Dark Hunger (14 page)

“Paralyzing the town, its businesses, and creating fear and panic are other forms of terrorist attack—more subtle, but something the perpetrator may be aiming for,” Annabelle pointed out.

“I’ll call neighboring counties for backup,” Detective Barbaris said. “Have local and plainclothes officers stationed all over the city. Maybe someone will see something suspicious.”

“Let’s look at major events again,” Quinton said. “Something that would draw hundreds of people together at once.”

Detective Barbaris snapped his fingers. “Two things I can think of. That preacher, Reverend Narius, is in town. He’ll be at the First Baptist Church tonight. I’ll put men there.”

“And there’s a football game at the Citadel,” Annabelle added.

Quinton glanced at her with a nod. “The stadium could be a viable target. It definitely has to be covered.”

“I’ll get some agents to search the stadium,” Chief Tarrington said. “And extra security will be posted tonight.”

Barbaris scraped his hand over his jaw. “This is a nightmare.”

“That’s what we’re trying to prevent,” Quinton said.

Annabelle cleared her throat. “There’s also a concert at the North Charleston Coliseum tonight. The venue is sold out. Thousands of teenagers and young adults will be flooding it to party.”

“Let’s get to it,” Quinton ordered. “Midnight is only a few hours away.”

Quinton cornered Annabelle while Barbaris debriefed the local officers and coordinated with other precincts for extra security.

“Thanks for the help in there,” Quinton said.

“You really think we can stop this attack?” Annabelle asked.

Quinton clenched his jaw at the daunting task. It was difficult to safeguard and predict a crime like this, especially when they hadn’t ID’d the unsub yet, but if a demon was involved… “We’ll do our best.”

Then his mother’s words echoed in his head:
The Death Angel has the power to possess the body of a human. Find him in that form, and you can kill him more easily. You must use your power to destroy him.

But what if he shape-shifted into another form? And if he was a vulture—hell, there were vultures everywhere.

“I keep thinking about that homeless man, that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome,” Annabelle said. “I’m wondering if whoever is behind this convinced him to do the bombing. Maybe he paid him. Or what if the man was mentally ill and was convinced he was going into battle?”

Quinton considered her theory. “I agree that there is a mastermind, and that it’s possible our perpetrator brainwashed the homeless man.”

Annabelle rolled her shoulders. “Maybe he’s going to find someone else like Ames to use. Another homeless man?”

“Or one suffering from PTS.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll check military records, contact the VA hospital and see if I can get a list.”

“And I’ll check out the homeless shelters in the area,” Annabelle said. “See if the social workers know of anyone preying on them. I’ve heard of cases where people fear the homeless and attack them.”

Protective instincts kicked in as Quinton glanced at her. The bruise on her cheek looked stark against her pale skin, and she had dark smudges beneath her eyes. She needed rest, to be in bed recovering from the explosion, not out chasing leads.

But she was strong and gutsy, here working alongside him, trying to find this killer.

Admiration tightened his chest, and he reached up and stroked her arm. “Are you sure you’re up to it? We have officers and agents working on the investigation.”

“No, I want to do this,” she said. “I have to. We can’t let this guy win.”

“We won’t,” he said. “But we go together.”

No way he’d allow Annabelle to go up against a possible demon on her own.

You have powers
, the Angel of Light had said.

But would his powers be strong enough to fight this evil?

Disturbed by the overwhelming scent of evil in the air, Father Robard called a meeting of the monks. They gathered in the monastery churchyard, the news of the recent unleashing of demons on the world weighing heavily on all their minds.

His fellow monks strolled in, wearing their doboks, culottes, or earth and wind garbs, depending on their level of training.

He greeted them accordingly. “Duno (brother), Duna (sister),” he murmured. “Ra-duno,” denoting an older monk or big brother. His comrades were referred to as Fe duno or Fe duna.

Yet, Father Robard was the oldest and most revered.

After the Angel had brought the Valtrez boys to him, had told him of the prophecy of the Dark Lords and the danger to them, they had separated them for their own safety.

He had personally watched over Quinton and guided him to be a great fighter. Had shown him how to use the power of body and mind for survival and to prepare for the demon rising. Had taught him to survive off the land, to respect and love nature, to use herbal plants for healing and food, and also to mix the herbs with wine for potions.

“The demons have gotten past the Twilight Guards,” he said as the monks bowed to listen.

Concern rippled through the group.

He cleared his throat. “We have trained the demonborn Valtrez to use nature’s nochd—life energy—to call upon all the elements: light and darkness, fire, water, air, and earth.

“He has been trained to sense the energy of all living things by opening his mind and channeling nature to make himself stronger. But we must pray, for his soul is torn in two from the bad blood in his veins.”

He paused and the monks nodded solemnly, obedience being key to their inner balance.

“He must use that energy as a weapon.”

