Haunted (A Bishop/SCU Novel Book 15) (4 page)

She kept her hand on her weapon but didn’t draw it free of its holster.

There was nothing to be deterred by a gun.

From the organ, over the podium, and across to the other side of the church, there was a kind of rainbow arch of . . . light. It was like a sunbeam, except that there was, clearly, no source to call it that. It was light, and within the light was . . . sparks. That’s the only way Trinity could describe it to herself. Sparks, metallic sparks, inside that arch of light.

Even as she thought about that, Braden’s growl grew louder, and she had the eerie feeling of pressure above her head, as if something hovered above her, just above her.

Her head began to hurt.

Trinity glanced down at Braden to see that his attention had shifted, that he was looking fixedly above her head, and now his growl showed the impressive teeth of a pit bull.

Not at all the type to whistle in the dark or otherwise spook easily, Trinity tipped her head back suddenly and looked up.

She had seen, in photographs, objects some people referred to as orbs, round outlines, sometimes fuzzy, almost . . . shadows of lights. Hovering above people, sometimes seeming to zip around the room, leaving a bright trail like the tail of a comet behind them. Many people believed they represented spiritual energy captured by cameras, the stark and unblinking lens seeing what the questioning human mind failed to see.

But Trinity saw one now, hovering above her head.

She saw it, and despite its gentle glow, despite its fuzzy whiteness, she knew without any doubt in her mind that what she was looking at was nothing good. Nothing positive. Nothing she could allow into her—mind.

Because that’s where it wanted to be, she realized. It wanted in.

It wanted her.

“No,” Trinity said, her voice dead calm. “You don’t get me. Leave. Now. I know
exactly
what you are.”

She wondered, later, where the words, the certainty, had come from. Wondered how she had known what to say even while her conscious mind had been trying its best to understand the extraordinary, to define the unknown, to label the uncanny.

She spoke without thinking about it, commanded without wondering what gave her the will or the authority to command.

But she was obeyed.

As she gazed upward, the orb above her head floated several feet from her, toward the altar and the rainbow of light there.

“I know,” Trinity repeated, “
exactly
what you are. Leave.”

The faint sparkles within the orb brightened for a moment, and then, without warning, it went black—and the rainbow of light at the front of the church went black, starting at one side and rushing to the other, like a gush of oil through some invisible conduit.

And then it was gone. The dark orb, the arch of darkness, the light that had been there before, all gone, everything gone with a suddenness that made Trinity’s ears pop.

She stood there for several long moments, vaguely aware that Braden was no longer growling, aware that her sense of
wrongness
had faded—but not disappeared entirely.

She forced herself to walk forward. To examine the podium, the organ, the entire front area of the church. Even opened the curtain to see the baptistery, empty of water.

For good measure, she went back there and looked around, even opened the back door and looked out on trees climbing the mountain slope above the church. She studied the area for a bit, then closed and locked the door and went back to the front of the church.

Braden never left her side.

They walked steadily down the center aisle to the still-open front doors, and only then did Trinity turn and look back. A normal church, lit only by the light that found its way through the stained-glass windows, so that the interior of the space seemed almost to dance with soft colors.

Peaceful. Pleasant.

A holy place.

Once, perhaps. No longer.

Trinity left the church with her dog, closing the doors behind them after reaching around to flip the catch so that they would automatically lock. She tried them when they were closed, and they resisted her attempt to open them again.

She stood on the porch for a long time, looking around. Looking at the small graveyard that lay between the church and the parsonage. Everything looked normal, undisturbed.

But that wasn’t why Trinity decided to wait and check out the parsonage another day.

She was not a woman easily shaken, but she felt she needed to think long and hard about what she had just experienced. Because although there had been many things in her life she had found difficult to explain, this was . . . something else.

She had no memory of ever seeing true evil.

But what gave her greater pause than that, what bothered her a great deal, was the fact that she had recognized it.

She had recognized true evil because she had, somewhere in her life, encountered it before. She was certain of that, utterly certain.

Even though she had no memory of when, or where, it had happened.

—

“WHAT’S SO DAMNED
frustrating,” Hollis said that evening as she, DeMarco, Miranda, and Dean Ramsay, the fourth member of their current team, sat eating a very late supper at an all-night pancake house just off the interstate, “is that we can’t track this guy.”

“So far,” DeMarco reminded her.

