Mortal Sin (23 page)

Ted Peterson sat down next to him and motioned for Violet to bring him a draft.

“Hey, Russ, you look like shit.”

“So do you,” Russ mumbled.

“Testy too.”

What did he expect? Ted had a normal nine-to-five job in an insurance office. He didn’t do hard labor like Russ. Sure, Russ was the project manager, he owned the company and mostly supervised, but he’d been on the roof just that day because one of the new guys he’d hired to replace the three assholes who’d quit was scared of heights. He was in construction but fucking scared of heights? What was with that?

“So what’re you going to do about the sheriff’s race? Seems like since that girl came into the position, crime has gone through the roof. I’ve had more insurance claims—personal property, car theft, shit like that—in the last six months than in the last five years. Time for a change, I think.”

The last thing Russ wanted to do was talk to Ted about local politics.

“I don’t think it’s Sheriff McPherson’s fault,” Russ said. “And Williams is an asshole.” He glanced at Violet. “Sorry, kid.”

She smiled as if it didn’t bother her. “I hear it all the time. I’m not taking sides.”

“You’re not?” Ted said. “He’s your dad.”

“And I love him, but I went to school with Skye. Honestly, if it weren’t for Skye, I would have dropped out and moved to San Francisco and be living on the streets.”

“Well, your dad is running against her, so maybe he doesn’t think as highly of her.”

“I was surprised,” Violet said. “Dad never wanted to run for sheriff. I just think he was hurt he wasn’t appointed. I’ll vote for him because he’s my dad, but I think Skye is in it for the long haul, and my dad should be thinking about retiring.”

Violet walked off to serve another customer. It was Friday nigh; the place was beginning to fill. Russ considered leaving early. Trina had her book club at the house Fridays until nine. It was almost nine now.

“Well, Williams has some good ideas,” Ted persisted.

Russ’s head pounded and he wanted to walk away. He started to get up, but felt dizzy, so sat back down. He wasn’t drunk. He’d barely sipped his third beer. Any other Friday night he’d have four and walk the six blocks home with only a light buzz. He’d learned long ago that three of four beers meant he got sex, especially after Trina’s book club where she’d have two or three glasses of wine herself. If he had more than four drinks, Trina wouldn’t even kiss him.

Maybe he was sick. Maybe he should go see the doctor. Trina had been nagging him for weeks, telling him he was irritable, that the job at Rittenhouse was stressful.

Damn straight it was stressful. Trina tried to understand, she really did, but he was tired of being nagged about going to the doctor, tired of seeing the worry in her eyes. It upset him, and then he got angry because he was upset. Didn’t he have enough stress in his life without having to be nagged about his damn heart? He was only fifty-two. It wasn’t like he was an overweight fatso who ate like a pig. Like Ted Peterson. The ass.

“Williams has more experience.” Ted would
not
shut up. “And while I have no problem with girls being cops, the sheriff’s too young and inexperienced. And she’s gotten involved with that weird cult at the mission.”

“You mean the Catholic mission? Since when are Catholics a cult?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Damn, you’re irritable.”

“I’m tired, Ted,” Russ said with an exaggerated sigh. His hand tightened around the handle of his mug. He lifted it, wanting to throw it in Ted’s face. Instead, he drank.

Go. Leave, Russ, old boy. Walk out right now. Go straight to the hospital. Something’s wrong. Trina’s right.

“Hey, totally get it, buddy.” Ted drank. There was silence, blessed silence, for three minutes.

“So,” Ted said, “did you hear that Roger Ullman’s son up and married another guy? Never thought that Clark was a homo. He was captain of the football team.”

A sudden rage filled Russ. His own son was gay and had been so ostracized by the town growing up he’d gotten into drugs and had spent two years in and out of rehab. Brad had finally gotten his act together, had moved to L.A., and was living with a guy that Russ and Trina liked.

Russ blamed himself for many of Brad’s problems because he’d always told his son to take the heat, to stand up for himself, to stop letting people’s stupid ass words hurt him. Russ had been a fighter growing up because that’s what he knew. Brad wasn’t Russ. There wasn’t a mean bone in his son’s body.

Russ and Brad had mended fences over the last couple of years, but it was asshole pricks like Ted Peterson that reminded Russ that he, too, had once been an asshole prick.

