Exorcized (Episode Five: The Nightshade Cases) Page 3

  Shivering to herself and hating her nervousness, she slipped through the glass doors into the sun room and kept her head down, hurrying on fast feet toward the big wood door leading to the interior of the house. There were so many times she wished she had Gerri’s courage, times she managed to tap her inner bitch thanks to her example. But Kinsey spent too many years under the thumb of her overbearing grandmother, being criticized and belittled, to completely break out of her shell just yet.

  But, she was working on it, damn it.

  The sound of voices from the next room first hurried her feet, then slowed them. Kinsey’s curiosity was always at war with her politeness. Pausing at the familiar timber of Simone’s speech pattern, she half-turned toward the interior of the house, only to catch Julian’s low, deep answer.

  No way was she purposely putting herself into the line of fire. Kinsey spun on the toe of her sandal, already focused on getting through the door, when she heard her name.

  That stopped her once again. Breathless, heart pounding and against her better judgment, Kinsey eased away from the relative safety of the back hall and the lab and crept down the path through the heavy greenery toward the study door. Glass arched over her head, butterflies wafting through the fragrant indoor garden, but she ignored the beauty of the place as she drew close enough to hear.

  “—wasting your time with her.” Julian sounded less angry and more plaintive. Funny how he always seemed to defer to Simone. Kinsey found it odd. Wasn’t this his house?

  “Just do as you’re told,” Simone answered. Kinsey couldn’t see past the giant waving fronds of the fern in front of her, instead turning sideways and cocking her head to catch the conversation. A thrill of nervousness she was eavesdropping on her patron made her feel oddly giddy. “And leave Kinsey to me. She’s far more important to me than you will ever be. Don’t forget that, Julian.”

  She was? Kinsey drew a sharp breath. And why was that, now?

  “Ahem.” She spun with a little shriek of fright, hands pressed to her chest, eyes huge as she found the butler, Clarence, glaring at her. He might have been slight and older, with the kind of face that whispered of too much cosmetic work done, but he had a way of making Kinsey feel uncomfortable and ill at ease.

  “Ms. DanAllart.” He said her name loudly enough surely Simone and Julian heard him in the next room. Kinsey winced, the clicking sound of approaching heels triggering her anxiety. But, when she turned with a small, apologetic smile to explain her skulking to Simone, the woman beamed in return and embraced her.

  “Kinsey, how delightful. That will be all, Clarence.” Simone guided Kinsey through the foliage and into the study where Julian stood with his seemingly ever-present glass of scotch in one hand. He glared and Kinsey ignored him while Simone seated her on the sofa, sliding down to the leather next to the blonde anthropologist.

  “Thank you, Julian,” Simone said, wiggling her fingers in his direction. “I’ll see you later, then.”

  He grumbled something Kinsey couldn’t make out before downing his amber drink and slamming the glass on the stone table. Simone continued to smile, ruby lips curved perfectly, black eyes shining in welcome as though she had no idea—nor did she care—the owner of the house was irritated with Kinsey’s presence.

  “You’ve been working so hard,” Simone said, one hand patting Kinsey’s knee, long nails sliding over the denim of her jeans and making her shiver. “We haven’t had much time to talk lately.”

  Kinsey hugged her laptop bag to her chest and tried to relax. Simone had only ever been kind to her, despite the fact the woman was connected to the Collective of All Souls. And had the same ability to nudge the thoughts of others Kinsey seemed to possess. Still, she’d done nothing to make Kinsey feel uncomfortable or to suggest she wished her ill. Quite the contrary. Yes, Gerri didn’t trust her and working for Simone meant Kinsey was unable to help Gerri in her cases thanks to that dick Jackson and the equally dicky Julian Black.

  Simone needed better taste in boyfriends.

  “I’ve been busy,” Kinsey said. “The translations are slow, but going well.” That was a lie. She was learning more and more with every visit, sneaking out the odd photo to study at home though Simone originally told her not to. There was no contract, no confidentiality agreement, just her word. Which, Kinsey felt bad breaking. Not that she shared what she discovered with anyone but Ray and Gerri, when the detective would listen. Which meant nothing concrete to this point.