“Well, yeah, but that means we have to wait for him or evidence of him to turn up again. Which means bodies or abductions. Am I wrong?”

“No, unfortunately,” Miranda responded. “I doubt we’ll find anything in the autopsies that offers any new or helpful information. His comfort zone seems to be a wilderness even the rangers have trouble navigating at times.”

“We can be pretty sure he’s heading south,” Dean Ramsay pointed out. “With or without an accomplice. There is that.”

Hollis shook her head. “Even if he is, and even if he stays in the mountains, that’s still thousands of acres, all the way down into Georgia. He’s avoiding cities. He’s even avoided towns so far—that we know of, at least. So—what? We just trail along behind him, jumping from one off-the-highway motel to the next, collecting crumbs of evidence and hoping he makes a mistake?”

“If that’s what we have to do,” Miranda said. “It’s how most serials are caught.”

The restaurant was practically deserted, but Hollis nevertheless lowered her voice when she said, “You haven’t seen anything?”

“Afraid not. You?”

“I,” Hollis said, “haven’t seen a spirit in months. Not since that energy vortex at Alexander House.
¹
I know Bishop said it might change me to channel all that energy, but he didn’t say there was a chance I wouldn’t be a medium anymore.”

Miranda looked thoughtful. “It wouldn’t be the first time one of us had temporarily burned out because of too much energy. Still, I don’t think that’s it—because you
did
see the spirit of Mr. Alexander after it was all over.”

Hollis was honestly relieved—which rather surprised her. “You’re right, I did. I’d forgotten that.”

DeMarco said, “Maybe the spirits are just giving you a break.”

“Spoken by someone who is
not
a medium,” Hollis said dryly. “Trust me, spirits are not that generous. They have things to do, unfinished business, unhelpful hints to drop here and there while the medium fumbles along in the dark.”

Gravely, Dean said, “It doesn’t sound like you miss them all that much.”

“Well, they can be annoying.”

Miranda said, “I have a hunch they’ll be back. In the meantime, use your other senses and your mind. Those are tools as well.”

“Tools to help find a murderer.”

“Yeah. Preferably before he drops more bodies for us to find.”

January 27

Trinity smothered a yawn as she started her Jeep early on that Tuesday morning. She hadn’t slept well, which wasn’t surprising; she hadn’t slept well since a killer had begun roaming in the mountains far too close to home for her peace of mind.

Especially now. The bastard’s body count was up to at least four dead—and he had abducted two more girls on Sunday, just two days ago.

“I don’t know how he’s finding girls that age out alone at all with the news blaring warnings nearly every hour on the hour,” she said to her dog as she backed the Jeep out of her driveway. “I mean, they’re all being told this is not a situation where the buddy system works unless your buddies are a crowd—”

Braden suddenly nudged her arm. Hard.

Startled, Trinity slowed the Jeep. “What the hell?”

The dog looked at her but didn’t move again until the Jeep had to stop at an intersection. Then he again nudged her arm.

Trinity had known from the outset that her dog was unusual in quite a few ways, but this was something new.

“You want me to turn left?” She guessed.

He nudged her arm.

“Well, let’s see,” she murmured. And turned the Jeep left. Two streets later, Braden grasped the arm of her jacket in his teeth and tugged gently.

“Right it is,” Trinity said, shaking her head. “People would think I’m nuts, you realize that, don’t you?”

Braden didn’t answer except to nudge her arm again, and Trinity turned obediently. She made several other turns, and frowned when at last she was turning into the small parking lot of an apartment building.

“Wait a second. This is Scott’s building. What—”

Her dog began pawing at the passenger-side door handle.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get out on this side.” She turned the Jeep off and got out, barely fast enough to avoid the near charge of her very strong dog.

He led her straight to the door of Scott Abernathy’s second-floor apartment.

Wondering what she was going to say, Trinity rang the bell. After a minute or two, she rang it again.

Braden looked up at her and whined softly.

Trinity banged on the door, beginning to feel more than a little worried. Scott was an avid runner, always ran early before work, and by her watch he should have been downing his orange juice now and getting ready to head out the door.

But there was no answer.

There wasn’t a front window for her to try to peer in, and Trinity hesitated only an instant before stepping to the side and carefully prying a loose brick from the facade. There was a key behind it.

“Don’t ask,” she said to her dog.

He lifted a paw to scratch at the door.

Trinity unlocked the door and went into the apartment, calling out, “Scott? It’s Trinity.”

