Mortal Sin (10 page)

She should never have told Skye about seeing the death imprint in Los Angeles. Skye now thought she had some new special skill. But Moira was pretty certain the only reason she was so damn
privileged
to see that particular death imprint was because a demon had been involved.

“I really don’t know what I can do to help,” Moira repeated.

The stress of Bertrand’s murder and Anthony’s obsession with the mission and his books showed in Skye’s tired eyes. Moira got it—Skye’s life had done a one-eighty in the last few months. This time last year, Skye was the sheriff of a quiet, peaceful town on the beautiful Central Coast of California. Now, she was facing a tough reelection and had first-hand knowledge that demons existed. Moira understood the pressure she was under, and honestly, a lessor person would have cracked at the sight of their first demon.

The dead, homeless guy was far more human than many of the other crimes Skye had investigated or witnessed, and maybe that’s why she felt so intent on solving his murder. She wanted answers. And though Moira didn’t think she had any to give, Skye wasn’t someone who asked for help often. She’d broken a lot of rules—a lot of laws—to protect Moira. She could do this one thing for her.

“I doubt I’ll be of any help, but since we have some time, let’s go.”

She took one final look at Bertrand’s house. He’d been an idiot, but he’d had the answers to what happened to Rafe. Now, they might never learn the truth.

She wondered if Fiona thought Bertrand was going to cave and talk to them. A weak link. Kill him, and his secrets died with him, kept by those stronger than he.

“Do you sense something?” Skye asked.

Moira shook her head. “Just feel like a big fucking door slammed shut and we’ll never find out what happened to Rafe. Let’s go.”

It took only ten minutes to drive from Bertrand’s hilly neighborhood into the middle of the town proper. They passed the coffee house where Jared had nearly been run down four hours ago. The bakery truck was gone, but the iron fence it had knocked down was being removed by city workers. Bright yellow warning tape blocked off a square around where they worked.

It was seven in the evening, the sun was going down fast, and Moira was hungry. She’d have much rather grabbed a burger at the diner with Skye than go to a crime scene.

“Did Rod see anything wonky with the body?” Moira asked.

“Someone disemboweled the victim.”

“And by disembowel you mean gut?”

“His abdomen was cut open from sternum to his groin. All his organs had been pulled out. Rats had been feeding on him for nearly a day, so there was a mess.”

More than Moira wanted to know.

“It was cruel,” Skye continued. “Rod said he was alive when he was cut open. He was just an old veteran, he never hurt anyone, he just wanted to be left alone. And some bastard sliced him open for no fucking reason.”

Skye was really torn up about this homeless guy. Moira asked, “Have you had any other similar crimes? Ever?”

Skye shook her head as she pulled in front of the mouth of an alley only a few blocks from where Good Shepherd Church had burned to the ground three months ago. “Nothing like this. Before the massacre at the mission, the last murder was a domestic violence assault at the beginning of last year. Husband killed his ex-wife, was apprehended, pled guilty, and is in prison for life. Easy. Justice served.”

Skye shut off her engine and continued. “I searched similar crimes throughout California—there was a homeless guy stabbed to death in Sacramento about ten years ago—the local police suspected a gang initiation, never caught anyone. But that guy had been stabbed in the back repeatedly—not gutted.”

Skye got out and Moira followed suit. It was rapidly getting dark, and because they were on the coast, with the dark came chill. The alley was narrow with broken bricks and crumbling buildings on both sides. Moira didn’t like narrow places. Too easy to be trapped—by humans and demons.

“The alley is shielded from the wind, so a lot of homeless end up here in inclement weather. As long as they don’t cause problems, I don’t kick them out. This isn’t the tourist part of town, and frankly, we don’t have a lot of homeless in Santa Louisa. Not a town this size. The ones who want or need more resources go north to San Jose or south to Los Angeles. Even San Luis Obispo has more homeless than we do. The ones we have are generally not all there, alcoholics like Joe or guys who need to be on meds, but aren’t. One old woman who lost her house wanders the streets.” She paused. “I haven’t seen her in a while, come to think of it.”

“If one of the demons has returned, maybe this was the result of someone being infected.”

