Touch of Evil (25 page)

I acknowledged his comment with a nod. "No, I'm not a detective. And yes, I'm aware I'm being lied to. I'm just trying to figure out who is doing the lying." Little things were starting to fall into place in my head, and they weren't pleasant. "How did you just happen upon my building the other day, Tom?

Have you been getting close to me to keep me occupied, to throw me off track? Or is it the other way around? Are you staying here hoping that the Thrall won't mess with me?"

The scowl that darkened his face said that I'd either hit the mark, or hit the opposite end of the spectrum and insulted him.

"So, what—you think I orchestrated that whole scene at the other building? Jeez Louise, Kate!

You're paranoid enough to be two people!" Perfectly true, and skillfully misdirecting. I walked to the other side of the kitchen island and leaned against it, willing him to listen. "I don't want to play games, Tom. You said I was honest. I'm also direct. The girl could be in a lot of danger. Dylan wants me to find her and protect her." His barking laugh was cut short. " Protect her. Now there's a good one!" He took two steps backward, keeping his eyes on me, and leaned against the far counter so we were facing each other with the island in the middle. He crossed his ankles and bit into the apple again.

"Are you saying you don't think I'm capable of protecting her?"

He looked at me very seriously, and used the apple to emphasize his words. "No, that was pretty obvious outside. I'm saying that Dylan's lying to you. He wants her found, all right, but not for the reason you think. If you find her and tell them where she is, she's as good as dead. Back away from this one, Kate. For your own good." I shook my head and sighed. I really don't like to play games. Tom might be my best hope for finding the girl before she wound up like her friend. I couldn't afford to be gentle and worry about his feelings. "I'm not working for her step-dad, Tom. I don't know what he wants with her, but I agree with you. Whatever he's planned isn't good. But I was told to keep her safe, and that's what I'm going to do." I realized as I said it that I'd made my decision. I would find Dusty. And I would protect her. With my life if I had to.

I guessed that I didn't have to pretend anymore, so I used names he should recognize. "Look, Tom, you were spotted picking Dusty up in a cab after Voneen died. If I know that, so does Monica. If you don't tell me here and now, I'll keep digging. That really might get her killed. If that's what you want—so be it."

His eyes closed and his jaw stopped working on the bite of apple. His shoulders fell and he shook his head. He swallowed hard, like it wasn't just apple going down his throat. I wondered if he would get defensive or lie to me about it. I really hoped not. It might cause me to say things I would probably regret.

He sighed. "I knew I should have sent Rob to get her. And I'm figuring out just how stubborn you are. Fine. Yeah, I know Dusty. But you need to drop it, Kate. You're really making waves out there. The wrong people are noticing."

"I know. That's why I have to get to Dusty first." He shook his head and took another bite of the apple. He spoke with his cheek full before he started to chew. "There are things going on that you don't understand, Kate. We can't let Dusty get hurt. We'll protect her until Monica is gone." I thought I probably knew who we was, but I needed to make sure. "I'd like to believe that. I really would. But I need more assurance than your word, because there are things that you don't understand."

"I understand that if we keep Dusty under cover long enough, Monica will die or she'll pick someone else for the new queen. That's all we're concerned about."

I laughed tiredly and rested my forehead on my arms. I could hear crunching as Tom continued to snack on the apple. I could also still smell that wonderful cologne, and hear his breathing. I looked up at him, and my voice was both sad and

determined.

"Tom, you don't understand. Dusty is already Monica's second choice, because she's not going to get the first. Dylan believes I'm strong enough to save her. I'm not so sure, but I do know that if it's just you and Jake watching her, Tom, she's dead. You have a job, and the kid won't last ten minutes against a true Thrall attack. Monica will send dozens of Hosts if she finds out where Dusty is hiding."

"And we'll deal with it. We've battled the Thrall before, and we're still here. The only loose cannon is you, Kate. Just back off and let us take care of it."

I let out a harsh breath. "I can't do that. So, if that's been your goal while snuggling up to me, it won't work."

