by Skye Knizley
“Hey buddy, are you okay?” she asked.
The officer looked around fuzzily and focused on her face. “What happened?”
“I think you dozed off, maybe you should call in some backup and go get forty winks, huh?”
“I dozed off? Aw man, the lieutenant will have my ‘nads for this,” the officer said.
Raven smiled. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Just get someone to come keep an eye on the church and go get some rest.”
The officer nodded and Raven returned to the parked Challenger.
“I’m sorry about that,” Kole said once they were moving.
“It happens,” Raven said. “It’s why you were assigned to me. How are you feeling?”
Kole twisted in her seat and pulled what was left of her blouse around her. “Tired, embarrassed as hell. How are you? I guess you took them on all by yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Raven said. “It isn’t my first time on the Merry Go Round. I’m going to take you back to the Lenox and go do some poking around downtown.”
“It’s the middle of the night, where are you going to poke at this hour?”
“The victim didn’t live at the cathedral,” Raven said. “He lived alone in a place a few blocks from the train. I’m going to see if there is anything the local cops didn’t find.”
“We don’t have a warrant for that, “ Kole said.
Raven glanced at her and maneuvered the Challenger through evening traffic. “It’s an active investigation and he’s dead. I don’t need a warrant.”
Kole shook out her hair and plucked at the tangles from shifting. “Shouldn’t we at least let someone know where we’re going?”
“No. And you aren’t going.”
She slipped the bellman fifty dollars to get Kole safely up to her room then left, turning toward the far side of the city. It took the better part of an hour to reach Ronan Quinn’s small house on Chestnut Street. The white and black two-story house was set back from the street on a small plot of land. The lawn was well-kept and there were a handful of All Hallows decorations on the small front porch. There was no sign that the police had been there.
Raven parked the Challenger on the street and walked down the sidewalk and onto the porch. Raven rang the bell out of habit and waited. A thought occurred to her and she flipped through the small pile of mail while she waited. There was a collection of bills, a Catholic magazine and a copy of Occult World, nothing of any real interest.
She put the mail back in the box and turned her attention back to the door. No one had answered and there was no sign of movement inside. She tapped the door with her nail and walked around to the side of the house. There was a narrow alley between this one and the next identical house, she passed through into the small garden behind the house. The whitewashed back door opened at her touch and she entered the kitchen which was lit by a single yellow nightlight.
She closed the door behind her and glanced around at the spotless room. Even the glasses in the drying rack had been polished to a mirror shine. But there was nothing to indicate why the Monsignor had been killed, unless someone had a problem with his obsessive cleanliness.
The kitchen door opened into a short corridor. To her left was a small dining room with a table set for four, to the right was a wide living room with a sofa, loveseat and chair, all of which were covered in white dust covers. The low coffee table was made of antique wood and the walls were covered in matching bookcases heavy with old tomes. Raven bent to look at the titles and wasn’t surprised to find they were mostly religious texts with a few old textbooks thrown in for good measure.
At the bottom of the pile was an old copy of the Book of Eibon bound in black and brown leather. Raven put on a pair of gloves from her pocket and picked up the book. It looked like it was three or four hundred years old and well-used. There were more than a dozen bookmarks in the volume highlighting everything from lamia to vampires; Quinn had a serious interest in monsters.
Raven set the book aside and continued through the living area to the stairs near the front door.
The second floor consisted of a small full bathroom and two bedrooms. The front bedroom was used for storage; the contents were so heavy with dust that Raven guessed no one had been in there for some time.
The master bedroom contained a double bed and a single night-table with a clock and a lamp placed at opposite corners. A crucifix was the only wall decoration.
She entered and checked the bed and table. There was nothing in the mattress or between the layers, but in the table’s single drawer she found a 357 Magnum revolver loaded with custom bullets that resembled her own specials. She dropped them into her hand and rolled them between her fingers. After a moment she slipped all but one into her pocket. The single remaining cartridge she placed in an evidence envelope for later. When she was finished, she called Thad.
“Hello again, little sister,” he said.
“Hey Thad. Thank you for the Challenger, it’s almost as nice as my Shelby.”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “I thought you might enjoy it. I promised the dealer you would give it back when you’re done. Undamaged.”
“No promises, Thad, I’m hard on cars. And I need another favor,” Raven replied. “Who in town can make specials?”
“I don’t follow,” Thad said.
“Specials, the rounds you make for my pistol. Is there anyone in Boston who can make them?”
“Oh, you mean the Woiks. Why are you asking?”
“Because I found a 357 Magnum loaded with bullets similar to yours,” Raven said.
She removed one from her pocket and twirled it between her fingers. “It has a polished nickel case and a cold iron hollow-point with a clear nylon coating filled with what looks like wood, gold and silver. Do you know anyone who might make cartridges like that?”
“There is only one possibility in Boston,” Thad said. “An armorer by the name of Kieran Blake.”
“Who does he work for?” Raven asked.
“I don’t think he works for anyone but himself,” Thad said. “He outfits everyone from street thugs to criminal overlords.”
