Haunted (A Bishop/SCU Novel Book 15) (13 page)

“Neither did I,” Hollis answered frankly. “But if you’re asking me if anything dark remains in me afterward—no, it doesn’t. We have people in the unit who can sense that kind of thing. Several. Bishop is very careful about that given the work we do, making sure we’re monitored in every way possible to be sure we aren’t being harmed by using our abilities. And I’ve been assured that nothing negative was left behind in me.”

After a moment, Trinity nodded. “Okay. What about this negative energy you’re sensing here? Can you channel that? Change that?”

“Probably not. The one time I did that, I was . . . connected. Standing in a kind of doorway where the energy was tightly focused so it was relatively easy to draw in. Up here, this is diffused, for want of a better word. No purpose, no direction, nothing guiding it. It simply . . . is.”

“Yeah, I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

“Why?” Deacon asked.

She drew a breath and let it out, then settled her shoulders with the air of someone facing something she’d rather not have had to face. “Because with a few rare exceptions, most everything really bad that’s happened in Sociable has happened in the higher elevations. It’s something that goes back as far as the town does.”

—

HE LOST INTEREST
in watching them after a while. The coroner looked depressed, the crime scene techs scurried around taking care of their minutiae—one of them retiring off to the side behind a bush to lose his lunch before grimly resuming his duties. And the others . . .

The others.

He still couldn’t reach them as he’d expected to be able to, and that was troubling. It was also troubling that his strength seemed to come and go.

He was going to need all his strength to finish this. To be the sword hand of God and deliver justice.

More justice.

There was a part of him that knew, that
understood
how to harness the power all around him. Incredible power, more power than he could ever need, ever use. That part of him had the most insistent voice and was the one he tried his best to ignore. Because no matter what the voice said, he didn’t think
he
was strong enough to do that. To . . . hold that.

To master that.

He was afraid to try.

And right now, he was tired. He was tired and he needed to sleep.

Everything would make sense again if he could just sleep . . .

—

“REALLY BAD THINGS?”
Hollis asked a bit reluctantly. She was avoiding as much as possible even a glance toward the body and the crime scene techs still working.

Definitely a bad thing.

But Trinity was saying, “The church itself has a few stories attached to it, but it’s the old parsonage that’s legendary.”

Deacon was curious, and it showed. “Any particular legend you want to share?”

“Well, there are lots of old stories going back nearly two hundred years. Hard to document those, since not many records exist. But some survive. It’s an official historical building; in the summer, it and the church draw a few tourists if they pick up maps in town showing sites of local interest, or they already know the history of the area. Or if one of those ghost-hunting outfits is in town.”

“You seriously get a lot of those?”

“Usually a few every summer. Occasionally a group comes up here in winter. Deliberately.”

DeMarco guessed, “The legend you have in mind has something to do with a winter event?”

“The most recent one, yes, though it’s not really a legend. I know it actually happened, because it happened about ten years ago. There was a young preacher living in the parsonage with his wife and baby daughter; the church was being restored after decades of not being used for anything except for the local kids to scare each other. The town had put out feelers to see if any preacher was interested. We got one taker, it would have been his first church, and he was due to resume services in the spring.”

“I have a bad feeling about what’s coming,” Hollis said.

Trinity drew a breath and let it out, misting the air. “There were no warning signs anyone saw. They seemed like a . . . very happy little family. They’d lived in the parsonage since just before Christmas. They’d been attending another of our churches until this one was ready for them, so the townsfolk had been getting to know them. Friendly people. Nice people. A couple very much in love.”

“I know I’m going to hate this,” Hollis muttered.

“It was about this time of year, and it had been a bad winter. There was a snowstorm, but not without warning; most people had been able to stock up on supplies so they could shelter in place, especially up here. The young preacher and his wife certainly had; several people had talked to them before the storm hit. The workers for the church had even left one of their generators for the family, in case they lost power.”

“Did they?”

“No. That seldom happens up here, unless there’s a lightning strike. We just got a lot of snow. And nobody got back up here for four days.” Trinity drew a breath. “According to all the evidence, sometime during the early hours of the storm, the young preacher strangled his wife—and then killed their child on the church altar before returning to the parsonage and slitting his own throat.”

“God,” Deacon said.

“I don’t think God was here,” Trinity responded in the same steady tone with which she had related the horrific story. “I don’t think God had been here for a long time.”

“No one was ever able to find out why he did it?” Hollis asked.

