Touch of Evil (26 page)

"Michael?" I called out softly. There was no answer. I poked my head inside the first door and called again.

There are three doors that open off of the foyer. They're painted a glossy black that looks stunning against all that white marble. The two on the east side lead to a unisex bathroom and the choir loft and bell tower. The bathroom's kept unlocked for the street people. The choir loft door isn't. In fact, the same day we'd shuttered it closed Michael had installed a heavy steel deadbolt lock to make absolutely sure no one would go up there and wind up falling through the half-rotted floorboards. The door on the west side of the lobby was

propped open, giving me a glimpse of the smallish room that doubled as Mike's parish office and a changing room. There was no one sitting at the scarred gray metal desk, but the computer sitting on the typewriter shelf was running. The closet doors were closed, hiding the multi-colored priest's robes and the altar boy outfits from view. Someone had been busy with the brass polish here in the office as well. A row of elaborate candlesticks sat on the long counter redirecting golden beams of sunlight from the window across the room. The six-foot brushed steel cross that the altar boys carry to the front of the church at mass has a polished brass Christ hanging from its limbs. Even the fruit bowl had been polished to a mirror finish.

Michael has a sweet tooth. He started gaining a little weight a couple of years ago and stopped keeping candy around. Instead, he keeps fresh fruit in a silver bowl on his desk. I started to snag an apple from the top of the pile, but changed my mind and walked back through the foyer and the open arches into the church proper.

I dipped my right hand into the basin of holy water and crossed myself. The movement hurt, both from the shoulder and the fact that it made the bandages pull just enough to remind me the

scratches were there. I paused for a second inside the door to say a silent prayer of thanks that things weren't worse, followed by a plea that they stay that way.

I heard murmuring in the main chapel. The decor in the body of the church doesn't match the foyer at all. It's much more modern, and more plain. A 1960s remodel tore out most of the old church. Only the original stained glass windows and darkstained pews remain. I started down the main aisle, my footsteps silenced by the burgundy carpet installed over tile flooring. Otis, the janitor, was in the corner by the prayer candles. I heard him call out "Mike, I need to get us some more votives. Where are they?"

"In the basement, in the closet under the stairs that lead up to my rooms. There should be a whole case of them." I followed the sound of his voice to the front of the church. Father Michael O'Rourke stood near the pulpit in his traditional black priest's

"uniform" next to a woman I'd never seen before. She was tall and sturdy looking, with blonde hair put up in a bun. She looked at me with wide, panicked eyes and then quickly turned and walked toward the other two occupants of the room. My brother Bryan and a girl of about fifteen with vacant eyes were rubbing lemon oil into the dark wood of the pews. Bryan didn't look up. Just polishing the pews took his entire concentration.

Mike's face lit up when he saw me, but fell into stern lines a split second later.

"Kaaate." The word ended in a low growl, showing his annoyance. I fought not to turn around and walk back out. As both one of my oldest friends and my priest, he gets to lecture me—up to a point. Mike dropped the cloth he'd been using to oil the pulpit onto a first row pew and walked down the aisle toward me. He ran a hand through his thinning blond hair in the unconscious gesture he always uses when he's worried. Moving the hair back revealed a pair of blue eyes the exact color of a summer sky. Funny, I keep forgetting how

attractive he is. His face is handsome, not pretty—with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. In fact, his features would be devastatingly perfect if he hadn't broken his nose playing hockey in high school. The nose doesn't ruin his looks. Instead, it makes him more human and approachable. A good half of the females he encounters wind up with a crush on him, but it's a waste of their time. Mike takes his vows very seriously.

He let out an exasperated breath. "Kate, when are you going to stop trying to save everyone from reality? We're all big kids now."

"What do you mean?" I could try to play dumb, but I knew he'd see right through it.

He sat down on the pew nearest to me and

patted the seat next to him. I genuflected

automatically, crossing myself again before reaching out to touch the smooth surface. I sat down the next row back, forcing him to turn to look at me.

"How many times have I asked you if you were keeping Joe in the loop? How long have you

been—well, lying to me that he was paying his share and he knew that Bryan's condition was deteriorating?"

