Guilty by Association (Judah Black Novels) (13 page)

He went on sobbing but something clicked in my brain. Neither the Garcias nor the Greenlees had been in the process of legitimizing their childrens' parentage. The process was long, hard and expensive. If Donald was telling the truth, there was plenty of paperwork to prove that Marian existed, even if it was pending in a federal database. That meant one of two things: either the kidnapper-killer had made a grave mistake and changed his M.O. or he'd panicked and gotten sloppy.

“How long has Marian been missing, Mr. Summers?”

“Six days.” Donald stopped sobbing and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Are you here to...to kill me?”

“Why should anyone want to kill you?”

He set stormy gray eyes on me and answered in a dark tone, “Why should anyone want to kill my little girl? My beautiful, perfect Marian...Why not me? If you're here to do it, then get on with it. My wife will be back soon. I don't want her to see.”

There was a sort of dry courage to the way he said it, even though his voice wavered. Still, he acted relieved when I announced, “I'm not here to kill you. I'm looking into the disappearances, discreetly, of course. Do you have any dealings with the local werewolf pack, Mr. Summers?”

He wrinkled his nose at that. “Not if I can help it. It's them and the fanged ones that got us into this mess, making the world aware of us like that to save their skins. And for what? To avoid prosecution for some high profile murder case? We'd still be living the good life if not for them. I used to be a professor, you know. Texas A and M. I lost everything coming public. No. I avoid them.”

So much for easy connections
, I thought and moved on to the next line of questioning. If there wasn't an obvious connection between Elias and the missing kids, maybe there was something else. “What'd you teach?”

“Folklore of the Americas. Specifically, my research focused on the fantastical beasts of the Native American tribes.” As he spoke, he shifted from the broken father to a professional educator, confident in his work.

“Like skinwalkers and wendigos and stuff?”

“Aye. Specifically, the wendigo. A real monster, that one. Eats his prey, gorges himself on the flesh of his victims. Worst part is, he doesn't eat them right away. No, he only comes above ground every thirty years or so and gathers his crop of flesh, drags them back to his lair where he fattens them up over the course of three decades, feeding on them slowly, bit by bit.” Donald sounded almost excited, talking about his work, even as unsavory as it was.

I grimaced. “Don't think I'd want to meet one of those in a dark alley.”

“Oh,” Donald chuckled and wiped at his nose. “They prefer the cold climate and the dark of caves. You're not likely to meet one about these parts. Though they say you shouldn't even speak the beasts' name because it draws its attention. I've been lecturing on the w
endigo for near three decades now in all parts of North America and not seen a one. I'm sure they're just a story, lass. Still, BSI seized all my research when I came public.” He'd lost all his confidence in that speech and gone back to being sad. “But you're not interested in my research, lass, are you?”

I shook my head. No, that wasn't any sort of connection at least, not so far as I knew. “Are you religious, Mr. Summers?”

He frowned. I could tell he was considering not answering me at all and I didn't blame him. It was a pretty personal question. “My wife is. A good Catholic, she is. Teagan insisted that Marian be baptized. I still have that little white dress. God help me, I don't have a birth certificate but I have her fecking dress.” He collapsed back into tears.

Catholic. That hit a button in my brain. Sal had mentioned that Elias may have confided in a priest.

“Just one more question. Who knew you had a daughter? Were you secretive at all about her?”

Donald Summers stared straight through me, sorrow working at the corners of his eyes. “We even had the baptism in secret. Hardly anybody knew. Me, Teagan, the priest, the pretty young thing from BSI that interviewed us...”

“Wait, someone from BSI interviewed you?” Donald nodded hesitantly. “Why?”

He blinked. “Marian’s registration paperwork. She was the one assigned to our case.”

“What did she look like?”

He thought for a minute, rifling his fingers through his hair. “Um...Tall. Dark hair, very impeccably dressed. I don't remember many details about her, now that you mention it. I do remember that she had this beautiful white Jag.”