“No. He didn’t leave a note or message. And there was no evidence to indicate why it happened. Just that it happened, and how. My father was sheriff then. And that case haunted him the rest of his life.” She frowned slightly, her gaze fixed on Hollis now. “Do you think it could have been this weird energy?”

“I don’t know,” Hollis answered, honest. “Right now, it doesn’t feel . . . dark enough to trigger that sort of horror, but I suppose it could have a cumulative effect. He might have been exceptionally sensitive to electromagnetic fields, to energy. Or maybe the seed of that violence was in him for a long time before he came here. Evil can hide itself. It’s something it does very well.”

After a moment, Trinity nodded. “The case was something of a sensation in the area. And it’s the sort of case, the sort of crime, that people seem drawn to.”

“Tourists and ghost hunters?” DeMarco asked.

“Yeah. A couple of middle-aged sisters with family ties to the place take care of tours if any are needed.”

Seemingly idle, Hollis said, “They’re always in the house together, right? Never just one of them?”

“You’ve got it. I asked once, and both sisters seemed amused by the idea that the parsonage or the church could be haunted. But they’re always together when the place is open, in the parsonage or in the church. And they don’t live together. One’s a widow, the other never married.” She frowned. “Am I offering puzzle pieces or just running my mouth to avoid thinking about poor Barry?”

“About puzzle pieces, we’ll find out by the end, when everything fits into place,” Hollis told her, serious.

“And makes sense?” Trinity asked rather plaintively.

“Well . . . makes whatever sense it can. His sense.”

“The sense of a psychotic killer?”

“Even madmen,” Deacon offered, “have their own mad logic.”

Hollis smiled ruefully. “Anyway, I still feel like we’re being watched, but . . . it’s different somehow. Not a sense of danger, exactly. Just that negative feeling.”
And gleefulness. But I don’t think I want to tell them about that just yet. There’s something scary crazy in that glee.
Despite uncertainty, she adjusted the hem of her jacket so that the gun on her hip remained exposed and easily within reach.

“You said it was getting stronger before. Is it still?” DeMarco was frowning. “Because something’s definitely bugging you,” he added.

“Stop reading me.”

“I’m not. Deliberately. You’re broadcasting, but faintly. I can’t really
not
hear it, Hollis.”

Hollis wondered why she ever bothered to protest. “Yeah, yeah. So, okay, something’s bugging me. Can’t explain, though. It’s more than negative energy—which
is
getting stronger, by the way—or at least different from any I’ve felt before. Not an active danger to us, at least not now, but . . . not right, either. Not natural.”

But familiar. Strangely familiar . . .

“Sheriff?”

Trinity hadn’t heard Douglas approach and hoped she didn’t look as startled as she felt. And that her suddenly sharp anxiety didn’t show.

Is it time?

Shouldn’t I tell them?

Some things have to happen just the way they happen . . .

“What is it, Doug?”

He held out a small plastic evidence bag. “We finally got the duct tape off his mouth. This was inside.”

“Inside his mouth?”

“Yeah.”

Trinity kept her gaze on the bag. “Come back for this a little later, Doug, okay? I want to talk to the agents.”

“Sure.” He returned to his duties.

“My God,” Hollis said, her voice numb. “It’s him. But it can’t be. Unless . . . unless we were right. It is a team. Only now they’re both killing.”

Trinity drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She held her hand out, palm up, the evidence bag holding a small silver cross visible to all four of them.

“I knew Scott’s murder was anything but ordinary right from the beginning. When I found one of these in his mouth.”

DeMarco frowned at her. “We tried to keep it quiet, but I suppose with so many people around those bodies, it could have been leaked at least among law enforcement that we found a cross like that one in the mouths of two of the four girls killed by the mountain serial.”

“That’s not how I knew,” Trinity said. “I recognized it. From another place. And another time.”

“What are you talking about?” Hollis demanded.

“I’m talking about a place in Atlanta, just a little more than three years ago. I’m talking about a cult masquerading as a church, and a very charismatic and very dangerous man who had the ability to . . . brainwash people. Especially women. Especially women who had some psychic ability. Because that’s what he fed off. That’s how he grew powerful, by stealing their power.”

Hollis became aware of her partner’s arm around her and wondered vaguely if he had known or guessed that her knees were about to buckle.

“Samuel,” she said.

Trinity nodded.

“The church . . . it wasn’t in Atlanta,” Hollis said, still numb. “It was in North Carolina. It was near a town called Grace.”
⁴

“His major church was there, yes. The church he always came back to. The one where he planned to make his stand.” Trinity looked deliberately at DeMarco. “But he had churches all over the country. Some with a dozen followers. Some with a hundred. The one in Atlanta was . . . big.”