Tom's eyes were angry and hurt over the bright red apple. "No, it wasn't my goal. I thought you might be someone I'd like to get to know." His next words were flat and cold. They hit my heart like a lead weight. "Apparently, I was wrong." He shook his head and walked out the door to the living room. "Look, I'll find another place to live and get this stuff moved out in a day or two. Obviously, there's no future for either of us with me living here." I swallowed hard and tried to stay mad, but it was no good. If he was being straight with me, and we really were on the same side—to keep Dusty alive, then I'd insulted the hell out of him. If not, then I couldn't trust him farther than I could see him, and needed to keep him close until I knew where Dusty was.

I really hate trying to figure this stuff out. It's why I'm not a detective. I followed him to the living room, where he had already opened the door for me to leave. "You don't need to move out, Tom. Frankly, I can use the money, and you said you need a place. Fine. I'll do my best to believe that we're on the same side. But I can't stop searching for her. I just hope neither of us winds up dead." His eyes met mine for a moment when I turned around after stepping over the threshold, but there was little warmth in them. "I hope so too, Kate, because I can't stop protecting her. And if that means one of us does wind up dead, so be it." He closed the door—on a lot of things.

12

Well, wasn't this just turning out to be a ducky day!

I wanted, needed to talk to someone to try to get some perspective. But I remembered that Joe was going out of town for some sort of class, and Peg wouldn't be home yet. Who did that leave? Mike. Maybe my priest could help me sort things in my head. He's pretty good at that. Plus, I could visit Bryan, and I felt safe at the church. The best of all worlds.

I wouldn't even admit to myself that I might be visiting just to say goodbye. Goodbye would mean I thought I would lose. Surely not.

I hopped in Edna, realizing I still hadn't taken my suitcase upstairs. Oh, well. The luggage was the least of my worries. I drove out of the garage, stopping long enough to be sure that the gate was securely down and that nobody was lurking outside the building. That's actually a trick while wearing the neck guard. I have full range of motion, but it cuts into my neck when I twist quickly. I drove around the block once, checking for suspicious people. I didn't see anyone. I would think that Monica would have someone at least watching my place after the attack, but hell, who knew? Nothing made any sense to me anymore. I was tired. Physically, mentally and emotionally tired. And much as I hated to admit it, I was terrified.

The sun was setting, so I drove down 17th

Street with the sun right in the rearview mirror. The cell phone rang shrilly, and I jumped, letting out a little yipping noise. Damn Monica anyway. Damn her ability to terrify me. Fear gave way to good old fashioned anger—at least temporarily.

"Hello." My voice sounded rough, deeper than usual. Even the one word seemed angry. Good. I pulled the truck to the side of the road to take the call.

"Kate, it's Tom." His voice sounded tight and the tone was very carefully neutral. "Our Acca asked me to tell you that she wants to meet with you. The Shamrock Motel, room 150. Day after tomorrow at 3 p.m."

"Your what?"

"Our leader, the head of the wolves." His pack leader. I was going to meet with the Acca of the local werewolf pack. Good.

"Tom . . ." I wanted to apologize to him, and I wasn't even sure what for.

His voice came across the wire once more, curt and thick with warning. "Don't say anything you don't want people to hear, Kate."

I shut my mouth. He'd felt free enough to tell me the time and place of a meeting, but I wasn't supposed to talk freely? What was up? "I'll be there."

"Good." He hung up the phone without saying goodbye and without giving me any additional information. Pressing a few buttons gave me a call back number but when I dialed it nobody

answered.

I pulled back onto the road, mulling today's events. I had my hands full driving in downtown traffic to reach the church, so deep thoughts weren't terribly bright. Colorado Boulevard was out of my way, but I wanted to grab food first and driving around helps me think. There aren't many places to eat by the church. I pulled into a drive-through burger place and waited in line for an overcooked burger on a soggy bun, and suddenly remembered the last pill resting in the little amber bottle back home. Sigh. Maybe tomorrow, if I last that long. I was still snacking on salty fries as the church came into sight.

