Haunted (A Bishop/SCU Novel Book 15) (11 page)

Toby sat there at her desk for a long time, staring toward the front window without even noticing the occasional car passing or the spectacular scenery that was the valley below Sociable and the mountains in the distance.

She didn’t believe.

Not
really
believe.

So it didn’t matter, did it? Whatever the cards showed her—whatever she
thought
they showed her—didn’t matter. Because it wasn’t real. They were just cards, and what she felt was only fear because a friend—a former lover—had been murdered.

Something horrible had happened in her normal world, and she wanted to understand, to see, to maybe know how to make things all right again.

That was all it was.

Still, it took every ounce of strength and courage Toby could summon to force herself to look down at the tarot layout she had dealt moments before.

It was different. Not the layout she had dealt.

Worse. So much worse.

Toby felt as if something invisible were squeezing her, because it was hard to breathe. She had to concentrate. She had to make herself breathe.

She had to force herself to look up again.

Outside the window, a couple passed, talking to each other. A car drove slowly down Main Street.

Everything looked . . . normal.

Except that nothing would ever, could ever, be normal again. Not for Toby. And maybe not for Sociable.

Toby looked down at the tarot layout and rubbed her forehead again.
Damn. Damn. I’m imagining this. All this. I have to be.

Because the layout, though different in other ways, still showed her the three strangers coming here to battle evil. But this time, all around this battle with evil, their lives and fates entangled with a monster who had just begun to kill horribly in Sociable, was The Group.

—

TRINITY SAID, “IT’S
like I was telling Deacon, Braden can be very insistent and always seems able to make his wishes known. In fact, it’s almost impossible not to know what he wants, even without an ability to read his mind.”

“What does he do if you don’t follow him?” Deacon asked.

Braden immediately left the door, went to the sheriff, and grasped the sleeve of her jacket in gleaming white teeth. He tugged, gently.

“I should keep my mouth shut,” Deacon said.

Hollis picked up her unfinished coffee with a sigh and said, “Well, I’m really hoping it isn’t another victim, but my vote is we go see whatever it is he wants us to see. Especially since he clearly knew what he was doing when he guided Trinity before.”

Jesus, not another body.
Trinity felt grim and hoped it didn’t show. “I’m assuming you guys brought along some equipment and supplies?” she asked them as she also rose to her feet—and her dog released her sleeve and returned to the door.

“The SUV is packed,” DeMarco confirmed. “And one of these days I’m going to ask Bishop how he always manages to have the things waiting for us at a moment’s notice.”

“He’s Yoda,” Hollis said.

Trinity looked at her, decided that despite the grave face it had been a stab at wry humor, and decided to ask later why a unit chief in the FBI would be compared to a wise and powerful but inscrutable movie alien.

“Okay,” she said briskly. “Then you two follow my Jeep; I’d rather not alert my crime scene unit unless and until I have to. This little parade could cause enough attention as it is. Deacon, you can ride with Braden and me, so we at least keep it down to two vehicles.”

“I am curious to know just how he guides you,” Deacon said.

“I have a hunch you’ll be impressed. I was.” Without another word, the sheriff led her guests back through the relatively small bullpen, where four deputies and several administrative staff members worked industriously.

“We’re finally in the process of digitizing old case files as well as historical records,” Trinity told the others as they emerged onto the sidewalk. “Once that’s done, my civilian administrative staff will consist of a tech or two to keep entering current data, my usual assistant, and two receptionists to cover the first two shifts; third shift is covered by a deputy. I have twenty full-time deputies and usually have half a dozen cruisers patrolling the county at any given time. There’s another half-dozen part-timers I can call on at need, most of them semiretired but experienced, a few very trustworthy younger hunters who can be counted on to obey instructions and not decide to mete out justice on their own terms. Usually I have more than enough manpower to do the job.”

“Still,” DeMarco said, “a decent-sized department for such a small town and county.”

“I have a decent budget. The city founders and subsequent leaders have been bright and dedicated, and keeping the peace and maintaining a good quality of life for our citizens has always been a priority.” She looked down as Braden gave an insistent tug on her sleeve and sighed. “It was such a nice, normal little town.”

Following her down the sidewalk toward their vehicles, Hollis said earnestly, “You’d be surprised how often we hear that. Such nice little towns. Such kind,
normal
people. Everything all nice and tidy. Until monsters come hunting. On top of being a tragedy it’s just a shame. I really hope Sociable isn’t much changed when it’s all over and done with.”

She didn’t add that in her experience that was, unfortunately, seldom the case. Evil acts always changed people and places, and never for the better.

“I’m just hoping against hope that this monster isn’t somebody I know.” Trinity opened the front door of her Jeep to admit Braden, adding to Deacon, “Mind riding in the back? He generally gives way like a gentleman to a passenger, but he needs to sit in the front seat to guide me.”