I narrowed my eyes. I'd seen a white Jaguar in Sal's driveway the day before. This couldn't possibly be the same car, could it? If it was, how did that even make sense? That woman couldn't even stand up to Sal. She was practically a twig. She couldn't have killed Elias, not some little thing like that. Besides, the voice I'd heard in my vision was decidedly male. Still, I made a mental note to get more information about the woman and match her name to the registration of said white Jaguar.

“You wouldn't happen to remember the plates on the car? Even a partial would help?”

Donald shook his head. “Sorry.” He hesitated and then added. “You're not going to start pulling our files? Agent Black, there are other missing kids that haven't come home. They don't even have bodies to bury. If you go asking about...”

I smiled. “I gave you my word. No one will know I was here.”

It took some doing but I finally convinced him to let me have a look at the nursery, which he insisted no one had touched since Marian went missing. There was a white bassinet with a pretty pink blanket and a mobile of spinning pixies. A changing station stood next to that and piled in the corner were more toys than any kid could possibly play with. Everything was neat and tidy, as if Marian and her mother had just stepped out for a few hours to do the shopping.

“What are you going to do?” Donald asked from the doorway as I stepped into the center of the room.

I didn't answer him at first. I just closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. Maybe there would still be some residual energy left that I could track. Maybe Marian had been scared enough to leave a faint Impression like I'd found at Elias' murder scene. That would be gold for the investigation, right there. I couldn't be that lucky. The only thing I could feel was the Summers' distress. It had seeped into the walls, dark and black and desperate.

I lowered my hands and let out a breath. “Mr. Summers, do you have any idea who might have taken your daughter? Did anyone have a key?”

“We're fae, lass,” he said solemnly. “We guard our threshold something fierce. If something had come across it at night, we would have known. No. Nothing came and nothing went through the doors or through the windows.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked turning to him. Donald walked over to the window behind the bassinet and waved a hand in front of it. A nauseating wave of power flowed through the room as little white sigils appeared on the glass. “The windows and doors are warded,” I noted. “And no one but you two knows how to get through the wards?”

“Aye. Any fool who tried would be in for the shock of a lifetime. That and we'd know. My Marian just disappeared.”

Tindall's theory that the parents had each harmed their own children was possible, though I doubted it. The evidence was there to support such a case, if someone wanted to make it, though. A decade ago, that's exactly how something like this would have been handled. I didn't buy it, especially given how distraught Donald was. Still, I couldn't rule it out as a possibility, however grim a possibility it was.

“Mr. Summers,” I said after a sigh. “Statistically speaking, most children are kidnapped by people they know. In fact, most violent crimes are committed by relatives. That's why the police always interview family members first.” He didn't answer me. He just stayed by the bassinet, staring down at it sadly. “Is there any chance that your wife...”

Donald Summers turned on me, his eyes gleaming with supernatural rage. He pointed toward the door and snarled, “Out!”

“It's a standard question,” I protested. “I'm just covering bases.”

“I said
get out
!”

I made a beeline for the door, stumbling out into the afternoon heat. When he slammed it closed it behind me, I heard no less than three locks click shut and felt a nauseating wave of power, probably as he warded the door on top of everything else. Donald Summers wasn't cooking with any serious magick but he wanted to make it clear that he could take me out in a dark alley if he needed to.
Message received
, I thought and trudged back to my car.

I drove over to the address I had for the Garcias and knocked on their door but no one answered. There were two cars in the driveway but their tires were off and one was jacked up so I assumed no one was home. After scribbling a note on some scrap paper I had and sticking it inside the storm door, I got back in my car and drove over to Paint Rock's only church at the edge of town.

The pristine white siding of the small church gave it away as one of the reservation's newest buildings. It had a steeple, a cross and all the other fixings of a church, including a small, fenced in graveyard with just a few stones. I parked the truck in the parking lot next to a white VW Passat and gathered myself for what I knew was going to be a taxing trip.