  “I know it.” Simone leaned back, crossing her elegant legs, arms stretched over the back of the leather couch. “You work too hard, my friend. There are more things to life than just discovering answers to mysteries.”

  Kinsey didn’t know what to say to that, suddenly nervous. She had the impression from time to time Simone wanted more from her. And the woman was exquisitely attractive. But, every time Kinsey felt like her patron was hitting on her, Simone shattered that illusion of physical allure.

  Case in point. “Have you given further thought to my offer?” Simone leaned forward, sipping from a tall glass of what could have been water or straight vodka for all Kinsey knew. Condensation dripped down the slim flute and onto the glass top of the table.

  Offer? “The Collective?” The squeak in her voice made her angry. “A meeting, you mean?” Way to stumble over every single thing that came out of her mouth.

  But, Simone just laughed, soft and kind. “Exactly,” she said, setting down her drink. “I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you, my dear. I just know you’d love our little group. Like minds. It’s wonderful to find those who think like you do, who care about the things you care about.” Simone closed the distance between them, fingertips resting on Kinsey’s knee. “Don’t you agree?”

  The blonde cleared her throat before leaping to her feet, suddenly uncomfortable after all. “I should get to work.” She lunged for the door, not noticing if Simone followed and not caring. It wasn’t until she was safely behind the door to the lab, her laptop bag still clutched against her, Kinsey let out a little giggle of hysteria.

  What the hell was that all about? Part of her wanted to tell Simone no way, to quit this job like Gerri wanted her to and just go it alone. Kinsey had enough information now she could work out things on her own, uncover the paranormal connections she needed without the artifacts. And yet, part of her wondered what Simone really had to offer. If the Collective could hand her all the answers she was digging so hard for. And what those answers might mean for her.

  Kinsey exhaled long and heavy before heading for her desk at the far end of the lab. Red lights winked at her, the glass cases housing the artifacts all locked and alarmed. Simone took no chances and Kinsey wasn’t allowed to handle the objects, just examine them from behind glass. Considering they were the property of the Collective, she understood. And she didn’t need to touch them to do her work.

  Still, there was something so unique about their creation that made Kinsey drool for the chance to hold them, one at a time. Run her hands over their flawless surfaces. She’d only ever touched one, the first day Simone invited here. And the incredible experience still lingered.

  Kinsey settled in to do some research, planning to hit the cathedral and talk to the young priest later that afternoon. She’d been puzzling over a particular strip of symbols and thought she might have a clue to uncovering their meaning.

  Lost in her work, she didn’t hear her phone vibrate, nor notice it was her grandmother calling.

  ***

  INT. – 9th PRECINCT – NOON

  Gerri handed over a cup of steaming coffee to the rigid-backed man while his wife clung to the handsome kid between them. It didn’t take her long to realize the boy had some kind of disability. Though he appeared perfectly normal and healthy, his inability to meet her gaze and the steady, rhythmic rocking of his upper body as he sat staring at the wall told her he was likely autistic.

  “Curtis has Asperger's syndrome,” his mother said when Gerri asked. “While his sy
mptoms are usually mild, he’s made excellent progress the last year or so since he started working with Father Harry.” She choked on the words, her distress turned toward her husband whose scowl was befitting her own father, retired police Sargent Dutch Meyers. So, either cop or military. She guessed Army, or more likely a Marine with a careful crew cut like his, when Gordon Truman spoke.

  “We trusted our son to the care of Father Harry and his special needs program.” Gerri had known a few Marines in her time, was used to their refusal to show emotion. But it was a testament to how much he really loved his son Truman actually had tears in his eyes. “Curtis won’t tell us when something is wrong, not usually. And my wife is right. He’s been better lately, more responsive, calling us by name, less obsessed with numbers and facts.” Truman looked down at the mug gripped tightly in his hands. “When he reverted to his old behaviors a week ago, we were disappointed, but hardly surprised. Curtis is our only child and we love him, no matter what.” Gerri had little doubt of that. Such fierce protectiveness. She knew the feeling. “I was bathing Curtis two nights ago and noticed he had some redness.” He winced. “Down there.” Maryanne Truman began to weep. “Neither of us thought anything of it until after we heard about Father Harry this morning. That was when I knew I’d failed my boy.” He looked up at last, tears trickling down his cheeks. “We just came from the hospital. The doctors confirmed he’d been raped, Detective. My son was raped. And that bastard priest did it.”

