The Redeemed (2 page)

“And that is?”

“You’re not sure why you’re here?” Sarah asked.

She detected Parkman adjust himself from one foot to the other behind her. No one else moved. Detective Hirst and his men were quiet in the Father’s presence, as if a man of God held divine powers of some kind over humans. Sarah held the utmost respect for belief systems and faith, and was quite a spiritual person herself, but organized religion had never enticed her.

Father Adams’ head lowered. He studied the body at his feet. A moment later he crouched down and took a closer look.

“This appears to be the body of Father Alvin. He wasn’t seen at his church today. I worried you would locate another body soon.” Adams got to his feet. “Locating the head would allow for certainty, but this is most surely Father Alvin. I saw him two days ago. He wore these same pants.”

“How can you be so certain?” Sarah asked.

Detective Hirst shot her a cautious glance. All it did was make her want to ask more questions. Wasn’t that what she was here for? Don’t ask Parkman to bring her along as a favor, then when she shows up, try to quell her.

“Father Alvin doesn’t shirk his responsibilities. His commitment to the church is quite sound. Missing from his church all day isn’t a habit of his.”

Sarah turned and hobbled away on the one crutch. Behind her, she heard Father Adams ask, “Detective Hirst, who was that girl?”

“Her name is Sarah Roberts. I asked her to join us.”

“And why is that?” Adams asked.

“She has a certain insight into these kinds of things.”

Then she was too far away to discern anything more other than the sound of their voices.

“What was that all about?” Parkman asked as he caught up to her. “It almost sounded like you were challenging the guy.”

“I don’t trust him,” Sarah said as she slowed down to catch her breath. Walking with a crutch was hard on the uneven ground.

“Who do you trust?” Parkman asked, his voice lined with sarcasm.

“Exactly.”

They got back to their rental car, where Sarah inserted her crutch through the open back window and dropped into the passenger seat. Parkman walked around and got in behind the wheel.

“Why does trust have to come into it when dealing with a priest?” Parkman asked. “As a man of God, aren’t we all supposed to respect them, trust them?”

“You’re right. What is there to trust about a priest? All I know about their religion is what I’ve seen on TV, like the horrific molestations. It isn’t fair to judge them all based on that, though.”

Parkman started the car. “Coffee?”

She shook her head and stared out the window at the men gathered in the dark. Father Adams had broken away from the group and was making his way back to his car. “No, it’ll keep me awake. I want wine, and then my bed. Research tomorrow. We’ve got two days until another priest is murdered based on the going rate. Unless Vivian gives me something soon, Hirst will ask us to leave in a couple of days since we’re not helping.”

Parkman pulled away from the curb as other vehicles showed up. “I’d agree with you on that.”

“But there’s something else.”

“What’s that?” Parkman asked.

“Why didn’t Hirst tell Father Adams that the cross in this victim’s chest had the name Alvin scratched into it?”

“Father Adams is the liaison to the church. Coming out tonight was a formality. They always need someone to identify the body.”

“Fair enough, but something isn’t adding up.”

“What isn’t adding up?”

“No idea, but I intend to find out.”

Chapter 2

Mike sat in his car, the engine idling. It was an old car, one with an operational cigarette lighter and a cassette deck. He popped the lighter out and lit his cigarette, puffed hard, pulled the smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled.

He grabbed the camera from the passenger seat, made sure the settings were right for the night shot without a flash, and snapped a couple of pics of the retreating car with the woman on the crutch and her male companion. He would locate her again and get a proper picture of her face. Something for his collection.

You were either in the holy camp or the unholy camp in his opinion. No one could be a part of both. Good people died and went to Heaven. Unholy people died and went to Hell. Just as the Rapture would snatch good people up in the glory of Heaven, so would he snatch unholy, evil people to the depths of Hell. One day he would sit next to Satan.

Mike was the chosen one and only he knew it.

It was a fine line, though. He took pleasure in killing priests who had hurt children. The pleasure was a gift as everything unholy grew contrary to pleasure. Only the true God of Hell could take pleasure in the burning of souls.

Mike turned the car on when officers noticed him parked on the side of the road. Two men in uniforms walked toward him.

When Mike talked to Lucifer, he was promised a seat to the right of the Lord of the Flames if he could deliver the souls of God’s representatives. That was what he intended to do for as long as he could. And anyone who attempted to stop him would die. The stupid girl and her friend just went on his picture board. A dozen years from now, the murders of Catholic priests would be nothing but a memory for the city of angels. But the murder of a girl on one crutch would be forgotten within a month.

He pulled away from the curb and performed a U-turn, passed the Presbyterian church and headed downhill. The officers stopped walking, hesitated a moment and turned back. They would probably assume he was a reporter who chickened out on getting the money shot because he didn’t have a media badge or had decided that seeing the dead body would haunt his dreams.

Didn’t matter. He got the shot he needed.

Next time he would snap a photo of that priest, Father Adams.

He couldn’t imagine Adams was his real name. Who could be that high up in the Catholic Church and share the name of that man from the Garden of Eden? What are the odds?

He smiled to himself in the rearview mirror. It was no different than the name of his girlfriend.

Evelyn Wynn.

He called her Eve.

As her personal apple, he tempted her all the time.

She was only eighteen, but the young ones were more gullible, more easily trained. And like a carrot to a horse, or a bloody steak to a starving Doberman, women that young were drawn to cash, and he had enough to lure her away from the streets, away from her world.