With a strength that surprised him, Russ slammed his mug into Ted Peterson’s face.

“Sheriff, sorry to bother you, but we have trouble at Floyd’s.”

It was Bruce Jorgenson. Was he on duty 24/7? Skye thought. He seemed to shadow her.

Skye had just walked back into the station after leaving David Collins in charge of the criminal investigation into the murder of Father Isaac and arson at the church. He was the SWAT team leader and the lead detective since Juan went on leave. He also had some familiarity with the supernatural happenings around town. He wasn’t completely clued into the whole covens and demons coming from Hell, but he had seen a ghost and nearly been killed by a violent spirit, so he was at least open to out-of-the-box thinking.

Out of the box? Try out of this world.

“Take whomever you need,” she said.

“It’s bad. It started nearly thirty minutes ago. Two patrols were sent. They called for back-up, and now there appears to be a riot.”

“Floyd’s. The bar.” Then it clicked. Violet and Josh. “Does Tom Williams know?”

“Yes. He reported to dispatch that he had arrived ten minutes ago, but dispatch hasn’t heard from him since and hasn’t been able to reach him on radio.”

Skye was already up, her gun holstered. “Go to the garage and secure a tactical van. We need full riot gear. David Collins is working the murder and arson, call his number two and get a SWAT unit out there just in case.”

She ran out of the station and back into her police-issue Bronco. She immediately called into dispatch and asked for a status.

“Six patrol cars and a total of ten deputies are on scene,” the dispatcher said.

“I need you to get me through to Assistant Sheriff Williams.”

“I’ll try, but he hasn’t been responding to calls.”

“Try again.”

She pulled out her cell phone and tried Floyd’s bar, hoping to get through. Not only was there no answer and no answering machine, the phone registered as busy.

She had Violet’s cell phone number. They weren’t close friends, but they’d kept in touch over the years, and before Anthony came to town, Skye had spent many evenings at the bar. Many of the cops did.

Violet’s phone went directly to voice mail.

Floyd’s was only a short drive from the station, and Skye parked behind two patrol cars that had blocked off the intersection of Main and Second Avenue. Floyd’s was in the middle of the block on Second. Another patrol car had blocked off the opposite intersection.

Several people were on the street breaking car windows, engaged in fist-fights, looting stores.

It’s like the riots when Envy was on the loose.

The deputies had been pushed back to the intersections and they were standing behind their police doors. Three bodies were lying in the street. Two appeared to simply be injured; one wasn’t moving at all.

“Dispatch, word on Williams?”

“Negative. He’s not answering.”

“Call fire and ambulance. We have several injuries. Keep my com on the line.” She got out and ran over to one of the deputies. “Report?”

“We have two witnesses who fled as the fight broke out,” the deputy said. “We have them at the coffee shop.” He gestured across the park. The same coffee shop where Jared had nearly been run down.

“And?”

“Two fights seemed to break out at the same time. One was at the bar—a short man in his fifties hit another man with a beer mug. The other was at a table, the city planner George Calvin and one of the council members. I don’t know who, a man. Josh was trying to mediate that argument when Calvin picked up a chair and hit it over Josh’s head, then started beating the council member. The couple, who was sitting at a table near the door, fled and didn’t see anything else.”

“We need to get the injured out of the street,” she said.

“We’re trying, but we need more support.”

“Did you see the assistant sheriff?”

“Yes. I tried to stop him, but he went into the bar.”

Shit, shit, shit!
This bad situation was getting worse by the minute.

“How long?”

“About twenty-five minutes ago.”

Shattering glass and a scream echoed down the street. A person was thrown from a window of a small Chinese food restaurant next to Floyd’s bar. It was a waiter in a white shirt and pants that were now stained with blood. He tried to get up, but collapsed.

“Cover me!” she ordered the deputy and ran around the front of the patrol car and over to the victim. He was moaning. His face and hands were cut with the glass that lay in the street.

As she tried to help him to his feet to get him out of what she was beginning to think of as a war zone, another man leapt from the window, his fists bloodied, a wild rage distorting his face. His short dark hair was matted with blood.

“Stand back!” Skye said.