“I wondered if he’d lead the way on foot. Now I’m just more curious than ever,” Deacon told her, climbing willingly in the back.

“If he led the way on foot, the whole town would be talking about it,” Trinity responded somewhat grimly. “Whether it’s deliberate or my good fortune, I’m just glad he’s more subtle than that.”

“So far, anyway.”

“You had to say it, didn’t you?”

“Well, somebody did.” Deacon had been in enough grim situations to know that they were both using wry humor almost on automatic, their minds ranging ahead and already speculating about what they might find.

What neither one of them wanted to find.

Trinity backed her Jeep out of its parking place, then started it forward slowly.

Immediately, Braden leaned over and grasped the arm of her jacket, seemingly careful to get only material between his teeth. He tugged gently.

“Right turn?” Deacon guessed.

“Let’s see.” She took the next right, which was onto one of the side streets that seemed to climb straight up behind the town toward the top of the mountain.

Trinity kept the Jeep moving below the posted speed of twenty-five, but not so slow as to attract undue attention, and they passed one cross street that ran parallel to Main Street. Just before the next cross street, Braden leaned over again, this time nudging her arm with his nose.

“Left turn,” Deacon murmured.

“Sort of hard
not
to know what he wants,” Trinity agreed, turning left onto the next side street. “Like I said. He’s been like that about a lot of things, though this guiding thing is new.”

These streets were lined with assorted buildings, some homes, the occasional small business such as an insurance office, a doctor’s office, and a couple of crafty gift shops.

At the next stop sign, Braden tugged again for a right turn. Trinity obeyed, and again they climbed the slope upward. It appeared to be growing steeper.

Thinking about those slick roads she had earlier alluded to, Deacon said, “Jesus, if it’s snowy or icy, how does anyone keep from sliding straight down to Main, across it, and down into that stream on the other side of the road? Four-wheel drives even with tire chains would have trouble on streets this steep.”

“It’s a bit easier to zigzag using the cross streets,” she said. “Takes longer, but is at least a bit safer.”

“Not very much safer, I’d guess.”

“Most locals have the sense to stay put,” Trinity answered over her shoulder. “Or walk, if they have to get out, at least down to Main. Visitors are warned not to drive unless it’s an emergency. And we use sand and salt on the roads, especially these.”

“Still, I bet you’ve fished a few cars out of that stream.”

“Every time we get a winter storm,” she confirmed. “Average is four or five times a year. No fatalities so far, but some serious injuries and totaled cars.”

“I bet.” He watched the dog in the front passenger seat, noting his fixed attention straight ahead. “Are we going straight up? What’s at the end of this street? Does it go all the way to the top of the mountain?”

“You can’t get to the top of the mountain from any of these climbing streets,” she told him. “All of them either turn right or left, or just dead-end. Sociable backs up to about a thousand acres of forest between us and the top of the mountain. Walking, hiking, and riding trails crisscross the forest, with a few of them leading eventually to the summit. Great views.”

“I would imagine. No homes up there?”

“Part of a national forest, so no building.”

“Does this street dead-end?

“In a manner of speaking. It ends at an old church, one of our historical buildings no longer in regular use.” She paused, then added somewhat dryly, “Trinity Church.”

As she climbed out of their SUV, Hollis said, “Is it superstitious of me to say that if we find a crime scene or dump site at a church, it
has
to be a bad sign of worse to come?”

“You’re the profiler, not me,” DeMarco reminded her as they walked the few steps to join the sheriff and Deacon James.

And Braden.

Obviously hearing that, Trinity said to Hollis, “Everything I’ve learned about profiling, admittedly not much, is that it’s a process, a bit like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Evidence, facts, information, experience, speculation, and educated guesswork. With a lot of pieces that don’t look like they fit. Until they do.”

“That describes it pretty well.” Hollis held on to her warm coffee cup with one hand and put the other in her jacket pocket; it felt a good twenty degrees colder up here. And she wasn’t really tempted to turn back and look at the view down to the valley and beyond.

“It’ll be interesting to see how this one comes together,” Trinity said, but absently. “Well, Braden isn’t leading, but I’m not much inclined to stand around and wait him out.”

The street had dead-ended into a relatively small, graveled area about twenty-five yards from the southern side of the church, presumably used as a small parking lot. And from where they stood, old overgrown shrubbery blocked their view of the front of the building—though they could easily see the tall, very white steeple stretching into the sky, brightly lit by the afternoon sun.

Stained-glass windows were also visible along the side facing them, the only sign of ornamentation on the white clapboard building that had to be well over a hundred years old. It had a plain brick foundation, and the simple steps of a small rear entrance were only just visible from this angle.