I leaned back onto the smooth polished wood and stared at the ceiling. I did not need this right now. "Look, Mike—"

He raised his voice, which he almost never does, and it caused me to jerk my head forward to stare at him open-mouthed. Each word had a knife edge, which I haven't heard in years. "NO, blast it! You look, Kate! I just had to endure nearly thirty minutes of tail chewing from your brother, and it was deserved! I trusted you, Kate. Joe has the right to know what's happening with Bryan. You have no right to protect him from the truth! And don't even get me started on dealing with the whole Thrall mess! I swear, if you don't start letting people help you manage things, you're going to wind up dead! Dylan—"

I stared at him coldly. Fine. If he wants reality, he was going to get it right between the eyes.

"Dylan is one of them now, Mike. Did he mention that? He's a Host now. Anything he says is suspect. Yeah, I'll have to deal with Monica. I don't get a choice. But it doesn't have to involve anyone else. It's me she's after."

There was no flinching in his face when I told him about Dylan. Had he actually told Mike? "There are always choices, Katie."

"There aren't always good ones."

We stared at each other for a long moment, but neither of us was going to give in about this. Ever one to change the subject, I glanced again at the woman and then motioned toward her with my

head. I raised my brows at Michael.

He sighed and shook his head. "Fine, then. Change the subject. But fair enough, you haven't met Carol yet." He raised his voice slightly. "Carol, come over here and meet Kate." The woman turned her deer in the headlights gaze to me again. She stooped and picked up the rag that Bryan had dropped. He just knelt there, not even knowing enough to pick up the cloth. Once he had it, though, he again began to polish.

"Kate, this is Carol Rodgers. She's a registered nurse. She just showed up the other day, offering to help me with our charges." Michael always refers to the zombies as charges.

I leaned toward Michael and lowered my voice. Carol was just starting to walk down the aisle to greet us. "Obviously, I'm thrilled, Michael. I guess I'm just surprised you can afford a registered nurse. Have donations picked up, or is she the new expense you mentioned on my machine, because—"

He actually gave me a bit of a smile. "She's a volunteer, Kate. Isn't it great? She believes that helping the charges is her calling, just like it's mine!" Carol reached us but waited hesitantly for an invitation. I held out my hand to shake hers but she stepped several pews away and nodded her head.

"Nice to meet you."

I smiled and stood, continuing to hold out my hand. Panic flowed across her face, causing one eyelid to twitch. She looked around frantically and then deliberately placed her palms down on the slick wood of the pew next to her. When she released it a second later, her hands were covered with oil. "I wouldn't want to get this oil all over you, Ms. Reilly. But it's nice to meet you." I felt my brow furrow. Maybe I'm just paranoid but it didn't seem normal behavior for a nurse. They're generally a little brusque, but always polite. And how did she know my last name? I tried to open my senses, to read her, but came up against a complete blank.

"Are you new to the area, Carol?" I tried to keep any note of suspicion from my voice.

She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. All of that slick oil smeared across the front of her shirt. Curiouser and curiouser. "Not really," she said. "I actually grew up in Georgetown, but graduated from nursing school back east. When my parents died, I decided to move back here and help take care of zom . . . I mean, the charges." Michael's the only person I've ever met that actually wants to take care of zombies. I had no doubt there were others, but this person didn't look the type. Her makeup was too perfect. The nails that peeked from under her crossed arms were long and exquisitely maintained. I didn't know what her angle was, but I was probably going to mention to Michael in private to check her references. Still, he's a big boy. He's been in the business long enough that few people can take advantage of him. There was a thunk of plastic hitting wood. Carol turned and saw that the vacant-eyed girl had knocked over the bottle of oil. "Oh, Tiffany, whatever will we do with you?" She dashed to the rescue with a mumbled, "Sorry. Nice to meet you." When I turned back to Michael, he was

beaming. "Isn't she wonderful? It's so nice to be able to attend to my other duties, knowing that the charges are cared for." His face again grew serious.

"Which reminds me, Kate. You're wearing your collar?" He made it a question.

Oh, suddenly I'm lumped in with Bryan and

Tiffany? I tapped on my shoulder. Through the cloth, it sounded like thumping on a cantaloupe.