“Is there a sin for cruelty?”

“We have Envy and Lust locked up, that leaves Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, Greed, and of course Pride. I suppose cruelty could go with any of those.”

Skye hesitated. “Joe was an alcoholic. Wouldn’t excessive drinking be part of gluttony?”

She shrugged. “Could be. But then why was he the victim and not the killer?”

They still weren’t one hundred percent positive how individuals were infected by the Seven, but they had an educated guess. Rod had uncovered the area of the brain affected by the Seven Deadly Sins—the amygdala, a small and primitive part of the human brain. An individual’s sin surfaced—whatever sin they struggled the most with. Greed. Envy. Gluttony. The infected individual would then act out on that sin. When Envy was around and infecting people, a sweet librarian stole a classic Mustang she coveted and, at the thought of having to give it back, decided she’d rather die than give it up. She drove herself off a cliff.

Rod was working on a cure because right now the only cure seemed to be capturing whichever demon had infected the person. They also weren’t sure how it spread. At first, Moira thought the demon itself had to touch the person, but she’d come to believe that the members of Fiona’s coven who had been on the cliffs during the ritual that released the Seven Deadly Sins were carriers of the demonic virus, for lack of a better term. Hank Santos had been infected, Moira believed, because he was romantically involved with one of Fiona’s witches. The coven members also seemed to be immune from the effects. But that was only a theory, and Moira didn’t know how to prove it.

“Why the brutality?” Moira asked, almost to herself. “Honestly, I’d be more suspicious that a monster was in play if your vet had his neck broken or Rod couldn’t figure out how he died.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I just hoped you could walk the crime scene and maybe, I don’t know, figure out a different direction, another idea I can pursue. I’ve done everything—checked survelliance cameras, talked to other homeless guys, business owners, people who live near here. Nothing. No one saw or heard anything.” She paused. “You’d know if there was magic here, right? Like that ritual where Abby died on the cliffs? Could Joe have been sacrificed like Abby?”

Moira turned to face her friend. “Skye, I get it. You want answers. You want this guy to be killed by something evil, so you don’t have to face a person who could be so brutal. Unfortunately, there are plenty of sick people out there who kill for reasons that have nothing to do with demons or ghosts or magic. It’s one of the reasons I get so mad at the Big Guy upstairs because you’d think He’d do something about all those whack-jobs. I mean, smite them or something.”

Skye smiled just a bit. “Let’s go in.” She opened the police lock and they stepped inside.

Moira followed Skye through a cluttered warehouse with many doors off a central hall. “This place is owned by the bank,” Skye explained. “It used to be a storage facility, but went through foreclosure last summer.” She led Moira to what had been the main office. Several desks were stacked precariously on top of each other against one wall. Skye shined a flashlight over the corner where Joe Smith had been found. His blood had stained the concrete, but there were no other remnants of his murder.

Moira sighed, then closed her eyes and let her barriers float away. Cold. Dark. The emotions trapped in this place were filled with helplessness and hopelessness and loss.

She didn’t see Joe Smith’s murder. She did, however, feel his despair. Maybe not only his because it was overpowering. It was the despair of all the others who’d been in this warehouse before him.

It had been a storage facility for decades. People packing away memories. Some because they were downsizing. Some because they’d lost their house. Divorces. Deaths. Spouses. Parents. Children. Things people couldn’t part with. Things people couldn’t let go…

A dagger. Lost then found. Hidden. A weapon… more than a weapon.

Her eyes snapped open.

“You know who did it,” Skye said.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. But I know why.”

Moira had no idea how she knew. It wasn’t a thought; it was a feeling. She didn’t see anything, but she felt the emotions of the person who’d killed Joe Smith. “Joe was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was a robbery.”

“How do you know that?” Skye snapped. “What would Joe have worth killing for?”

Moira reddened. “You asked for my
special
help, well this is it. Dammit, Skye! I don’t want to be psychic. I don’t want to know things. I don’t know where this damn curse comes from and if I use it, does it shine a big bright spotlight over my head telling my mother,
Here I am! Come and get me!”
Moira took several steps away from Skye. “I need to see the storage rooms.”

