Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (29 page)

81

^{___________________________}

Her words hit me like a heavenly thunderbolt –
The Devil killed Father Flannigan
– catapulting me towards the church entrance on thundering feet. I was acting on impulse. Driven by fear of those words burning through my skull. I crashed through the heavy vestibule doors on the heel of my Glock. Not knowing what to expect.

The church was quiet.

Exactly as I’d left it.

No horned beast trotting around the place on its cloven feet. No fiery brimstone raining from the rafters. No smell of sulfur or the screams of the condemned.

I fell into a walk. Sweeping the pews with the gun for signs of the supernatural as I went.

Then I saw him:

Father Dan.

He was lying on the liturgical altar. On his back. His head completely decapitated. Removed. Nowhere to be seen. Glistening blood pooling on the cream-colored marble. His right hand still twitching, as if trying to sign for help.

All at once the adrenaline was sucked out of my legs. I stumbled the last few feet. Almost fell as I saw the blood still pumping from both carotid arteries.

Even without the head I knew it was Father Dan.

No mistaking it.

Through all the blood I could see
Winnie-the-Pooh
smiling up at me.

Then lightning ricocheted round my head. It felt like the ceiling had given way. Crushing down upon me. I heard bone crack as the lights went out. My bone. My skull. Legs buckling. Then all I could do was watch the pretty fireworks as the clammy hand of unconsciousness dragged me away.

82

^{___________________________}

Somebody switched the lights back on. A blinding intensity that made it impossible to see. I heard somebody whimpering for a sedative. It sounded like me. The blazing glare dimmed sufficiently for the world to swim into focus.

The parking lot of the Church of St Therese on El Molino Street in Alhambra looked like the circus had come to town. Local clowns crowding against a police cordon. Emergency services and law enforcement personnel milling about. The usual mayhem you get at every public murder scene. There was even a news crew setting up stall on the periphery of the police tape. A chopper buzzing against the grey sky like an agitated wasp. The only thing missing was the big top.

‘Hold still; I can’t do it if you keep fidgeting.’

I had no idea how long I’d been out. Long enough for Sister Bethany to raise the alarm and replace her own wails with those of patrol cars. Twenty minutes. Tops. I wasn’t counting. I’d come round with the worst hangover in living memory.

‘There you go. That should hold it together. I’ve put antibiotic gel on the wound and a couple of butterfly closures. Now keep this held against your head.’

She was a young
 
paramedic with a brusque professionalism. Dark hair scraped back into a ponytail.

‘The ice will reduce the swelling.’ She said. ‘So keep it held against the wound. Like
this
. Got it?’

‘Got it. Thanks.’

I was propped up on the back footplate of one of the ambulances. Wrapped in a foil blanket. Like a turkey at Thanksgiving. Everything looked bright but washed-out. Not very three-dimensional.

The paramedic flashed a penlight across my eyes. Everything spun. She handed me a small bottle of pills.

‘They’ll help take away the pain,’ she said as she saw my wary expression. ‘Two every four hours.’

I dropped them in a pocket. No intention to take.

I pressed the ice pack against the growing welt on the top right corner of my forehead. Right on the hairline. Missed the temple by a fraction.

I looked over the paramedic’s shoulder. Sister Bethany was being given tea and sympathy on the back of another ambulance. And most likely a handful of Diazepam to go with it. Every now and then I could hear her wail in misery. The news crew were loving it. They had one of their cameramen up on a step ladder. Training his lens in the back of the EMS unit. It went without saying that a wailing nun made for good TV.

I scanned the growing crowd while the paramedic cleaned up her work area. Wondered if the guy who’d socked me over the head hard enough for me to see an early fourth of July was standing among them. Watching. Gloating. Maybe with Father Dan’s head in a bag.

I had an inkling who the perpetrator was. But it wasn’t my case.

‘Gabe!’

I looked round. It was Tim Roxbury. He was pushing his way through the rank and file. I could see worry in his too-close-together eyes. I flapped a hand.

‘My God. Are you okay? What happened?’

‘I got struck off Satan’s Christmas list.’ I said.

