Holy Crepes

by Melissa Monroe

  Gabriel shrugged. “Possibly. It’s hard to discount anything at this point. Did you scent any dogs at the scene?”

  To be completely honest, she hadn’t scented anything but blood. She cursed herself for letting her hunger get so overwhelming that she’d tuned out any other sensory information that could have helped. It was too late to go back to the scene and try to sniff out more clues. Even Garrett, with his enhanced sense of smell, wasn’t going to be able to pick up on anything useful after a few days and a power wash done by the CSI team after they’d gotten through with the crime scene.

  Eventually even all the members of the Sons of Adonai dispersed, trudging up the hill toward the barbed wire fences that enclosed the compound. It was just another red flag that made Priscilla distrust the whole institution. What church needed barbed wire or fences to keep other people out? It screamed cult.

  What drew these people in, anyway? She couldn’t imagine the religion was appealing to most people. It restricted what animals you could touch, what technologies to use, and demanded that the participants regress about two hundred years to live solely off the land. How many people signed up for that?

  Over forty, if her count was right. It was simply bizarre.

  Pastor Jameson was the only one who remained. He didn’t seem to like the Sons much. Priscilla wondered why he’d agreed to do the service, even after their members had tagged the church.

  He was rubbing his injured knuckles on the Bible when she walked up. “A penny for your thoughts, Pastor?” she asked him gently.

  He jerked violently, as if the soft question had been a shout. His eyes met hers for a moment and she saw they were wide and bloodshot.

  “Are you all right, pastor?” she asked in alarm. She hadn’t seen anyone like this for a long time. This was the look of a man on the brink. Perhaps he was taking the death of his wife harder than anyone thought. Maybe he needed help.

  “I’m fine,” he croaked. “I just ...” He trailed off, seeming to forget what he was going to say. He continued to rub his knuckles against the Bible, as though it eased the pain. For all she knew, it did. She didn’t discount faith healing as a legitimate practice. Just so long as it was backed up by a clean bill of health from a real doctor. The Almighty might be able to work miracles, but she still preferred science when she could get it.

  “Maybe we should get you home,” she suggested.

  Pastor Jameson flinched away from her touch. “I need to stay,” he said quietly.

  “You shouldn’t,” she said, glancing up at the sky. Dark storm clouds had begun to roll in during the hour they’d been watching the funeral. They were an ominous shade of gray. “The forecast is calling for severe thunderstorms. You’re going to get soaked if you stay here all night. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”

  “Maybe I’d deserve that,” he said, and he rubbed his knuckles across the spine of his Bible at an increased pace. It took on an almost feverish cadence as he continued. “Maybe I should get sick. Maybe that’s His will.”

  “God wouldn’t want you to get sick, Pastor,” she said slowly.

  “I need to atone.” Pastor Jameson’s voice cracked on the last word. “I need to make up for what I’ve done.”

  “What you’ve done?” Priscilla asked. “You haven’t done anything, Pastor. You got drunk one night. It’s all right. These things happen. I’m sure God can forgive you for that.”

  “It’s my fault,” he said. “All my fault.”

  Priscilla wasn’t sure what he meant. He was speaking nonsense. She got a hold of his arm and tugged gently. “Come on, Pastor. If you’re not feeling well, I can drive you back home. But you can’t stay here. It’s going to be dangerous.”

  “I have to atone,” he said sharply.

  “For what?” Gabriel said, leaning closer to him. “What exactly do you have to atone for?”

  Priscilla wanted to snap at him to be quiet. Couldn’t he see that the pastor wasn’t well? But the question was apparently all the prompting that Jameson needed, because a veritable floodgate opened and he began to speak fast.

  “I took Tilly Hall out that night to confront them. After we got turned away … well, we went to the bar. I don’t know when we left. When I came to, there was blood all over me,” he said. “I didn’t know whose. At least, I didn’t know until I read the news that day. I knew whose blood it had to be. And why it was there.”

  Priscilla’s stomach twisted up into knots. “Pastor—” she began. He couldn’t be talking sense. This had to be some sort of fever dream. There was no way.