Skye wisely didn’t say anything. Moira wanted to leave, high-tail it back to Hank’s house to grab Lily and get her to safety. More than facing a demon—what was inside her scared her.

He’d found it. He’d finally found it!

His elation was palatable, years of searching and the dagger was located. The old biddy had stored it with junk. How could she? It was priceless.

Moira staggered and fell against the wall, confused. She’d not only felt the killer’s emotions, she sensed his thoughts.

Was this what Rafe had been experiencing for the last three months? The remnants of intense emotions manifesting into clear thoughts?

“Moira?” Skye was right at her side. She touched her elbow to steady her.

All Skye’s frustration and despair poured into Moira and she jumped away, putting up her shields. Moira stared at Skye. “You’re worried about Anthony.”

Skye frowned. “That’s not a big secret. You know as well as I that he’s been spending more time at the mission than with me.”

“It’s not you,” Moira said quietly. “It’s him. His overwhelming sense of duty is tearing him up.”

“Why mention this to me now?”

“You touched me. I… have to get out of here.” She wasn’t thinking straight. She needed to clear her head.

“But you said you knew what happened to Joe.”

Moira was frantic to leave. She didn’t want to be in this house of misery with all the loss and abandonment. It’s like all the hope had been sucked out of the people who put their possessions here, and the objects took on the all too human feelings of failure and hopelessness. Moira didn’t need it clouding her judgment, crowding her already tortured soul.

But for Skye, she stayed. Moira already knew where she needed to go. She didn’t lower her shields much, just enough to navigate the halls. At the end, she found it.

The lock had been broken.

“Joe was killed by a dagger,” Moira said. “Cut open, you said, but it was a dagger. A very old, very dangerous weapon. It was in here. The killer cut the lock and found it. It’s the only thing he took. He’d been looking for it for a long time.”

Skye pulled on gloves and rolled the door up. “When the bank foreclosed, anyone who was delinquent lost their possessions as well. When my deputies searched, we assumed the locks had been broken by the bank. I’ll have to follow-up with them, find out if they have an inventory and who had rented this space.”

The small storage room was filled to the brim with furniture and boxes. But there was one wooden box that stood out from the rest because it wasn’t dusty. And it was open, revealing a dark velvet interior with a deep impression shaped like a dagger.

Moira stood there for a moment, her heart racing. Something about that box radiated
bad.
That was all she could think about.

Skye went over to it.

“Don’t touch it!” Moira said, grabbing her.

“Why?”

“It’s… evil.”

“Boxes can’t be evil.”

Moira thought back to the Mark of Cain carved into an ancient box. She’d seen it once and knew without touching it was bad news. So was this one, even though it no longer held the dagger.

“Call Anthony,” Moira said. “He’ll know how to handle it.”

Skye frowned, uncertain.

Moira faced the box. She held her hands over it and began to shake. But she forced herself to remain steady; she needed to get a better sense of the box and the dagger that had been inside.

Flashes of light and dark. Fire. White hot flames. Heat radiated from the velvet; ice radiated from the box. A prison. Chains rattling. Cries of the damned. Punishment.

She staggered back and would have tripped over a table if Skye hadn’t grabbed her arm.

“What the hell happened? You didn’t move for five minutes.”

Moira shook her head. It had felt like an instant; how could it have been minutes? “There’s conflict here. I don’t know what or why. Fire and ice. Imprisonment. I think the dagger was put in the box to trap it. It’s… I don’t know. This isn’t my field of expertise. Anthony knows about this stuff. He’s an archeologist. He’ll know.”

Moira left the room and Skye followed. “And don’t touch the box. Don’t let anyone else touch the box, not until Anthony comes here and figures out what’s going on.”

“But no inanimate object can spontaneously kill someone. Are you thinking the dagger floated away and killed Joe?”

“Don’t be silly. Not without someone putting the damn thing in hand.” Moira sighed, rubbed her aching head. “You trusted me, now listen. The dagger that killed your friend was stored in that box for years. Generations. Maybe hundreds of years. The killer wanted it, has been looking for it for a long time. Joe saw him.” How had she known that? Was she making it up as she went along? Except… as soon as she said it, she knew it was the truth.