Field of Graves (17 page)

Baldwin was intrigued. “Protection and invisibility. Huh. I like the protection angle. Maybe this guy thinks he’s shielding these women from something? Then he scatters them with burial herbs to complete the ritual. Interesting. Toss the Parthenon as a dump site in there, and we’ve got ourselves a real throwback to the ancients.”

Taylor took a seat next to Baldwin. “We could trace all the purchases of aconite over the past month, but I don’t think it will do any good. It can be grown in a garden in the backyard.” She consulted one of the sheets. “‘An absolute must for every witch’s garden.’ It would be a waste of time looking for the source. We’ll have to trace the killer through the evidence we have, and take Jordan’s and Shelby’s lives apart. There has to be some connection between the two besides Vanderbilt. I don’t think this guy just spotted them on the street and decided to grab them. Something in my gut tells me this was planned, that they were chosen for a reason. We just have to figure out what the reason is.”

“I think you’re right, Taylor. The organization of the scene at the Parthenon shows quite a bit of thought. If we were talking a normal serial killer, one who escalates in violence, the poisoning would come before the stabbing, instead of the other way around.” Baldwin ran his hands through his hair, a gesture Taylor was starting to recognize. “But I don’t think we’re dealing with any kind of serial or series killer who would fit a standard profile. Stabbing and poison as MOs are very different pathologies, and these deaths aren’t indiscriminate. We’re dealing with a man with a purpose, a reason. Whether he’s sending us a message or doing it for himself is the puzzle. Unlike the usual killer who stages a crime scene, I’m willing to bet our involvement is secondary to his primary goal. In other words, he’s not leaving them for us to find. He isn’t showing off.”

The group digested this idea, and Taylor was the first to speak. “Okay, where do we start?”

“You have the files on the girls from the university? Let’s start there. There has to be an overlap between these two girls. It’s a liberal arts school, so there has to be a curriculum they have to follow before they declare a major. Let’s go back through their records and start looking at any classes they may have had in common.”

Taylor started giving assignments. “Lincoln, get back online and see if you can find anything else on the aconite. Toss in the herbs, the Parthenon, anything you think could be related. Baldwin and I are going to start working through the records.”

The phone rang on Fitz’s desk, and he answered it gruffly. “Homicide...Yeah...Shit.” He banged the phone down and started rubbing the lower half of his face.

“What’s the matter, Fitz? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is everything okay?” Taylor looked spooked. There was something in Fitz’s eyes that was freaking her out.

“That was Missing Persons. They just got a report of a girl named Jill Gates, who’s been missing for the past few days.”

Taylor sat down slowly. “Spit it out, Fitz.”

“She’s a student at Vanderbilt.”

32

The flurry of activity died down as the news sank in. Two dead, another missing. Taylor sat with her head in her hands, and Baldwin tried not to show how shaken he felt. This suspect was moving too damn quick for them to get the slightest idea of what he was trying to do.

Taylor stood, shaking her head. “I need a smoke,” she said to no one in particular. Everyone watched her stalk out. Baldwin half rose in his chair, indecisiveness painted all over his face. He looked to Fitz first, almost asking his permission to try and reach out to Taylor. Fitz nodded imperceptibly. Baldwin gave a relieved sigh and headed out to the landing where he had seen all the cigarette butts.

What the hell are you doing, man
? He barely knew Taylor, but for some reason felt protective of her. Even through his own pain he could see she was suffering, and he felt it was more than just this case. From her simple statement last night, telling him she’d shot a fellow detective, he assumed it was a case gone south, but perhaps there was more. He’d overheard Fitz and Marcus talking in the hall yesterday, caught Taylor’s name, but they’d clammed up the moment they realized he’d walked up to them. Something was up; both men looked earnest and concerned, but they had switched gears and welcomed him, asking if he wanted coffee or anything. He’d refused and continued down the hall, curiosity draping him in its mantle.