‘Jeez Louise. I leave you for one minute …’

Something nasty rose in my throat. I twisted away. Let the vomit splash onto the pavement. The paramedic gave me the eye and then some tissue to clean up.

83

^{___________________________}

The first thing that struck me about Special Agent Gene Devereux of the FBI was that he reminded me of Sydney Poitier from the movie
In The Heat Of The Night.
He had the same brooding darkness behind the eyes. The same restrained energy. And the same
I don’t take no for an answer
kind of attitude. He looked like he’d just stepped out of Bloomingdale’s window; tailoring sharp enough to slice off skin.

‘I expect you’ve heard I’m a real ball-breaker.’ He said as he closed the office door. Sealing us both inside. We were in Ferguson’s abode. The glass partitions looking back into the open plan area had their blinds tilted closed.

‘Well, I am.’ He said without waiting for my response. ‘And I make no excuses for it. I like to get the job done. Work through the night if need be. Expect those I’m working with to keep up the pace.’

Poor Bob Bales
, I thought.

He looked me up and down the way someone examines something unwelcome clinging to the bottom of their shoe.

‘Your Captain tells me you’re something of an insubordinate.’

‘Your words or his?’ I said.

 
‘How would you describe your frequent breaches of protocol?’

‘None of your business.’

‘I see.’

He went over to the window. Parted the blinds. Peeped through the crack at the busy street below.

‘I’m not intimidated by your celebrity.’ He said with a mocking smile. ‘If anything, I see it as encumbering. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes for all the tea in China. Do you know what they call me, Detective?’

I was tempted to say
Mister Tibbs
.

‘They call me the Dogue de Bordeaux. Do you know why that is?’

‘French ancestry?’ I conjectured.

Devereux turned his solemn face towards mine. Fixed me with his intensely dark stare.

‘In the fifteenth century anno dominie, the Dogue de Bordeaux was bred to bait bears and hunt boars,’ he explained. ‘The Dogue de Bordeaux is known for the exceptional strength of its jaws. Once locked they are almost impossible to break.’ He clamped one fist over the other and mimicked trying to wrench them apart. ‘They call me the Dogue de Bordeaux because once I get my teeth into a case I do not let go until it is resolved. Do you follow me?’

‘What do you want, Devereux?’

‘I want Le Diable.’ He said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘So ask me the questions and be done with it.’

Devereux let the blinds snap shut. Came over to within a couple of feet. I could smell an expensive cologne. Probably came gift-wrapped with the suit.

‘What were you doing at the Church of Saint Therese?’

‘Seeing my priest.’

‘Who just so happened to lose his head while you sat in the parking lot.’

I kept a stony face.

‘Were you chasing my killer, Detective?’

‘No.’ My own demons.

‘Don’t you think it coincidental, that you should be there on the day Le Diable strikes?’

‘No.’ I didn’t believe in such things. In fact, I hadn’t had chance to ask myself these questions yet.

‘Any idea why the killer would target Father Flannigan?’

‘Not especially – other than the fact he’s a priest.’

‘So you have no idea.’

I was growing tired. Let it show.

‘Your Captain says you saw three lots of people while sitting in your car. Is this correct?’

‘A mother with a stroller.’ I said. ‘A couple of kids on skateboards. And an African-American guy wearing a hoodie.’

I didn’t mention Officer Roxbury.

‘And did any of these parties enter the church?’

‘Not that I noticed.’

Devereux nodded. ‘I suppose we can rule out the mother and the kids.’ He said contemplatively.

‘I guess.’

Suddenly his eyeballs doubled in size. ‘And point the finger of accusation at the man just because he’s black?’

I was stunned. Devereux had played the race card without breaking a sweat.

‘Good luck dancing with the devil.’ I said on my way to the door. ‘You’re going to need it.’

84

^{___________________________}

I hitched a ride home in a patrol car. Too dizzy to think straight about Father Dan, Devereux or a killer that wasn’t even mine.

Stevie Hendricks’ cell number had faded on the back of my hand. Washed away by sweat and an EMS clean up. Now it was barely legible. I looked at it for a moment, debating whether to copy it down.