  Gerri drew a slow breath, giving Truman a chance to wipe at the tears on his face, to calm himself before she spoke. “You have proof it was Father Schaefer?”

  “Who else could it be?” Maryanne’s hands clutched protectively at her son who hummed loudly as he rocked, her distress amplifying his. “We know whoever killed him accused Father Harry of pedophilia.” How did word get around? “That you’ve been asking those questions.” The Richards? They seemed so adamant about the fact Father Schaefer wasn’t an abuser, why would they stir such trouble? “The news lady who came to our door this morning told us everything.”

  News… damn it. Gerri’s jaw jumped, she couldn’t help it. The news vans parked outside the house, of course. She usually ignored them. Just her luck, one of them either overheard some of the unis talking about the pedophilia or, had somehow gotten a glimpse of the crime scene and could read Aramaic.

  “What news lady?” Gerri would track her down and wring her neck.

  “Kara Tremaine,” Truman said. “Channel 8.” He fumbled at his jacket pocket, handed her a card with the familiar smiling face of a blonde who was now on Gerri’s shit list beaming up at her. “It’s true. Don’t try to deny it.”

  She’d made no mention in her questions about the abuse. She must have somehow gotten to the Richards.

  “We’re both faithful Catholics,” Maryanne said, soft and with deep hurt. “We know of the rumors about abuse in the church.” Gerri didn’t comment they were proven cases, not just rumors. That countless priests had been charged, apologies issued from the Pope himself. “But we had no idea we were putting our son at risk. We thought we were helping him.” She broke down into tears, sobbing into Curtis’s shoulder while her son’s humming amplified into a high-pitched whine, his rocking increasing in speed and violence.

  There, of course, was the rub. They trusted the church, the priest. And, Curtis Truman was raped. But, was it Father Schaefer?

  “Curtis.” Gerri knew the odds of the young man communicating with her were slim to none in this condition, but she had to try. “Curtis, can you tell me who hurt you?”

  Gordon Truman looked away, throat working, while Maryanne pulled herself together, fingers dipping into her purse and pulling out a folded piece of paper.

  “He’s been drawing this for days,” she whispered, hoarse from her tears. “We didn’t know if it was something he was watching on television or not, but it might be connected.”

  Gerri unfolded the page and stared down at the demon mask the boy had drawn, a shiver racing through her. Her mind leaped to the exorcism Father Schaefer had been performing. “Did Curtis know James Richards?”

  “Yes, of course.” Maryanne sniffed. “They were in the same disabilities group at church.”

  Of course they were. “I have to ask,” she said as gently as she could. “For my paperwork. Where were you last night, Mr. and Mrs. Truman?”

  Maryanne gasped, shaking, but Gordon shook his head. “I spent enough time in the Marine Corps to understand you have to ask, Detective,” he said. “But I damned well don’t have to like it.” His flinty eyes glared at her, all his tears gone. “We were home together, as a family, all night. We ordered pizza from Lorenzo’s on Waveneath Avenue. Curtis went to bed at eight and Maryanne and I a little after ten.”

  She hated when they alibied each other. But, her gut sighed sadly, without even a hiccup of challenge. Still, the father wasn’t the forgiving type. Ex-Marine, if he found out his son was being abused, he could very well have slipped over to the Richards’s house and killed Father Schaefer. She’d call the pizza place, to add to his timeline.

  Gerri stood, going for the door, opening it for them. Gordon Truman looked like he wanted to argue with her, to stay until the truth came out, but he finally stood, one arm around his wife, his son pressed between them.

  “I’ll do everything I can to find out what happened.” Gerri shook his hand, firm and comforting, meeting his eyes on level. He nodded brusquely before leading his family away. Gerri sighed out her disgust at the entire situation as she leaned her tall body against the door jam and did her best not to let her nausea win.