He let himself out of the door quietly, as if she wouldn’t notice the beep on the lock as it disengaged. Taylor didn’t turn, just shifted her weight to her other foot. He didn’t know what to say, but she took care of that.

“What’s up, Baldwin?” she asked. He didn’t know how she knew it was him, but was grateful she had initiated the conversation.

“I had a feeling you might want to talk.”

She whirled around, and he could see she had been crying; her nose was red and her eyes puffy. He felt a pang of relief. This gorgeous woman wasn’t perfect; she looked like hell when she cried.

“Talk about what? That this case is getting to me? That I’m feeling overwhelmed and pissed and utterly incapable of stopping this predator? That I’m having panic—”

She stopped herself, and Baldwin realized she must feel she was letting way too much information out. He didn’t blame her. He was a stranger to her. But she’d said enough to let him know she was in pain, and it broke something inside him. He just wanted to reach out and help.

With a last deep inhale, she flipped the half-smoked cigarette out in the street and pushed past him to the door. Baldwin reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Don’t, Taylor. Talk to me.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know you, Baldwin. I don’t know if I want to. Every time I look at you I get the feeling...ahh, screw it. I don’t need this right now.” Yet she didn’t move to grab her passkey. Baldwin seized the moment, spoke quietly, still holding her hand.

“Taylor, circumstance has brought us together in a pretty bizarre way. A couple of days ago, I was willing to be gone from this world, and the next thing I know I’m working a case with a bunch of people who would probably prefer I head back to Virginia and leave them alone. I can’t get a handle on what’s happening either. Maybe I’m running from my own problems by trying to help you with yours. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. But I’m here for you if you want me.”

“You’re here for
me
?”

He could see he’d said the wrong thing. Her eyes were blazing, her face suddenly transformed into anger. He locked in on her eyes, and felt himself lost in her internal storm.
They are the most peculiar shade of gray
, he thought to himself. They looked just like the storm clouds that had been rolling through the sky for the past few days. He heard her voice from a distance, and drew himself out of his momentary trance.

“What do you think you can do,
Dr
. Baldwin?” The sarcasm was biting, and he involuntarily winced. “You think you can ride in here on your white horse and make everything right? You can’t. There are some things you have no idea about, and my life is on the top of the list.” She whipped her hand out of his and drew the passkey through the lock. The door almost struck him as a gust of wind blew it back on its hinges. He watched Taylor stalk down the hall, shoulders straight, back strong.

He smiled ruefully to himself, and looking back over his shoulder at the sky turning black, he whispered, “My white horse? You were the first one in the saddle.”

33

Father Francis Xavier was tired. He’d been hearing confessions for the past three hours, absolving his flock of their daily sins. A mundane bunch today: The most heinous thing he’d heard was from a young woman having lustful thoughts for her boyfriend. At least she’d come to confession. In this day and age, the modernization of the Church sometimes seemed to undermine the very morality its young members were taught to practice. He doubted he’d made much of an impression. He’d probably hear from the same girl next week, asking forgiveness for going through with the act. Oh well. He was doing the best he could.

He emerged from the confessional, stretching his tired back and deciding what to do for dinner. He removed his stole as he walked toward his office. He was expecting a student from Aquinas, Mary Margaret de Rossi, for a quick tea and chat in an hour. Maybe he’d convince her to head up to Starbucks and have some coffee instead. It would be quiet enough to talk and maybe cover some of her Latin language work. He had been tutoring her for several weeks. Her enthusiasm to learn the dead language heartened his soul, and he was thrilled that his young friend wanted to understand more of the ways of the Church. After coffee, he could pick something up on his way home, or run through the buffet line at Belle Meade Cafeteria, get a real meal.
One advantage to living in the South
, he thought wryly.
Meat and threes.

As he turned the corner into the hallway to the administrative offices, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. A man had entered the church and was making a beeline for the confessionals.