Most Catholic churches have towers and spires that soar gracefully heavenward and attempt to typify the best of the human spirit. But Our Lady of Perpetual Hope is just a little red brick building with a steeple. Once upon a time this part of the central city had been a lower middle-class Irish

neighborhood with enough of a Catholic population to justify a church and private school. Over the years the middle-class abandoned the inner city for the suburbs. The school is boarded up, the

underground tunnel linking it to the rectory sealed off by a locked iron gate. Located in what's one of the worst neighborhoods in Denver, all Our Lady's church can typify now is harsh reality. Unshaven old men with shopping carts and forlorn women with vacant-eyed children wander the sidewalk. The masses are empty in summer, crowded with

homeless looking for warmth in the winter. The soup kitchen does a booming business year round. Michael O'Rourke and I grew up in the

neighborhood in the "old days." We dated in high school, long before he realized his calling. He's a good man and a great priest, but he gets

disillusioned at times. I can't blame him. He gets to see the worst life has to offer on a daily basis. His knowledge of the Thrall comes from the folks that visit the parish shelter. He offers blankets in winter, meals when he can, and solace year round. When a

"regular" doesn't show up for a few days he always checks around, even though he knows the news probably won't be good.

I parked my truck on the one-way street across from the arched double doors that serve as the front entrance. The brass railing matched the hammered brass door pulls. All are kept polished to an almost blinding brilliance. I walked up the first two concrete steps; then stopped. I always stop and look up at the stained glass window. It's an absolutely stunning rendition of the Pieta, the famous painting by Michelangelo which depicts Mary cradling Christ's dead body. It's always struck me as an odd choice for the window of a church that is named for hope. What do I know?

It's been there since the church was built. That it's remained unbroken all these years in this

neighborhood is a true miracle.

Our Lady's is small, but immaculately tended. It's how Michael keeps Bryan and the rest of his zombies busy and off the street. He has the equivalent of a mission, with twelve zombies that he and a few workers care for 24/7. I'm awed by his dedication. I sure as hell couldn't do it. The best I can do is donate time and labor to keep down expenses. The coat of spotless white paint on the doors and trim were contributed in good part by Joe and I one sunny weekend last summer. So were the shutters that closed up the belfry. The metal fire doors on all the other entrances were required upgrades to meet fire code.

Joe hated having to close off the belfry. Back when the neighborhood was better and the church school was open, it had been a family right of passage to break into the belfry and ring the old church bells just before high school graduation. It wasn't easy, either. The bells hadn't been used regularly in decades. A shame really—they have a beautiful tone. The real thing sounds so much better than the canned tape recording they use now. Unfortunately, the real bells are loud. You can hear them for miles around. The neighbors complained. So Mike plays the tape, and the real bells are sealed up in the belfry gathering dust.

I pulled the brass door handle and stepped from the noise and light of the street into the cool dim interior of the church foyer. I stood for a moment. While my eyes adjusted, I took another look up at the window. The afternoon light was streaming through the glass, sending patterns of brilliant color across the smooth gray-veined marble floor. I felt a warmth seep into me as I gazed at the bold russet of Mary Magdalene's robes, the angry gray-green of the storm clouds, and the vivid red of Christ's blood staining his weeping mother's robe. While the Roman soldier in the background reminded me that there is always a price to pay for your convictions, the window calms me. There is peace here.

Sanctuary that has nothing to do with the stone and mortar of the building. I glanced over the railing toward the font. An eerie trick of the building's design causes the water in the old marble baptismal to reflect the image of Christ's weeping mother back up at me when I glance at it sideways. I suppressed a shudder at the intensity of the grief and defiance captured in that face by the artist. The foyer is a reminder of better days. It was a gift from a wealthy patron back when there were such things. The floor and walls are all covered in gleaming white marble veined with gray and black from the quarry in the western slope town of Marble. The ceiling was hand painted by an

unknown artist with real talent. At first glance it's a summer sky filled with clouds. But it's like a Doolittle painting. If you look long enough you can see angels and saints in the cloud formations. It needs to be cleaned and restored but the parish doesn't have the money for both that and the soup kitchen. The poor won out. It was a decision I agreed with, so I don't complain.