There was no shrubbery close to the building, just the pale, almost colorless grass of winter, worn here and there by a path or just a seemingly random bare spot where no grass grew. It was clear the wilderness rising behind the building hadn’t been allowed to encroach, and yet there was an odd air of abandonment about the place.

“The church isn’t very large,” DeMarco said. “Looks like only two entrances?”

“Yeah, just two.”

“We split up, front and back?”

“Sounds good to me,” Trinity said. “On the other side of the church is a small graveyard, and then the old parsonage. The parsonage is private property but a historical building like the church, so maintained but not occupied. I have standing permission to enter both buildings.”

“Good,” Deacon said. “Especially since we don’t have probable cause to enter. I don’t see anything suspicious.”

Hollis set her coffee on the hood of Trinity’s Jeep, then adjusted her jacket so that her sidearm was visible. She flexed her fingers absently. “Did something bad happen in the church?” she asked Trinity.

“Yeah, years ago. You sensing something?”

“Not sure. We’ll take the back.”

Deacon was just about to admit that his weapon was locked in the trunk of his car down on Main Street when DeMarco bent and removed a Glock from an ankle holster. He straightened and handed it to Deacon.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” DeMarco unzipped his jacket, revealing a very large silver pistol in a shoulder harness.

Deacon had heard that this former military man carried a cannon and was uncannily accurate with the powerful weapon. He’d thought the first part an exaggeration. He saw Trinity’s brows rise slightly, but she didn’t comment on the gun.

Instead, she said, “There’s a key to the back door on top of the door frame. I have a key to the front doors.”

“Let’s go,” Hollis said.

All four moved toward the church, Hollis and DeMarco following one of the faint paths that appeared to lead straight to the small back porch, while Trinity and Deacon followed another that led to the church’s front doors.

They were all alert and watchful, but only Deacon carried his borrowed gun in his hand.

They had moved no more than a few yards when Trinity glanced to her right—and then came to an abrupt stop.

Deacon, a step behind her, stopped automatically and followed her fixed gaze. “Oh, shit,” he breathed.

Hollis and DeMarco were just suddenly there, with them, also staring at what the shrubbery had hidden from them when they had first arrived.

“Too late,” Hollis said.

Without discussing it, they all moved very slowly toward the end of the main walkway that led from the street in front of the church to its front doors.

In a very steady voice, Trinity said, “I hope to hell he was already dead before—before that was done to him.”

Just a few yards from them, straddling the main walkway that led to the front door of Trinity Church, someone had constructed an A-frame structure, like a child’s swing set, only larger. It was made of heavy, old timbers, the sort common in an area with many barns and old buildings about, fastened together with a certain amount of care with heavy bolts that also looked old.

In the exact center of the top crosspiece, a heavy rope was tied without any particular skill, the other end wrapped several times around a man’s bare ankles.

He was naked. His eyes were wide open. Duct tape covered his mouth. His arms dangled, the limp fingers just touching the ground.

The very bloody ground.

He had been gutted with a single long slice from crotch to rib cage. His intestines spilled out. Organs glistened wetly. Blood was still dripping sluggishly.

“He was still alive,” Trinity said. “Wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” DeMarco said. “The killer was careful. None of the organs look cut, damaged. Just the skin and muscle. Just enough.”

“How long could he live like that?”

DeMarco turned his head and looked at her. Evenly, he said, “Someone can be disemboweled and live a long time. Hours. Even days. But this killer was impatient. Or maybe he knew we were coming. It isn’t obvious with so much blood and—tissue—from the gash everywhere, but he opened the carotid arteries at some point. This man bled to death within a minute or two. He was gone before we started up the mountain.”

Deacon said, “You couldn’t have saved him, Trinity. We couldn’t have saved him.”

She drew a breath through her mouth, as though instinctively trying to avoid the smell of death that was, here, mostly the smell of blood and terror and pain. “He—the killer—took something again. From the body. He was still alive when that was done to him, too, wasn’t he?”

It was Deacon who said, “That was probably done first. A . . . special kind of torture to a man.”

The victim’s penis and testicles had been removed.

Not neatly.

—

THEY COULDN’T ASSUME
that the killer wasn’t still somewhere about, perhaps even watching to see the reaction to what he had left for them.

Her voice steady, Trinity said, “The parsonage is a lot larger, just two entrances, front and back. You three take it, and I’ll take Braden and go through the church.”

Hollis noticed only then that the black dog had joined his mistress, standing exactly at the “heel” position. “Key to the parsonage?” she asked.

“Under the back flowerpot in that grouping beside the front door is its key. The back door just has a kind of trick handle. Lift up and lean in.”

Deacon murmured, “Some security.”

“We’ve never really needed it up here.”