He couldn’t go to Hell without taking Eve with him.

In the rearview mirror, he saw his smiling reflection, the devilish curve of his mouth and the homicidal fire in his eyes. Murder a priest, then fuck his girlfriend, the prostitute. Murder a priest then be gifted for it.

Maybe when he murdered the girl on the crutch he could do her, too.

His smile widened as he puffed on the remains of his cigarette.

The road to Hell was paved with good intentions, and he had enough good intentions to fill a football stadium. Preferably with whores. All under the age of eighteen, just waiting to be deflowered.

But first, he had to kill another priest.

The asbestos chamber was ready.

He wondered how it would feel for the next priest as he was gassed and burned alive just like the Catholic Ustashi did in Croatia during World War II. Anton Pavelic, also known as the Butcher of the Balkans, was a practicing Catholic and a regular visitor of the pope during the 1940s. He ran a brutal extermination camp that burned their victims alive, killing over half a million people during the war. Many of the murderers were Franciscan Friars in what came to be known as the Vatican Holocaust.

The Roman Catholic Church is the oldest corporation on Earth. They’re also the most evil with their lies, murder, genocide, slavery and hatred, not to mention how they handle pedophiles internally. Who better to send directly to Hell than the men representing this organization. If it was any other company, they would have been shut down centuries ago. But not the Catholic Church.

No, because the church has always worked for Lucifer. It’s his wickedest deception, his great and secret performance.

A little research and Mike had all he needed to murder Catholic priests.

A little more research and he would know who the girl with the crutch was.

Everything Lucifer promised would be his.

He took a right on Beverly Glen Boulevard and headed to the parking lot where Eve worked. Tonight she would be his, and he would make sure she didn’t work the streets ever again. It was time to have the whore all to himself.

He loved the sight of himself and smirked in the mirror once more.

How could being so evil feel so good?

Lucifer was right. Everything bad just tasted better.

Even Eve.

Chapter 3

The Los Angeles sun beat down hard, pressed past the curtains, violating Sarah’s hotel room. Even with the curtains pulled tight and the air conditioner on full, the heat pressed on her as she lay in bed. Sleep had been elusive after last night’s interruption.

Parkman hadn’t knocked on the adjoining room’s door yet. He was either still sleeping or gone for breakfast.

She got up, leaned heavily on her crutch, and made her way to the kitchenette. She started the in-room coffeemaker and then fired up her MacBook Pro at the desk. After logging onto the hotel’s Wi-Fi, she pulled Vivian’s note from her pants pocket and typed the man’s name into Google.

Gaspard de Coligny, a Protestant leader, was assassinated August 24, 1572, in the most brutal fashion. She read how he was killed and then understood why Vivian had given her this note.

It was a guide, a flashlight in the dark. Vivian was pointing the way. The only problem was her timing. It was too late.

Someone knocked on the door.

“I’ll be a minute,” she shouted.

Sarah moved to the bed and gingerly slipped into the track pants she used when lounging in the hotel room. Then she hobbled over and poured the coffee at the little kitchenette.

The knock came again.

She sipped her coffee then stepped closer to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Detective David Hirst.”

“Parkman’s in the other room.”

“I came to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Will you open the door?”

She took another sip of her coffee and thought about it, her wounded ankle suspended in the air.

“No.”

“I can’t talk to you through the door.”

“What’s with the unannounced visit? Where’s Parkman? How many people do you have with you? Since I don’t have any new information for you and I didn’t call you, why are you standing outside my door? You see, Mr. Hirst, I have too many unanswered questions to simply open the door. I’m just a little girl with a broken ankle. It’s too dangerous to open the door to men I don’t really know. Bye-bye.”

“You know me,” he said. “I’m Parkman’s colleague. You can trust me.”

She sipped more of the coffee. “Thanks for the advice, but I decide who I trust and right now that’s only Parkman. Not after what happened in Canada, anyway. So move away from my door and enjoy the rest of your day. Remember, I’m only here because Parkman asked me to be. I’m not here for you.”

She moved back to the desk slowly, making sure not to spill her coffee. Even if Hirst was clean and only here to talk, which she felt most likely, it was rude to just show up at a girl’s hotel room unannounced. Especially considering what she went through in Canada. All of North America heard her name in connection with the brutal murder of a police officer. Even though she was cleared, it still changed the way cops looked at her.

By the time she finished her first coffee and was getting up to pour more, there was another knock at the door. She hobbled over to it and smacked it hard with her hand.

“Are you thick? Go away. Don’t you have something more important to do than harass me?”

“Sarah, it’s Parkman.”

“Oh, shit.” She unlocked the door and opened it. “Sorry. I thought you were Hirst—”

Detective David Hirst stepped into view from the right side of the door. She glared at Parkman.

“What?” He shrugged. “I didn’t trick you. He said you wouldn’t talk to him without me. I was in the restaurant eating a tasty breakfast. Now I’m here.” He walked past her into the room fiddling with his toothpick. “So talk, Hirst. Tell her what you came to tell her.”

“Yeah, tell me what was so bloody important.”

Hirst entered the room and closed the door behind him. Sarah headed for the chair at the desk to get off her good foot. She couldn’t be mad at Parkman. The opposite actually. She owed him for almost killing him in Santa Rosa last month. Then he saved her life from a maniacal cannibal in Canada. Being eternally grateful to Parkman meant just that. It also meant she would do anything for him and couldn’t wait for the chance to repay him for the sacrifices he had made for her.