining companion, a bald, morbidly obese man who continually wipes perspiration from his forehead with a white handkerchief. He nods, his mouth full of spinach salad. When he pauses to take a drink of water, the middle-aged harpy glances over at me with a provocative smile.

  Pretending not to notice, I focus on the television mounted over the airport lounge bar.

  It's been twenty-four hours since my visit to the OA and the media's having a field day. I had plenty of time to think as I drove up and down every street in Rochester looking for my beloved. I also used that time to cash in a few favors with the local authorities in case Simon decides to make trouble.

  So far it appears his sister, Faith, is also keeping her mouth shut. My contacts say she told the investigative officer she was on her way home when she got a phone call from the police. She denies being anywhere near the OA at the time of the murder. The fact that both she and Hope ran from the scene rather than to the authorities tells me there's far more going on in that family than Simon's been sharing with me.

  Conspiracy theories and unsubstantiated rumors of everything from mob involvement to infidelity are the topic of conversation everywhere. The pristine Matthews reputation has been called into question and the entire family is now under a microscope. A press conference has been scheduled for tomorrow morning, but there's no mention of my girl being missing and my plane leaves for Portland in an hour. In light of the media campaign I've been waging against all religion, my presence in Rochester at the time of the murder could raise questions, especially if certain people were to recognize me.

  My phone vibrates on the table and I frown at the unfamiliar number. Averting my face from the annoying blonde, I answer.

  “Sam Prentice.”

  “Uh, is this um, the guy who's looking for a lost friend?” a male answers. I immediately recognize his voice as the bum at the convenience store.