No answer. And her voice nearly echoed, the way one’s did when nobody was home.

She was familiar with his place, and not only because she’d spent quite a few nights there a couple of years back. Scott hosted occasional parties; he enjoyed cooking and was good at it, so his friends were always happy to attend.

Even if he did make them clean up after.

The apartment was neat as a pin, a fact Trinity noted only in passing. Scott was neat as a pin; he was infamous for not being able to sleep if there were dirty dishes in the sink, and he expected people to actually
use
coasters.

Living room, neat. Kitchen, neat. Guest bathroom, very neat. Guest bedroom, very neat.

Master bedroom door closed. And locked.

Trinity banged on the door. “Scott? You all right?”

She put her ear to the door and listened but didn’t hear the shower running. If it had been running, she would have heard it. And by now, she was uneasy enough to really need confirmation that Scott wasn’t here, and if he wasn’t here, she damned well needed to know where he was.

She looked at the door handle, then stood on tiptoes and felt along the top ledge of the door frame, producing the odd little hooked emergency key designed mostly for situations in which young children locked themselves in bathrooms or bedrooms and didn’t yet know how to unlock the doors.

Trinity was able to unlock the door easily. But for some reason she could never explain afterward, she didn’t just barge in. She turned the door handle and pushed the door open.

She thought later how odd it was that after all his impatience, Braden sat just behind her in the hallway and never tried to go into the bedroom.

Trinity took one step in. She didn’t need to go any farther to see what there was to see. The bedroom was neat, bed made, everything in its place. Except for Scott. Dressed for his morning run, he was lying in an oddly twisted position on the rug at the foot of his bed. His head was turned, and his open eyes seemed to be staring straight at Trinity.

Except that they weren’t, because Scott was dead.

—

DR. RICHARD BEESON
was hovering around retirement age but refused to give up medicine completely; being the coroner for Crystal County suited him. It was, mostly, an easy job, respectfully bagging up folks after accidents and helping morticians carefully wrap elderly “retirement home” residents in pristine white sheets for their trip to the mortuary.

He’d never handled a murder before. And he wasn’t too proud to share that information with Sheriff Trinity Nichols—whom he had delivered with his own hands thirty-odd years ago.

“I don’t see what he died of, Trinity. Body temp and rigor indicate he’s been dead no more than an hour. It was sudden, but he just had a complete physical with a stress test; his heart was in great shape, and so were his arteries. Told me he smoked a joint now and then, but that was it as far as recreational drugs went. I don’t think he lied to me about that.”

Trinity nodded. “He liked wine, but it was about taste, not getting drunk. Didn’t like losing control.”
Unless it was for effect, for show. He could fake losing control with the best of them.

Unaware of her silent musings, Doc Beeson nodded in turn. “No health issues showed up in his physical, so I’m stumped. His head’s at an odd angle though not extreme, but seems to me if he’d fallen somehow, at least that rug would have a wrinkle or two in it.”

Trinity wasn’t tempted to laugh. “I thought the same thing, Doc. You’ll do the autopsy?”

He grimaced, which didn’t really change the expression of his thin, craggy face. “Man, I hate doing posts on people I delivered. Haven’t had to many times, ’specially considering how many babies I delivered over the years.”

“But you’ll do his autopsy.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do it. Dammit. Meantime, I’ll get out of the way so Lexie and Doug can do their jobs.” He looked at her directly. “I know you got them trained special as crime scene technicians; you think Scott was murdered?”

Trinity chose her words carefully, even knowing with absolute certainty that Beeson was the soul of discretion. “I think that if you find something other than an accident or a natural death in the autopsy, I want all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed.”

“Guess I’d feel the same in your place. I’ll wait out in the living room.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Lexie Adams and Douglas Payne, who had been standing silently just inside the door holding their kits, nodded to the elderly doctor as he shambled past them.

It was Lexie who asked, “You want the works, Sheriff?”

Trinity nodded slowly. “Yeah. Photograph everything, print everything, take fiber samples. Scrape under his nails. Use every tool the FBI taught you to use. I want to know what happened here.”

“You bet, Sheriff.”

She stepped out of the bedroom, reasonably sure her young crime scene unit “team” would feel much more comfortable and assured if she wasn’t breathing down their necks while they worked. Not that she felt the need to do that; she had gone to considerable trouble and expense to make certain they were very, very well trained and able.