"Never leave home without it. You wearing yours?" He gave the joke the weak smile it deserved.

"Good." He swallowed hard. He looked toward the front of the church, as if checking with the cross for guidance. Taking a deep breath, he spoke.

"Dylan said they're after you, Katie—the Thrall. They say that the local queen's Host is dying and she doesn't have an heir."

"So I've been told."

He nodded grimly at my confirmation. I started to say more, but stopped. Bryan had reached the end of the pew he'd been working on. He now stood vacant eyed, incapable of doing anything further without another direct order. Carol was still helping wipe up the oil Tiffany had spilled and didn't notice.

Michael didn't say anything. He just watched me watching my brother. "How is he?" The words were choked with pain. No tears. I'd cried myself out over Bryan long ago.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. "We've been over this before. He's healthy and strong. Same as always. What do you want me to say, Kate? That he's getting better? He's not, and he won't. He's getting worse, just like they all do. Every day when I wake him I have to remind him who I am. It used to be every other day. He has to be told his own name so he can respond to instructions. He can follow direct orders, but only if they're simple enough. Anything else is just beyond him. Look at him. A year ago, he could have polished all of the pews in here with one instruction. Now he doesn't even know to move to the next pew unless I tell him. I can keep him and the others alive and busy but they'll never be who they were—never

recover. There's too much damage from the drugs." It was brutal, but the truth. The shell lived, but the essence that had been my brother was just . . . gone. God help me, it would almost have been better if he'd died. Then I could mourn him the way we'd mourned my parents and be done with it.

"Can I say hello?"

Michael sighed, giving a gentle shake of his head at my never-ending stubbornness. "Bryan, come here."

Bryan raised his head, turned obediently and shambled toward us. His face was an

expressionless mask. Attractive enough, but lifeless. Without thought or emotion, there was no

animation. Carol watched attentively.

"Bryan," said Michael, "This is your sister, Kate. Say hello."

"Hello, Sister Kate."

I gave a wry chuckle. It made me sound like a nun! Michael laughed. Bryan's face lit up when we laughed, and he joined in even though he didn't understand. When we stopped, so did he; the laughter cut off as if by a switch. He gave Michael a vacant look, waiting for his next order.

Michael stood and took Bryan's arm, walking him down the aisle to the next pew past the girl who was still rubbing oil into the wooden bench with vigorous movements, oblivious to everything but the task she'd been given. She had never stopped her task to even acknowledge my presence. Michael handed him off to Carol, who placed an oiled cloth into Bryan's hand, then steered the hand down to the wooden surface.

"Bryan, rub the cloth on the wood and make it shiny from here—" Carol moved to the other end of the pew. "To here. Then stop." Bryan set to work at once, his brow furrowed with concentration. When Mike was sure his charge had understood Carol's command, he walked back down the aisle and sat next to me.

He spoke softly, as though we might be

overheard. Of course, maybe Michael wasn't as sure about Carol as I thought. "Dylan told me something else, Kate. The eggs and the hatchlings can't stand alcohol. That's why none of the drunks on the street has ever been infested. He . . . he couldn't tell you himself, so he asked me to let you know. Said for you to get good and drunk and stay that way."

When Carol left the room to fetch more oil, I raised my voice a little. "I can't fight when I'm drunk, Michael."

"If you stay drunk you may not have to fight."

"You can't trust what he says, Mike. He's not human—he's not Dylan anymore." I didn't like the way Mike was squirming in his seat like a guilty schoolboy. He didn't answer or meet my eyes. Instead, he turned to watch Bryan and the girl. They scrubbed the pews as if their lives depended on it. I winced. The thought was closer to the truth than I cared to think about.

Mike turned his attention back to me. His blue eyes had gone very dark, and his voice was as serious as I'd ever heard it. "You're in terrible danger, Kate. You need to leave town, make it impossible for her to find you."

I shook my head and stared past him toward the front of the church and the bright stained glass. "I can't do that. It's not just about me anymore." Mike looked crestfallen and weary. "You're right, Kate. It's not just about you. Other people are depending on you. Don't leave them without you."