  “I didn’t tell Tim about it when I called,” he continued. “I was too scared. I hadn’t been in a bar fight since 1999.”

  Pastor Jameson’s eyes filled with tears. “I killed him. I had to. The last thing I remember was hitting him and throwing him out of the bar. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. I need to atone ...”

  Priscilla exchanged a glance with Gabriel. He heaved a sigh and reached into one of his interminable pockets and withdrew a pair of handcuffs.

  “What’s his first name?”

  “Edward,” Priscilla supplied, still quietly aghast. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Edward Jameson,” he said grimly. “You’re under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Absalom Nicholson.”

  Pastor Jameson sighed happily. “Finally. Absolution.”

  It was taking all of Priscilla’s strength not to walk out of the precinct. She’d gotten a phone call from Anna not long after they’d brought Pastor Jameson in. Dean wasn’t in his room, and a quick drive through of Bellmare told Anna he wasn’t in Bellmare’s city limits either. She’d have bet money he was at Logan Hobbes’ rundown home.

  She wasn’t sure what he was doing, and needed to find out. It wasn’t as if she could be very useful to Pastor Jameson right now. She wasn’t a lawyer, just his friend. And it seemed like she’d been a poor one at that. She hadn’t known how badly he was faring until a few nights ago. She glanced through the glass at him. He was sitting with his head in his hands, staring morosely at the table. Behind her, Gabriel and Arthur were arguing.

  “He’s not the murderer,” Arthur repeated, jabbing Gabriel in the chest. “He’s not capable of this.”

  “He confessed,” Gabriel said, glaring down at the offending finger as though he wanted to take a bite of it.

  “He’s half-crazed with grief, that’s what he is,” Arthur snapped. “In the last few years, he’s lost a daughter and his wife. Even if he had done it, and I’m not saying he did, a serious case could be made for the insanity plea.”

  “Be that as it may, he was quite happy to confess to murder. We need to get his confession on paper and we can put this whole sordid mess behind us. I’m sure you’ll be happy to have me out of your hair, Chief Sharp. Let me past.”

  Arthur had been standing in front of the door to the interrogation room for the last five minutes. He couldn’t technically keep Gabriel from bringing Jameson in, not without obstructing justice and being brought up on charges of his own. But he could decide when he questioned the suspect. After all, it was his interrogation room.

  “You’re not going in there alone,” Arthur argued.

  “You are welcome to sit in, of course,” Gabriel agreed smoothly, reaching for the doorknob.

  “Priscilla’s going in too.”

  She’d been doing her best to hide behind the pages of the newspaper she’d been pretending to read while she stewed about Dean. She was trying to be unobtrusive so as not to draw either man’s anger toward herself. She didn’t need it on top of everything else. She set the paper down after a second and raised her eyes to Arthur’s.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Yes, why?” Gabriel asked impatiently. “Is your department incapable of doing its job without Miss Pratt holding its hand every step of the way?”

  Arthur’s rage was palpable. He’d already been working himself up into a lather, and now he was ready to hit something. His face went from red to puc
e as he glared at Gabriel. For a second she thought it might devolve into physical violence. Then he seemed to get a handle on himself. Well, enough of a handle that he wasn’t going to attack a centuries’ old vampire who was much stronger and outranked him considerably.

  “I don’t trust you not to gaslight him,” Arthur said from between clenched teeth. “I’m going to ask the questions. Priscilla’s going to be there to make sure he doesn’t have a breakdown. And you are going to stand in the corner and be quiet.”

  She half expected Gabriel to argue. After a second of thought, Gabriel shrugged. “Fine. Step away from the door.”

  Arthur waited a second or two before he complied. At least she wasn’t the only one who liked to defy Gabriel, even if it was only in small ways. Gabriel swept past Arthur, his coat flaring in the breeze of one of the box fans that had been set up around the precinct. The air conditioners in the precinct were a joke, and in summer you did what you had to do to beat the heat.