“Sounds like someone that needs to be arrested or put in the ground.”
“He really isn’t a bad sort,” Thad said. “A lot of the people he outfits are your kind of people, regardless of which side of the law they’re on. Some of your own actions might be called questionable, as well, you know. Do not judge, Ravenel.”
That stung, but Thad was right. She hadn’t always obeyed the law, justice was the goal.
“Fine. Do you have an address for this Blake guy?”
“One moment, Ravenel, I will get it for you.”
When he returned, Raven jotted the address he gave her down on a piece of paper from Quinn’s bed table and stuffed it in her jeans. When she stood to leave, the floorboards beneath her feet gave an audible creak, quite loud in the empty house. On a hunch, she knelt and plucked at the wood with one of her knives. A section of floor came up easily. Beneath was a large cloth-wrapped parcel. She pulled the parcel out of the small space and opened it. Inside was a collection of weapons ranging from matching antique revolvers to carved wooden stakes, not the sort of thing you expected to find in the house of a respected man of the cloth.
Raven took several photographs of the weapons and put them back. They might be found again, they might not. Right now they didn’t appear to be evidence and there was no reason to add rumors to the Monsignor’s demise.
She left by the back door, just as she’d entered, and locked it behind her. Moments later she was behind the wheel of the Hellcat and heading back into the city and the address Thad had provided.
RIVER STREET
HYDE PARK, BOSTON
THE ADDRESS TURNED OUT TO be a small red building on River Street in the Boston suburb known as Hyde Park. The sign out front, illuminated by a single fluorescent tube, read ‘Kieran Automotive.’
Raven could see a light on inside and figures movi
ng around in the office. Something about them made the hair stand up on her neck and she parked the Challenger in the shadows instead of in the driveway. She climbed out, being careful not to shed any light, and crept toward the door. She had just reached the entrance when a shot rang out and two burly men pushed through the exit, knocking her to the ground. She stood to give chase, but could smell the sickly scent of fresh blood coming from the office. She leaned through the doorway to find a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a pronounced belly lying on the floor inside the office. He was bleeding from a single wound to the chest.
Raven knelt next to him and knew the wound was fatal. She pulled out her phone and dialed 9-1-1 anyway.
His Irish accent was unmistakable. “It’s no good, lass. T’is a fatal wound, this.”
Raven looked at him. “Probably. Be still and try not to die.”
The emergency operator picked up. “Special Agent Raven Storm, FBI. I’m at 1576 River Street with a man down, single GSW to the chest. Send an ambulance and officers, suspects are armed and dangerous fleeing in a white van. I’m giving chase in a black late model Challenger.”
She handed the phone to Blake. “The ambulance is on its way, tell them everything you can about the men that shot you. I’ll be right back.”
“Go get’em, lass,” Blake murmured. “N’ bring me back some stout.”
Raven hurried out of the office and climbed back behind the wheel of the Challenger. The engine roared and tires squealed as the big car accelerated down River Street in pursuit of the gunmen, who she’d seen clamber into an older white GMC van. Though they had a head start she had no trouble catching up to them; they were driving at moderate speed, seemingly unconcerned that they’d just shot a man in cold blood.
The Hellcat roared up beside them and Raven held up her badge. “FBI, pull over!”
The driver, a thin man wearing painter’s coveralls, blinked at her from inside the van then swerved to the right. The van crashed through a chain link fence and barreled down a hill into a park that was thankfully empty at this hour.
Raven cursed and pressed the gas. The Challenger growled and leapt forward, accelerating toward the next intersection. Raven turned right without thinking about it, ignoring the One Way signs posted everywhere. She could see the van’s headlights bouncing in the field to her right and she slowed, keeping one eye on them and the other on the road ahead. After a moment she became aware of headlights that weren’t moving out of her way and she looked forward to see a Toyota approaching side by side with a big Buick. She swerved to the right, slamming the side of the Challenger into the retaining wall that ran along the outside of the park. Sparks erupted from the impact and Raven gritted her teeth against the horrible sound metal being shredded by concrete.
Once she was past the civilian vehicles she swerved back onto the road in time to see the van do the same a short distance ahead. Grass and debris trailed from the rear bumper and one wheel was cocked outwards, but it was still moving at a moderate speed.
Raven accelerated again, trying several times to get past the van. Each time oncoming traffic prevented her from moving forward and she sat behind the van choking back her vampire that was so desperate to be unleashed and allowed to choke the life out of the two thugs.
“It’s the middle of the night, shouldn’t the mommas and the poppas be in bed by now?” she growled.
The back doors of the van opened and the larger of the two men appeared with a pair of pistols gripped in his big hands. Raven saw him grin and he began shooting. The Challenger’s windshield spider-webbed at the impact from the magnum rounds and Raven swerved again, both to avoid the hail of bullets and because she couldn’t see where she was going.
The Challenger squealed to a halt in a cloud of dust mere inches from a telephone pole. Raven leaned back and kicked the windshield out of the car and watched the van turn the next corner, the gun thug in back waving merrily.