“Is he prepared?” Duno Florence asked.

“I believe so. He was put through a series of grueling physical tests to prepare his mind for the journey early on. And when he left here, he received more rigorous training.

“Now let us pray and meditate in silence for the remainder of the day. We must channel our faith into him. He will need it.”

He held up his hands in a wide arc, his robe billowing around him as he silenced any more doubts, and led them in prayer using the ancient language.

It was important that the Dark Lord survive and defeat the demon after him. If he failed, they would all be in danger.

An odd look twisted Quinton’s face as they approached the Safe Haven homeless shelter. If the situation weren’t so dire, Annabelle would have laughed at the irony of a hired gun visiting the needy.

The shelter was in an older cement building attached to one of the local churches, with one central room for meals and sharing, and two rooms in the back for overnight stays. A social worker ran the shelter, utilizing volunteers from the community and local churches for donations and assistance.

The lunch line was already forming as they arrived, and Annabelle spoke to several of the men and women as she approached, shaking their hands and offering a kind word.

Quinton remained silent behind her, looking uncomfortable, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Hi, I’m Emily Nelson,” a vibrant young blonde said as she approached them. “I’m the social worker on staff.”

“Quinton Valtrez, Homeland Security,” Quinton said.

Annabelle extended her hand. “And I’m Annabelle Armstrong, CNN. Can we talk?” Annabelle asked.

“Sure. Step into my office.” Emily gestured to a tiny room that looked as if it had once been a closet.

Quinton gestured that he’d wait outside. She nodded, watching him move through the crowd as if he was searching for the bomber. His look bordered on belligerence and made Annabelle wonder at his thoughts, wonder what it was like to suspect everyone you met. Had his entire life been built on violence and distrust?

“What can I do for you?” Emily asked.

Annabelle explained about witnessing the Savannah bombing, and the young woman’s eyes grew sad. “That was horrible.”

“Yes, and we have reason to suspect that an attack is planned for Charleston tonight.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Emily murmured. “Do you know where?”

“We’re working with locals and the FBI to pinpoint a possible target.”

“I don’t understand how I can help,” Emily said with a frown.

Annabelle had to guard her words. “The Savannah bomber was identified as a former war veteran who suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome. He was also homeless.”

Emily’s blue eyes widened. “What are you implying? That someone here may be a bomber?”

“No, not exactly,” Annabelle hedged. “Actually, I think that someone else was behind the first attack, and somehow they drugged, hypnotized, or brainwashed Mr. Ames into setting off that bomb.”

“You mean someone is preying on the homeless?”

“Yes.” Annabelle licked her dry lips. “Have you seen anything suspicious?”

She shook her head.

“Do you know of anyone here suffering from PTS?”

“Not right offhand,” Emily said. “Of course, there are a couple of mentally impaired men and a junkie or two who stop by for meals.”

“What about any other visitors?” Annabelle asked. “Maybe someone who looked like they didn’t belong?”

“That’s hard to say,” Emily said. “We’re not judgmental here. We get folks from all walks of life, from all socioeconomic levels, with a variety of problems. We don’t turn anyone away.”

“Of course not.”

Emily’s eyebrows pinched together as she thought. “The only other visitor we’re had lately was that televangelist Reverend Narius. He came by and offered to pray with individuals.” She paused. “He said he was in town and is speaking at the First Baptist Church tonight.”

Annabelle considered him for a moment. Some preachers had been known to brainwash their followers. And in some ways the reverend fit the profile of a serial killer. She’d researched him a few months back for a story. According to her sources, he’d been raised in a strict religious family and was a religious zealot. In fact, he might have a God complex. He liked public attention and had spoken in Savannah after the bombing, offering prayer sessions at local churches.

Serial killers often entrenched themselves in a crime scene or stayed to watch. And what better cover than to offer solace to the victims’ grieving family members afterward? Reverend Narius also made visiting the homeless part of his mission. He planned to travel worldwide to wipe out sinners.

A bead of perspiration chilled her neck. No, he’d done too much good in the world, saved lives and donated to charities. She couldn’t possibly look at him as a suspect.

Quinton ignored the rancid odors of unbathed skin, sweat, and urine as he combed through the shelter, listening to conversations and probing people’s minds. Some talked about the food, the weather, and the deaths the last few days, while others seemed lost in their own world of turmoil.

Jagged moments of their past lives, their jobs and broken families, the craving of booze or pills, splintered their tumultuous thoughts. He dug deeper, searching for someone who might be planning suicide, but the only thoughts of death he picked up were those of some of the elderly, who seemed to be looking forward to reuniting with lost loved ones.

Remembering the sickly pallor and sightless white eyes of the Savannah bomber, he studied each individual for signs of possession. Two or three people struck him as virtually brain dead, but he lingered beside them and realized they were simply too drugged and disease-ridden to think clearly.