Churches, mosques, temples and the like all have their own special energy. The ground they stand on is blessed or better known as Holy Ground. That doesn't necessarily mean that dark things like vampires and sorcerers will burst into flame when they set foot there. That silliness is reserved for the movies. What it does mean is that it's much more difficult for them to cause trouble and use their own magick inside the bounds of Holy Ground. When I was much younger, I got dragged to church with my family. I never liked the way the place made me feel, even though the pastor and the congregation were all friendly and decent folk. It made my skin crawl. It wasn't until later, when I learned I could use magick, that I knew why. That uneasy feeling was my energy rubbing up against the energy of the church, creating a kind of magick static. If you've ever rubbed a balloon on your head, you know the feeling. It's uncomfortable but not unbearable.

Not that I liked going to church. I hadn't been back since I turned eighteen. I have nothing against it. There are some fine people of faith in the world. The problem with me arises when people fail to make that distinction between religion and faith. I didn't feel I needed either. As long as the Church kept its distance, I kept mine.

I opened my door and stepped out. The energy of the church swirled up around my ankles and enveloped me in a nice static cocoon and I walked up to the front door. It was open and I could hear music inside so I let myself in. The sanctuary was a humble place with rows of pews and little hymnals tucked into the back of them. I slipped into one of the pews in the back and crossed one leg over the other, listening as the local priest on the stage pounded out a song on a beat up piano. He was a capable pianist but I didn't think he had the concert flare in him. His baritone vocals were decent, though I couldn't hear him too well from the back of the church. It took me nearly a full verse to realize what he was playing and smiled to myself.

When he finished and I clapped, he looked up, startled. Then, he gave a slight smile that almost masked the slight flush in his face before standing. He was a good looking man, definitely not the kind the Vatican put on their recruiting posters, though. They've always preferred a gentler, more innocent looking and even boyish kind. Father Reed wasn't any of those things. I'd pulled his file that morning. It contained about what I expected to find: absolutely nothing of consequence, not even a speeding ticket. No one was that perfect. This man of God, despite his perfect hair, perfect smile, broad shoulders and perfectly proportioned nose, may have been the most dangerous person on the entire reservation.

“I didn't realize you were sitting there,” he said and rose. “I apologize.”

“Not at all,” I said, standing and walking casually down the aisle to meet him. “Though a church is the last place I'd expect to hear something by Kansas.”

“I will sing to the Lord as long as I live. I will sing praises to my God as long as I have being,” he quoted with a smile. “I'm a firm believer that there is more than one way to raise one's voice in praise.” He extended a hand to me and I took it. “Father Gideon Reed. You must be Judah Black.”

I noted that he left off my title and emphasized his, his way of letting me know that I was in his territory and that he intended to hold on to the upper hand. Or, maybe it was an honest mistake, but I doubted it. This guy was a minister to supernaturals. In his time, he'd have acquired some of the same tricks I was learning, such as establishing dominance from the get-go. The way he'd gripped my hand, putting his fully around mine, spoke volumes but it didn't have to mute me. His smile faded when I let a little jolt of power slip through my hand and into his. Then, he smirked and let me go. We didn't talk about it but the look on his face said he was pleased.

“News travels fast,” I noted. “Seems everyone knows who I am before I get there these days.”

“Well, in a town the size of Paint Rock, a new presence is difficult to keep secret. Add the fact that this is a reservation full of supernaturals and you can see how things get around quickly.” He gestured to the front pew. “Actually, I was hoping you'd come and speak to me.”

“Really? Have anything to do with Elias Garcia?” I sat down on the pew but only after he sat first.

“Elias was a troubled man,” said the father with a deep sigh. “He didn't come to me often but he and his brother have both been present at one time or another in my congregation. As I understand it, some members of their pack objected to their regular attendance. I expect you're already aware of that.” He glanced around, as if he were waiting for a third party to speak. “I wanted to ask you about your house, Agent Black.”