  A special group for kids with disabilities. And now one was in the hospital, one confirmed raped and the priest who spearheaded the program dead, genitals cut off with a saw, accused of pedophilia.

  Her day just couldn’t get any better.

  ***

  ***

  INT. – SILVER CITY MORGUE – AFTERNOON

  Ray peeled off her gloves as Robert finished making his notations, setting aside his clipboard with a grin on his face.

  “Did I do all right?” So funny, how eager he was to please her. As much as Ray adored her slim Asian assistant, she knew his soft bout of hero worship was wildly misplaced.

  “You were rubbish,” she said with a British sniff. “I expect better next time.” His face fell an instant before he laughed.

  “I have no idea why I even like you,” he said, turning his back on her, heading for the computer to log their findings. Ray winked at him regardless he missed it, pulling her magnifying glass down to take a closer look at the remains of Father Schaefer’s manhood. Whoever did the job was thorough, cutting close to the skin. From the stretching of the epidermis, the murderer pulled taut the penis and scrotal sac before sawing at the flesh. She could detect no hesitation marks, though it was possible they could have appeared on the part of the priest gone missing. Binks and his team had been unable to locate the rest of Father Schaefer. A trophy? She’d leave that question to Gerri.

  “Excellent prep,” Ray said, appeasing Robert’s need for an ego stroke. “Thank you, you marvelous creature, you.”

  “Dr. Ray,” he said, “you say the nicest things.”

  The swinging doors sighed as Gerri stomped her booted way through, heading right for Ray’s exam table. She felt her insides tighten in anxiety as the redhead came to a halt with her hands on her hips.

  Cop stance. Bloody brilliant.

  “Missed you at the crime scene this morning.” Gerri’s tone was light enough, but Ray knew her far too well. She could fish all she wanted. Ray was not going to admit to her detective friend the reason Druit had covered her was because Ray was in bed with her girlfriend.

  Or, maybe girlfriend. She still didn’t know for sure. They were taking things slow. And yet, it felt to Ray as though her heart were hurtling forward at lightning speed.

  “There’s something you should see.” Ray gestured for Gerri to follow her, caught the flicker of irritation
on the detective’s face. Hopefully this anomaly would be enough to distract Gerri from Ray’s absence.

  The moment the redhead caught sight of the bottom of the priest’s feet, she swore, all of her attention shifted to the pale green scaling covering his soles. Ray couldn’t help but grin at her reaction, patting her hand as Gerri gaped.

  “Weird?” There was a plaintive quality to the detective’s voice that made things even better. For one of the only times she could remember, Ray felt in control of the situation, Gerri looking to her completely for answers. She liked the feeling.

  “Possibly.” Neither of them had to mention the night Gerri’s first Silver City partner, Detective Joe Mutch, was killed by a junkie in the park. The same night his body was dragged into the lake by something the two of them refused to talk about. Something green and scaled with human eyes. Ray could sense Gerri’s nervousness, watched her lick her lips, how the detective shifted from foot to foot, fingers flexing on her hips. Ray stared at the priest’s feet. “But probably not.”

  Gerri’s exhale was gratifying. “There’s a logical explanation?”

  “It’s called ichthyosis, Detective.” Robert crossed to them, handing Ray the priest’s chart. “Or, a form of that disease. It cracks the dermal layer, appears like fish scales. Though, from what I can find, the pigment alteration isn’t common, nor is such localized effect.”

  Ray wasn’t so sure the drying disease that typically attacked the entire human body was the answer. But, if a logical explanation seemed the most probable, she’d take it. Good thing Kinsey wasn’t here. She’d be vibrating paranormal.

  “Regardless,” she said, “his condition had nothing to do with his death. Father Schaefer died of heart failure while having his penis and testicles forcibly removed. It’s likely he had a prior condition and the stress of the attack triggered an overdose of adrenaline that caused a spasm in the muscle.” She’d have to do an autopsy to prove it, since she couldn’t see his death. So odd for her. By and large, she could simply look at a person—living or dead—and see exactly what killed them. But, lately, the talent she had for such things seemed to be failing her. Since she hated the ability, Ray could only hope it was finally leaving her.