Doc Beeson was sitting on Scott’s sofa, leaning forward, elbows on his knees while he petted Braden. The doctor loved dogs, and Braden loved attention, so the bonding experience was no doubt keeping both of them calm.

Leaving the front door open, Trinity stepped out onto the walkway that dead-ended at Scott’s apartment. She leaned on the railing and looked around, the idle glance showing her that there was no one about, so no sign of undue notice. The mortician’s wagon hadn’t arrived yet; she had called to alert them but asked that they not come until later, and to be discreet.

Discreet. Oh, yeah. Right
.

She reached into the pocket of her jacket, drawing out something that lay in the palm of her hand, glinting silver in the morning sunlight. Something she had seen herself before anyone else had arrived at Scott’s apartment.

Something she had, against all her training and police protocol, removed from Scott’s body. She’d seen the faint gleam between his slightly parted lips, vaguely puzzled at first because she knew Scott had no silver or gold caps on his teeth. And then she had realized it was something else.

A silver medallion. A cross.

She stared down at it for a long moment, then used her other hand to reach for her cell phone.

She had no idea where he was, since he was seldom in his office; for all she knew, she could have been dragging him out of bed somewhere.

She didn’t care.

She scrolled through her contacts and hit send. And wasn’t surprised when he answered on the first ring.

“Bishop.”

“Hey, it’s Trinity. We need to talk.”

January 29

Deacon James had grown up in a small town, so he didn’t exactly feel out of place when he followed the winding mountain road out of fairly dense forest and rather suddenly into the three-block-long downtown area of Sociable, Georgia.

North Georgia.

Remote north Georgia.

And the town seemed to cling to the mountainside, a unique but surely impractical place on which to site a town.

Aside from that, it looked somewhat the way many small mountain towns looked, with the “major” local businesses on the relative flat of Main Street while smaller businesses as well as a scattering of apartment buildings, Victorian homes, and a few startlingly contemporary ones on climbing side streets appeared to perch precariously behind and above.

Probably have a hell of a view.

Because it was a one-side downtown; that was the real difference. Across the street was a fairly wide swath of well-kept grass striped with the occasional neat and carefully graveled path leading down a gentle but boulder-strewn slope to a wide and apparently shallow mountain stream, which, given its location, almost seemed even more than the town itself to defy gravity and sense.

The town had clearly taken advantage of what could only be used as a recreation area, providing across from Main Street scattered attractive shelters with picnic tables beneath, and benches, and the aforementioned well-kept paths, as well as at least two comfortably wide footbridges across the stream. There was even what was obviously a small park with swings and other rides for the kids plus a big jungle gym, an attractive wrought-iron fence with a gate for safety around the play area.

But there wasn’t much else on that side of Main Street, because there wasn’t a whole lot of room.

Beyond, on the other side of the stream, were a few smallish trees on an even more narrow strip of grass, a couple of benches facing the spectacular view from an as-close-as-you’d-want-to-get perspective, planting beds covered with mulch hinting at flowers to come in the spring—and then, bordered by a different and stronger wrought-iron fence to prevent a tragic slip, a pretty sheer drop to the bottom of the valley at least three hundred yards below. The valley stretched out for miles and seemed to be mostly pasture dotted with cows and horses, a few fields obviously farmed, and widely scattered older homes holding the people who farmed them.

With the mountains ringing the valley, it really did present an extremely attractive view. And no doubt a pleasant place to live for many reasons, among them the absence of any industry producing pollution of the air or groundwater, and a population small enough that most knew each other but not so small that there was nothing better to do than to nose into each other’s business. Most of the time, at least.

Still. It was an odd place to put a town, Deacon thought, but he had seen odder, especially along the Blue Ridge, with its old mountains and old towns that had sprung up generations ago around now long-defunct mining camps or trading posts, or to serve the many farmers in the valley—where tillable land was too valuable a resource to waste on businesses and official buildings that could easily perch on the mountainside above.

Well, not
easily.
But from a practical standpoint, if farming and ranching served the local economy well enough, then sensibly.

Deacon knew that many towns like Sociable pretty much depended on a local-driven economy supplemented by seasonal tourism sparked by this or that “festival” or other annual draw besides the scenery. Most such small towns, in these difficult economic times, struggled to remain viable, and most watched the younger generations move away after high school because there was so little to offer them in the way of a career or even a good, steady job that wouldn’t keep them in a small office or behind a counter for the rest of their lives.