  Arthur followed after him, grimacing at the vampire’s back. Priscilla got up and dutifully filed in after them. The inside of the room looked much the same as it had when she’d been inside it only a few days ago, but this time it felt different. It was one thing when it was your own reputation at stake. It was quite another to see a friend sitting in the hot seat. It gave her a keen sense of desperation that she didn’t often feel. She didn’t want him to be guilty.

  Pastor Jameson didn’t seem to mind the handcuffs. He’d been allowed to keep his Bible, much to her surprise. Gabriel hadn’t taken it from him, with the exception of the car ride over. His fingers had singed slightly upon contact with the holy book. So he was a God-fearing man. She wasn’t sure of what stripe, but he at last had some faith.

  Arthur settled himself in the chair across from Jameson and tapped the table to get his attention. Jameson glanced up, red-rimmed eyes taking a second to focus on Arthur.

  “What are you doing here, Ed?” Arthur asked. There was a gentleness in his tone that Priscilla didn’t often hear.

  “I had to come in,” Jameson said. “I did it, Arthur. I know I did.”

  “How do you know, Ed? Do you remember doing it?”

  Uncertainty flashed across Pastor Jameson’s face for the first time since they’d entered the precinct. “No.”

  Arthur leaned forward, extending an imploring hand to Jameson. “Then how do you know you did it?”

  “The blood was all over my shirt,” Jameson said. “It had to have been me.”

  “Where’s the bloody shirt now?” Arthur said. “We’re going to need to test it.”

  “I threw it in the wash. I thought I must have cut myself. I didn’t realize until I read the paper ...”

  “What do you remember?” Arthur pressed.

  “That I punched that man in the bar,” Jameson said. “Wasn’t sure what he was doing in the bar in the first place. Maybe the same as me, but he wanted to be holier than thou about it. He told me I was going to straight to hell and I could meet my wife there.”

  Pastor Jameson’s expression twisted. “I only meant to knock him out. But he started bleeding bad. One of his buddies had to shoo him out of there. I can’t remember anything after I got kicked out for fighting ...”

  “You called Timothy,” Arthur supplied. “I have that much on record. He found you outside of the tavern, so you didn’t wander far.”

  “You don’t know that,” Jameson said. “I’m missing time. This always happens when I drink.”

  “I take it this is a long-standing problem?” Gabriel said from the corner.

  Arthur glared at him. “I thought I told you to be quiet.”

  “Forgive me for wanting to be up to speed,” he drawled. “Is it or is it not a long-standing issue, Mr. Jameson?”

  The pastor licked his lips. Priscilla took his hand on impulse and squeezed. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s all right. The past is past and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

  Pastor Jameson took a deep breath to steady himself and began to speak.

  “I didn’t grow up in Bellmare,” he said. “I grew up in the worst parts of Boston. My mother raised me alone. She did the best she could, under the circumstances, I think. But a boy needs a father and I went looking for him in all the wrong places.”

  This was a tale Priscilla had never heard, and she squeezed his hand tightly, as much to comfort herself as him. He continued on, not seeming to notice her discomfort.

  “I was a fighter. It started in school. I can’t tell you the number of times I was suspended. I must have had enough pink slips to paper my bedroom. And every time it hurt my poor mother. She was doing her best but it just wasn’t enough. Not for an angry boy like me.”

  He leaned back in the flimsy chair. It creaked, but Jameson didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were fixed and far away, focusing on yesteryear.

  “I dropped out of school. I never did get my high school diploma. I got a GED years later so I could get into seminary, but that was still years away.”

  “When did you begin drinking?” Gabriel asked.

  “Fourteen,” Jameson said. “With friends. And then, eventually, all the time.”

  “You were an alcoholic?”

  “Yes. For so many years of my life. Until I met Elaine. It was a little embarrassing, really. She found me in the middle of a park, passed out in my own sick, and took me to the hospital. Very kind, my Elaine.”