“Yeah,” DeMarco said. “A hundred and three followers, if I remember correctly. “I never saw the place, but I saw the lists. The numbers. And I knew what Samuel told me.”

“Bet he never mentioned the one that got away.”

Hollis was staring at her. “You?”

Trinity shook her head and looked, finally, at Deacon. “Melanie.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Melanie had a—a kind of emotional breakdown in Atlanta. She was in a hospital when I went down there.”

“Yes,” Trinity said. “That was after we got her out.”

“Out?”

“Out of Samuel’s so-called church. His cult. We had to pretty much kidnap her. Her will was gone; she couldn’t make rational decisions for herself. They had armed guards, for Christ’s sake, keeping everyone in that compound. And—he was draining the life out of her.”

Deacon was staring at Trinity. Evenly, he said, “I think we need to go somewhere and talk. Right now. Because all of this is new to me. And I need to understand.”

Hollis half-lifted a hand. “Same here. Really.”

“Let’s go,” Trinity said.

—

IT WASN’T QUITE
so simple as just leaving. Trinity had to call down for a couple of her toughest and most trustworthy deputies to come up to the church and help her crime scene techs and poor Doc Beeson with the body of Barry Torrance. And have them bring a truck of the appropriate size so that the contraption Barry had died on could be taken, adequately covered, to the securely fenced and guarded compound of garages and other storage facilities set up for the town of Sociable—out near the highway.

Then, after some discussion, the sheriff and her three federal visitors returned to the sheriff’s department, settling down eventually in that very private conference room. With coffee.

It occurred to Hollis only then that they had been in Sociable considerably less than twelve hours.

They hadn’t even unpacked.

“If anybody’s hungry—” Trinity began, unsurprised when all three of the agents simply shook their heads.

She sighed. “No, me, either. The family is having visitation tonight at the funeral home for Scott. And before that, I have to go down into the valley and tell Sophie Matthews about Barry. They were engaged. God, this has been the longest week of my life, and it isn’t even over yet.”

“I want to be sympathetic,” Deacon said, “but . . .”

“Yeah, I know.” Trinity sipped her coffee for a moment, then set the cup down and said, “Okay, quick background first. Cathy Simmons and I grew up here, and after graduating high school, we both attended Georgia Tech in Atlanta. It’s a big school, easy to get lost in, so even though we were taking different classes, we made it a point to have lunch every week, catch up, talk about home if we felt like it.

“Of course we both made new friends, especially in our chosen studies, but we kept those lunch appointments all the way through school. At some point, Cathy told me about Melanie. A new friend, a friend she was worried about. Because Melanie was fragile. And because Melanie was a psychic.”

“Why did she tell you that?” Deacon asked. “It wasn’t something Melanie ever accepted, much less talked about.”

“Cathy was a good friend to Melanie, and eventually Melanie opened up. Cathy told me because she knew I was very . . . accepting . . . of psychic abilities.”

“How’d she know that?” Hollis asked.

“We grew up together, remember? We knew each other’s secrets. So I knew that Cathy sometimes had dreams about things that came true. Over the years she had a lot of those dreams, and I was convinced very young that she had a gift. By the time we were in college and I was planning to be a cop, I was advising her to be . . . discreet. Like any other talent, psychic abilities could be exploited. She knew that; she has a lot of common sense.”

“And Melanie didn’t,” Deacon said.

“It wasn’t a matter of common sense, not for Melanie. She was emotionally fragile, vulnerable. She had abilities that frightened her. She was going to be a target. It was only a matter of time.”

“So Cathy—what?—became her watchdog?”

“Cathy continued to be her friend. They were both studying banking and finance. They had hobbies and other interests in common. So they spent a lot of time together. When we all finished college, we also stayed in Atlanta. Me to be a cop, and the two of them to work at the same large investment firm.”

Trinity shook her head slightly. “Life happens, and you get busy. The lunches gradually tapered off, and finally weeks and then months would go by between phone calls and even e-mails. We lost touch. Our lives went in different directions. Before I knew it, years had passed, and I was thinking about coming back here and being a different kind of cop.

“It was then, about three and a half years ago, that Cathy got back in touch. She had actually come back home a year or so before that, deciding to settle here among family and friends. She told me she had believed Melanie was going to be just fine, that she had a job she enjoyed, a man in her life, that she seemed to have come to terms with her abilities.”

Deacon made a rough sound. “Yeah, by pretending they didn’t exist.”