“Sir, I’m done for the day. I’ll be hearing confessions again tomorrow morning at ten. I’d be happy to hear your confession then.”

But the man ignored him and ducked into the rosewood box, quickly shutting the door behind him. Father Xavier sighed. Perhaps the man hadn’t heard him. He made his way back to the confessionals, slipped into his side, and repeated his statement. There was no sound from the other side of the box.

“My son?” he asked.

“You will hear my confession now, Father. I have no time left.”

The voice was low, so soft that Father Xavier could barely hear him. There was something in the tone that scared him. He felt a chill snake down his spine. He sat down, draping his stole over his shoulders.

“I am here, my son.”

The stranger bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession.”

The young priest’s words were automatic. “The Lord be in thy heart and on thy lips, that thou mayest rightly confess thy sins. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The man paused a moment, then started to speak, the words spilling out faster and faster. “I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to all the Saints, and to you, my spiritual Father, that I have sinned. I am the angel of the power of God, the angel of judgment, the angel of truth. I and I alone am responsible for creating the One who will save all of us. It is too late for me, but my legacy will be fulfilled. This will be hard for you to hear, Father. But it is time, and I must be absolved for my sins and the sins of my unborn son.”

Father Xavier sat upright in his seat. Oh Lord, this one was crazy. What a capper on the day. “Go on.”

“Father, I am a scholar—a student of life—a practiced apprentice of love and death, the twin sides of a coin where one cannot exist without the other. I seek to help my disciples into a perfect state of being. Ideal beauty and absolute goodness. I am truth. I am their deliverance. I am the sun, essential to the creation and sustaining life of their world. I am the archangel, forced into their corporeal bodies, fighting to pilot their souls to the radiance of me, where they and I, together as one, can achieve the ultimate bliss.”

“My son, I do not understand you. Perhaps you need to speak with...”

“No!” The voice roared from behind the screen. “I will speak to you, to our God. He knows what I say is true, and has told me I am the truth behind the light. That’s why I killed them. To save the One who is the light.”

“Killed them? Who have you killed?” Father Xavier felt a small bead of sweat roll down his temple and brushed it away in annoyance.

The voice was suddenly rational, coy. “We are under the seal of confession here, Father. I trust I needn’t remind you that you cannot go to the police and tell them what I have said here.”

Father Xavier leaned back against the wall of the confessional. He’d heard stories of murderers coming to confession, placing their confessors in such awkward positions that there was no clear way out but copious amounts of prayer. His designs on a quiet evening bled away.

“Go on, my son.”

“Thank you, Father. You see, I’ve studied them as they march through their mean exile, looking for the One, the One who will understand and accept my thesis without complaint. I test each one I find worthy, forcing enlightenment into their beautiful heads. I comment on their words, trying, always trying, to help them focus on the light. My disciples flow into my life, anxiously awaiting another of my lessons—to drink in the exquisiteness of my words, to seek sustenance among my phrases, anything that will allow them to flow along their menial course throughout the rest of the day.

“At last, I found the perfect vessel for my substance, one who has allowed me to unfold my wings, force my soul into hers. She carries the One, Father. Our salvation lies in the womb of a woman near here. I fear I may have become lost in her—despite my intentions. I too am not immune to the corporeal sins of the flesh. It has been a true awakening of the small spirit within me. The others were necessary. I had to hedge my bets, as it were. If several were impregnated, it only increased my chances to father the One.”

Father Xavier felt dizzy. What in the name of God was this man talking about? He was obviously suffering from some sort of delusional messiah complex. The rational tone was gone again, he was rambling on and on, and Father Xavier did his best to decipher the meaning of the man’s prophetic speech. He definitely seemed to have a God complex, but what did he mean about impregnating women to create the Messiah? Did he actually think he had that kind of power?

“... they were given the most spiritual of deaths. They were the catalysts, the ones who came before, the ones who fulfilled the prophecies. And with each death, another cycle was completed, another step toward the coming of the One was fulfilled.”