  The achingly soft tone he used to say her name made Priscilla want to weep. Elaine had only been thirty-nine. It was too young to go in this age of medicine. If the cancer had been caught earlier, maybe … or if Elaine had been willing to turn. Priscilla had offered, of course. But neither could stand the idea of Elaine leaving the church. So she’d resigned herself to her fate and lived out the remainder of her time in peaceful service. It was a good way to go, for a woman like Elaine. Unfortunately, it left behind someone who had to live with the consequences of that choice.

  “I had no job, no home, no prospects back then. I was a stupid twenty-year-old. She got me a job. And then she took me to church.”

  Jameson glanced down at the Bible in his hand with a small smile. “She gave me this. Wrote notes in it for me. I think that’s when I fell in love with her.”

  Even stone-hearted Gabriel seemed touched. “And that’s when you joined seminary?”

  “A few years after, but yes. Elaine saved my life and saved my soul. I’m sure I’d have been killed in a barfight by now, if not for her and the grace of God.”

  “So why pick the bottle back up?” Arthur asked.

  Jameson’s face darkened. “A moment of weakness. A moment of sin, I suppose. And it cost that man dearly.”

  “We still don’t know if you’ve done anything,” Priscilla said, trying to assure herself as much as him. “The results of the autopsy came back. He died of exsanguination from a neck wound. Last I checked, you don’t have fangs, Pastor Jameson.”

  “But I do have a dog,” he said soberly. “An Alaskan Malamute is large enough to have inflicted those wounds.” He looked up from the table, suddenly nervous. “If that is the case, it’s still my fault. You can’t blame George for it. He’s just being a good dog.”

  Arthur pursed his lips. “I don’t think it was you or George, Ed. But I’m going to have to keep you overnight while I search your place. Where’d you put the shirt? Water alone isn’t one hundred percent foolproof against blood. I’ll see what I can get off of it.”

  “It should be in the laundry room.”

  Arthur wrote it down. “Anything else you think we should know that could help us?”

  “No. If you would, please stay out of the back bedroom. I’ve put most of Elaine’s things in there.”

  Priscilla left the room with Arthur and Gabriel a few minutes later, and she was rubbing her eyes hard, trying to dispel the itching sensation that came when she wanted to cry but couldn’t.

  “That man is sickeningly whol
esome,” Gabriel said offhandedly.

  “He didn’t murder Absalom,” Priscilla said quietly. “He can’t have. He’s too compassionate. I think Gabriel’s first instinct was right. I think it was a vampire. But which one of us it was, I don’t know.”

  Her mind flashed to Dean. The thought was accompanied by a wave of guilt, but she couldn’t dismiss it entirely. He was certainly angry enough to do it. He had a history with the Sons of Adonai, as he’d said. A chapter of the order had taken a beloved pet from him and killed it. It didn’t seem like enough to fuel a revenge killing, but it wasn’t the only thing that was angering Dean these days. Priscilla still didn’t know what had set him off in the bakery a few nights before. He hadn’t spoken to her since, so she was unlikely to have an answer anytime soon.

  “You aren’t really going to keep him here, are you?” she asked Arthur.

  “I’ve got no choice. He’s a suspect, whether I like it or not. He’s got to be detained. Hopefully this search will turn up something promising. For now, I think we all need to turn in and get some sleep. If we don’t, we’re all going to regret it in the morning.”

  Priscilla knew that was technically correct. She wasn’t eating right, so she should at least manage to get a solid eight hours of sleep a night. But it felt wrong, going home to sleep when a friend was rotting away in a jail cell.

  “Am I allowed to go with you?” she pressed. “To his house?”

  Arthur shifted his weight guiltily. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Pratt. You’re just a consultant, and you have a close relationship with the suspect. It’s not going to be easy on any of us. The urge to tamper with evidence will be stronger for you.”

  “So I’m on the bench for this one? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Pretty much. Go home, Pratt. Make your cookies and let us sort this out. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

  Priscilla was too weary to do anything but nod.

  “Do you need a ride home?” Arthur asked. “You look beat.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll drive,” Gabriel said, stepping in between them.