Keep laughing, bub, Raven thought.
The Challenger backed away from the pole and once again accelerated. Wind and debris made Raven’s eyes tear up and she put her sunglasses on against the gale, using one hand as she slid the big car around the next intersection.
Once more the van was moving at a normal speed, but the driver must have spotted the Challenger approaching because it suddenly lurched forward and the again the cargo doors opened. Raven saw the gun thug draw his pistol and she drew her own. He fired two shots that punched fist-sized holes in the Challenger’s passenger seat and the Automag spat flame in return. Raven’s shots hit home and the gun thug collapsed inside the van in a spray of blood.
The van swerved again, this time to pass through someone’s yard on its way to the next intersection. It then crashed through another fence, a child’s swing set and a wooden wall before taking a right on a street five blocks away.
Raven shook her head at their behavior and guided her vehicle through the maze of roads, looking for a way to follow without ripping the wheels off her low-slung sports car. It took some doing to keep the fleeing van in sight while navigating through suburban Boston, but after five minutes and the help of the car’s navigation system she caught up to the van.
This time she didn’t bother with such niceties as a warning. She accelerated up behind the van and rammed it, using the Challenger’s more powerful engine to push the van sideways. She then turned the wheel, causing the van to spin out in the middle of the road. It was one of the few things she’d learned at Quantico.
She touched the brakes and skidded to a halt not far away from the van, then ran back, pistol in hand. The van’s left front axle had collapsed in the spin and the wheel hung from the spindle, making it useless. The driver’s door also hung open and Raven could see the white-clad driver fleeing down the middle of the street.
Raven aimed her Automag and raised her voice. “Halt, FBI!”
The man kept running, not even bothering to look back.
Raven shrugged and squeezed off a single shot. A block away the thug screamed and went down, clutching at what remained of his knee. Raven holstered her pistol and walked forward. When she reached him, she rolled him over with her foot and looked down.
“Halt means stop, not run faster. You’re lucky I have some questions or they’d be scooping up your brains with a spoon.”
“Ow, my leg, you bitch! I can’t believe you shot me!” the thug whined.
Raven grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him back toward the steaming Challenger. “Watch your mouth. A limp is better than being dead.”
“What’s going on out there?” a man called from a nearby house.
“FBI business, sir,” Raven said. “Do me a favor and call 9-1-1. I dropped my phone a few miles from here.”
“You don’t look like any agent I ever saw,” the man said.
Raven stopped and looked at him, letting her vampire show in her eyes. “How many agents have you seen outside the X-Files? Call 9-1-1 and stay back!”
“Right, 9-1-1, no problem.”
The man disappeared and Raven finished dragging her suspect to the car. She patted him down and checked his knee. He wouldn’t be walking any time soon, but he would live.
“I could read you your rights,” she said as she worked. “But you already know those, don’t you? So tell me who sent you after Blake?”
“What are you talking about, lady?”
Raven sighed. “You have the right to remain silent. If you choose that right, I will squeeze your knee so hard your eyes pop out of your head. Who sent you to kill Blake?”
“Nobody sent us, I swear! Harold and I were just trying to shake Kieran down for a couple of burners!”
“You killed him for a couple of cheap pistols? Do you even know who he is?”
“He’s just the gunsmith, nobody who matters,” the thug said.
“And probably my only lead in something way more important than your guns,” Raven snarled. “If he dies, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life i
n the Hoage.”
“Aw, man, I didn’t pull the trigger! It was Louie who did it!” the thug whined.
Raven gripped him by the collar and lifted him off the pavement. “You were there and did nothing. You fled the scene and assaulted a Federal officer, all of which makes you an accessory and a dirt-bag. I almost wish I’d shot you in the head.”
She dropped him and leaned against the side of the car. It was clear Chicago wasn’t the only place that had weird cases. Dammit, she hated weird cases.
55 FRUIT STREET
BOSTON, MA. 11:00 A.M.
KIERAN BLAKE BREATHED HIS LAST gasp five minutes from Boston General. Raven stood by his body in the morgue and glared at it as if she could make him sit up and tell her everything he knew about monster-slaying bullets and five dead priests.
That was the thing about the weird ones. Too damn many secrets, too damn many dead ends and too damn many dead innocents.
“Agent Storm?”
Raven turned to look at the young woman in the doorway. She was wearing blue scrubs and looked far too young to be working the graveyard shift at the morgue.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Blake left you a note,” the woman said.
She held out a bloodstained piece of paper torn from a sales receipt. Raven took it and glanced at the letters. It was an address, presumably somewhere in Boston.
“Do you know where this is?” Raven asked.
“It’s a bowling alley about fifteen minutes from here,” she replied.
Raven frowned at her. “A bowling alley? Why the hell would he leave me the address of a bowling alley?”
“I don’t know, Agent,” the doctor replied. “If that’s all, I need to lock up, the coroner will be in at five.”
“Actually, can I ask you if the body of Monsignor Ronen Quinn is being held here?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, such a shame. He was so well loved by the congregation.”