All four of them had their guns drawn now, and with a nod to Trinity, the three federal agents made their way cautiously toward the parsonage. They gave the body a wide berth to avoid disturbing any evidence there might be, though just a few steps showed all of them that the ground was all but frozen up here, and dry, and they weren’t likely to find any footprints.

It was almost eerily silent, even for a winter day. They all looked at the small graveyard as they passed, its no more than two dozen headstones very obviously old. Some were crooked, some were almost absurdly decorative, and some were . . . very small.

“Anything?” Deacon asked Hollis.

“No. But I’ve only rarely seen spirits in graveyards or cemeteries. Not exactly where they want to hang out, I gather.”

“Always wondered about that. First chance I’ve had to ask.” Deacon paused, then added, “I’ll take the back door.”

“Watch yourself,” DeMarco advised.

“You, too.” He split off from them, moving swiftly but cautiously along the edge of the graveyard on the parsonage side.

Hollis said to her partner, “I gather your primal sense hasn’t offered a warning?”

“Not exactly. No weapon pointed at us. But . . .”

“I know. Feels weird, doesn’t it? The energy in the air is way above normal.”

They were moving cautiously toward the front door, both of them watchful.

“Geographic?” DeMarco suggested.

“Maybe. I noticed an awful lot of lightning rods on the drive up here. But it’s something else, too. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

They reached the porch, and Hollis found the key to the door while DeMarco kept his wary gaze roaming all around them. Within a minute, they were standing inside a dim foyer.

Hollis looked at her partner. “Well?”

He was frowning. “There’s nobody here. Just us and Deacon.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

Hollis reached over and flipped a light switch beside the front door. Immediately, the overhead light fixture in the foyer came alive, as did a lamp on an entry table against the stair wall—and sconces going up the stairs.

“I’ll check upstairs,” Hollis said.

“We’ll check upstairs.” DeMarco raised his voice. “Deacon?”

“Yeah?” His voice was distant but clear.

“Don’t think there’s anybody in the house but us. We’ll check upstairs, you take this floor.”

“Got it.”

Hollis briefly considered being indignant about DeMarco refusing to leave her side but discovered she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for being in here alone.

There was something distinctly . . . odd . . . about this place.

So she didn’t object as they went up the narrow staircase together, and together checked out the landing, four bedrooms, and two bathrooms. All the rooms were furnished plainly and simply, with quilts on the beds and rag rugs on the dull wood floor. Nothing matched or looked too elegant for its place; this had been a home, the furnishings assembled from family and thrift stores and a few precious things bought new.

A long, long time ago.

They discovered a door that opened to a second set of stairs, these even more narrow, and found a huge attic space with three windows and, oddly, nothing else.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an empty attic in a furnished house,” Hollis murmured. “There always seems to be piles of broken and discarded furniture, and boxes and old picture frames.”

“I guess they used all they had and fixed what got broken,” DeMarco responded. “Let’s get out of here.”

They holstered their weapons, both of them, Hollis noted, doing so almost reluctantly.

There was no one here, they were sure of that. No killer lurked in this house.

And yet . . .

They met up with Deacon at the foot of the stairs.

“All clear,” he said. “But my skin’s sort of crawling. Hollis, is that you?”

It took her a moment to understand, but finally she shrugged. “I dunno, maybe. It feels weird in here. It felt weird outside. I don’t like this place.”

DeMarco took her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

They did, and Hollis didn’t try to pull her hand free of her partner’s even once they were outside.

Trinity and her dog had clearly finished their sweep of the church and were standing several yards away from the hideous contraption where a dead man hung.

“Church is clear,” she said steadily.

“Parsonage, too,” Hollis reported.

Trinity’s face was pale, but her gaze was as steady as her voice. “I need to go back to the Jeep to use the radio and call in Doc and my techs. Cells don’t work up here. Neither do walkies.”

DeMarco turned his head to study the position of the body relative to the streets below, then said, “If you want to keep the details of this scene quiet as long as possible, better tell them to bring a tarp—or a tent. In the meantime, I can park the SUV over there, in front. It won’t contaminate the scene, but it should help block the view from anybody close enough and curious enough to see anything once other vehicles get here and people below notice the commotion.”

Trinity nodded and took a couple of steps toward the vehicles before Hollis’s voice stopped her.

“Trinity? Do you know who he was?”

“Yeah. His name is Barry Torrance. We were in high school together.”

—

MELANIE REALLY DIDN’T
want to go back to her apartment after she finished lunch. She had lingered as long as she dared but finally made herself leave. And she considered several alternatives to going home before finally sighing and heading for the bank.

If she was lucky, her boss had already left for the day; he generally did unless he had late-afternoon appointments. And nobody else would probably notice or care if Melanie slipped back into her office. Especially since it was near the front doors and sort of back in a niche, so she could pretty much come and go as she pleased.