“Well, apparently she thought of it as control. But, of course, it was only an illusion. And there were people out there who could see through it. And did. Within a few months, Cathy realized that Melanie was . . . different. She said she was fine, but she managed to avoid several planned meetings over the next few months.

“And then, suddenly, she just wasn’t there. She had quit her job, moved out of her apartment—and vanished. All Cathy had to go on was the vague memory of a name. Samuel. So she called me, asked if I’d look for Melanie.”

“How’d you find her?” DeMarco asked.

“Legwork, mostly. I talked to some of her former neighbors and former coworkers and learned that a number of them had been worried about Melanie. They’d seen other women with her, coming and going, almost secretively, their expressions guarded. Then someone remembered the mention of a church.”

“And from that, you found Samuel?” DeMarco shook his head. “You’re good. That was one church that never advertised, never had a phone number, was never listed anywhere.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t easy. But I found it. And it didn’t take a cop’s nose to recognize the smell of a cult. Problem was, finding the place was only the first step. The real trick was going to be getting her out of there. And before
that
, the trick would be just getting in. I didn’t know enough about the setup to believe I could fake being a convert to get through the gates.

“I got back in touch with Cathy, told her what I’d found. What I knew damned well that place was. And she gave me a name. Someone who she said would help me.”

Hollis stared at her for a moment, her mouth open, and then she said, “Don’t tell me . . .”

“Yeah. Bishop.”

—

“ALL I’M SAYING
is that you might have dropped by to say hello before . . . diving in.” Melanie’s voice was a little tight despite all her efforts to keep it relaxed.

Deacon kept his walls up and made sure they were as strong as he could make them; picking up his sister’s emotions had always been the easiest thing in the world for him to do—and had caused friction between the two since childhood. And since he now knew a lot more about her life in recent years than she would be at all happy about, he intended to play his cards very close to the vest.

“That was the plan,” he repeated patiently. “I just stopped for a cup of coffee after the drive, figuring I’d come to the bank around lunchtime, when you could take a break. I didn’t expect to meet Trinity, and I damned sure didn’t expect two more SCU agents—and another murder victim.”

“Quite a first day in Sociable you’re having,” she muttered.

Deacon leaned back in her visitor’s chair, glad the office door was closed. “Yeah, it’s been peachy. Believe it or not, a peaceful lunch with you would have been my preference.” Despite all his efforts, that statement was a grim one.

After a moment, Melanie grimaced. “I know Trinity did everything possible to hide the scene, but it’s already all over town that Barry was . . . horribly mutilated.”

Man, talk about setting a land speed record.

It had been hardly more than three hours since Barry Torrance’s body had been found—and quickly hidden from view in case someone got curious—and a bare half hour since his body had been taken to the town’s one medical clinic—in a black hearse and by way of back streets.

“You knew him?”

“It’s a small town, Deacon, and from what I’ve been able to gather, most years the graduating class of East Crystal High moves on to college or finds jobs that take them away from here—and they seldom come back. Maybe one or two kids graduating each year hang around, for a few years or for good, serving coffee or waiting tables or working on one of the farms or ranches.”

“But most leave.”

“Not many opportunities here, especially for stable long-term employment, much less a career. The valley below is farm and ranch land, all owned by fourth- or fifth-generation family operations. The farms and ranches help support the town, but as you’ve seen for yourself, there isn’t a whole lot of room—literally—for the town to expand. And even less property any new business would find attractive, especially with national forest topping this mountain and several others in the area.”

And with a very, very weird energy zone over part of this town to boot.

Melanie shrugged. “Sociable is a very small town perched precariously on the side of a mountain, fairly remote and isolated in more ways than one. It is what it is. Before this maniac started killing people, it was a nice, peaceful place to live. Beautiful scenery, friendly people, enough diversity of opinion to keep conversation interesting, and enough entertainment options to keep most of us from getting too bored.”

Deacon frowned. “You’ve been here—what? About three years?”

“Almost exactly. And I’m a very rare bird, being a newcomer; not many strangers move here to live, though a few retirees have settled here since I came. I wasn’t happy at the bank in Atlanta—not happy in Atlanta, really—and when a friend from college visited and told me there was an opening at a bank in her hometown, I came here to check it out. It felt . . . right. From the moment I got here. So I took the job, and I stayed.”

Deacon wished he could tell her he knew the truth, but after the conversation with the others, he had most certainly been convinced that it would not be in Melanie’s best interests to say or do anything to disturb the careful “tapestry” of protective memories and experiences that Bishop’s empathic healer had woven into his sister’s very fragile psyche.