He didn’t appear to see Skye. His focus was on the waiter she was squatting next to.

“You lazy thief!” the man screamed. “You don’t do what I say! You’re lazy and incompetent!”

Skye pulled her Taser. So far, she’d seen no one armed on the street. That didn’t mean that no one had a gun.

Williams had his gun.

Twenty-five minutes was a long time to not have any word. Maybe he’d found Violet and was hiding out in their apartment. That would be the smart thing to do. But Skye knew Violet—if Josh was hurt, she wasn’t going to leave him to be trampled or worse.

There were screams behind her, but Skye focused on the man about to attack her moaning victim.

“Stop.” She gave him fair warning. When he didn’t, she fired the taser.

The man fell to his knees, then to the ground, jerking as the electric current traveled through his body. Skye half carried, half dragged the waiter from the street. She was nearly to the patrol car when her deputy ran out to help her the final twenty feet. They laid the man on the sidewalk behind the cars and Skye assessed his injuries. His face was deeply cut from glass, but there didn’t appear to be any fatal wounds.

The first of the fire trucks had arrived. It was the same engine company that had been at the church—it looked like they’d come directly from St. Francis. “Can you take care of him?” she asked, but without waiting for an answer, went back to the riot.

She wished David Collins, the SWAT leader, was here. He had been in the military; he’d know how to handle this. She was about to call him when his number two, Deputy Tyrone Stevenson, pulled up. “Sheriff!” he called out.

“It’s chaos, but we have wounded out there. Deputy Williams is in the bar. His daughter works there.”

“I’m deploying men to the roofs—we need to get eyes on the situation.”

“We need to get the wounded out. Medics just arrived.”

“We’re gearing up. Give me three minutes, Sheriff.”

She stared out in the street at the man she’d tased. He hadn’t moved. She couldn’t have killed him. Media reports notwithstanding, very few people died from a taser hit.

“Skye!” a voice called out. She turned and saw Rafe standing behind the tape across Main Street, near the coffee shop. She turned to her deputy. “Let Mr. Cooper through.”

Rafe ran over to her once he’d been cleared. “I heard what was happening on the police band.”

Sometimes, Skye forgot she’d let Rafe borrow her personal truck for the last three months. It included a police radio.

“Rod’s on his way. He might have an idea on how to contain this.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Induced comas.”

“I don’t get it.”

“They’re going to die if we can’t sedate them. Sedating those who are infected will buy us time.”

“How much?”

“We have no idea.”

“Is this connected to the fire?”

Rafe hesitated.

“Tell me.”

“Why kill Father Isaac? The only reason is because he knew about the knife and was going to tell us something. Something important, that would have helped us find whoever stole it.”

“And what does that have to do with this?”

“This”—Rafe waved his hands toward the street of violence—“is because of a demon. Finding out where it started will help us track down the carrier, so-to-speak.”

Skye pulled Bruce Jorgenson aside. “Bruce, I need you to put together a list of every violent act over the last week.”

“Okay,” he said, though looked skeptical.

“This didn’t start tonight,” she said, and now Bruce really looked like she’d gone off her rocker. Maybe she had.

“Wait,” Rafe said. “What if it started with the murder of the homeless guy?”

“That was ten days ago,” Skye said.

“But the dagger might be a lightning rod of sorts. Drawing back one of the Seven.” He glanced at Jorgenson.

Skye couldn’t worry about what Bruce thought now. “So—we need to find out who stole the knife. If we’re right, the same person killed Joe Smith and Father Isaac.” She hesitated. “Bruce, we need to see if there’s a pattern. Include Bertrand’s murder. All murders and assaults from Joe Smile through tonight.”

“Yes, Sheriff.” He glanced down the street. “Maybe I should help here.”

“I called in off-duty personnel. Trust me, I need that information as soon as possible.”

Jorgenson left, and Skye looked at the man she’d tased, still lying in the street.

“I only tased him. He shouldn’t be dead,” she said.

“He was one of the attackers?”

She nodded.

Rafe breeched the police line and ran over to the man, thirty feet away. He checked his pulse, then rolled him to his stomach and pulled his shirt down around the collar. He stared for a moment, then pulled out his phone and took a picture. Then he left the guy and ran back to Skye. Showed her the photo.