Blood of Saints Page 26

  What happened that night ate at her. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop wondering. What would’ve happened if she’d stayed at Rachel’s instead of going home? Would she have been able to talk her best friend into staying home instead of getting in that car? Would Rachel have been able to persuade Ellie to go with her, like so many times before?

  Did it even matter now that she was dead?

  Keys gripped in her fist, Ellie forced herself out of the car, careful to shut the door as quietly as possible. Not that anyone was around to hear her. The surrounding fields were deserted, the sweltering heat driving Vega’s workers indoors for the last few hours of the day. They’d be back at it tomorrow, well before the sun rose, stooping and pulling. Tossing and packing. It was hard, grueling work that made you old before your time. She should know, she’d spent her fourteenth summer in those fields, working alongside her mother, sullen gaze dug into the dirt that surrounded her, arms and legs stiff with anger and resentment.

  It’d started out as harmless fun. Running through the fields, stomping and smashing watermelons with her friends. She didn’t remember when it’d turned into something more. That she was no longer laughing, hate surging through her every time she brought her foot down. That’s when she realized she blamed the Vega family for her father’s death.

  It’d taken her months to scrub away the grime that worked its way into her hands. It had taken her only half as long to finally understand that she’d never be able to destroy enough or cost the Vegas enough lost profits to make them sorry. Because they didn’t care. They didn’t even know her father existed.

  She never told her mother that it’d been Paul Vega himself who suggested they go into those fields in the first place. That while everyone else had been throwing chunks of melon at one another and grinding that soft, red pulp into the ground, he’d been sitting on the tailgate of his truck, watching the destruction with a smug, satisfied smile. It was obvious, to anyone who cared to pay attention, how much he hated it all.

  Ellie brushed off the memory, reaching for the buzzing phone she’d jammed into her back pocket. It was her sister, Val. She called every day to check on their mother; their conversation usually ending in an argument. Val wanted to move their mother to San Francisco.

  Not just mom, Ellie. We want you to come too. Devon can put in a good word for you with the police department here and you can stay with us as long—

  That’s about as far as she allowed Val to take it before she hung up on her. Swiping left, Ellie dumped the call into her voicemail—she’d call her sister back later. Right now, she had other things to worry about.

  It was just a few steps to the pump house and she took them quickly. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out one of the paper clips she’d tucked in there earlier. Bending it open, she worked the thin length of metal until it snapped in two. Fitting the newly separated pieces into the lock, Ellie lifted and jiggled until the tumblers gave way. Giving it a hard twist, the lock popped open.

  Like any farmer, Vega rotated his crops. She’d bet the pump house and the fields that surrounded it hadn’t been used in years. Stepping inside, she shut the door behind her. A row of glass block ran the perimeter of the room, set at the top of the wall. The sunlight they let in were the pump house’s only source of light.

  In the middle of the room was a waterwheel, as big as a car tire, attached to a complicated series of pumps and pipes that stood so tall they nearly touched the ceiling. She headed for it, drawn like a magnet to the place where Rachel had spent four days of her life.

  She remembered the first time she’d come here, ignoring the large, official-looking sticker that sealed the door. The police weren’t coming back. No one was investigating what happened to her friend. No one cared. The Vega family obviously used their money and influence in the community to make sure of that. They’d silenced everyone. Even Rachel.

  Ellie had decided she’d be the one to find something. Some sort of clue or proof that it was Paul Vega who’d hurt Rachel. When she found it, she’d take it to the police. The newspapers. Someone had to listen. There had to be someone who couldn’t be bought … but when she got there, she realized how ridiculous her revenge fantasy really was.

  It was the waterwheel that finally convinced her. One of its painted spokes was scraped clean. This was where Rachel must’ve been kept, handcuffed to the wheel. Made to do horrible things, to believe she was going to die. She looked down at the scatter of Dodger blue paint flakes in the dirt beneath her feet and felt the weight of the truth settle onto her shoulders. She was just a kid. She had no idea what she was looking for. She didn’t know the first thing about evidence collection. What happened to Rachel was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

  Standing in that pump house, looking at the remnants left behind by the crime scene techs, she’d envied them. They knew how to get answers. She turned around and left, promising herself she wouldn’t come back here until she knew what to do. So she could find justice for her friend.

  Whether she wanted it or not.

  Now, looking around, all Ellie saw was evidence. Shoe prints. A man’s dress shoe—size 10–12. She immediately stopped walking to pull her phone from her pocket. Snapping off a few pictures, she crouched in the dirt to get a closer look. One of the shoe prints was settled deeper into the dirt, like the foot that made it had been used to push its owner forward. Standing again, she could see it, the uneven gate, the tip of the right print turned slightly inward. The man who made it had a limp.

  She had a kit in her car. She’d take casts. Print the door. Call Agent Vance. She’d seemed solid. More importantly, she was a federal agent. It wasn’t likely that the Vega family could buy her like they did local law enforcement.

  Hand on the door, ready to push it open, she was stopped in her tracks by the blare of her car alarm. The urgent sound of it propelled her forward, out into the heat of the day. A coyote trotted across the field, away from her. It turned its head to look back at her, something hanging out of its mouth. Probably a rabbit that got cornered under the car.

  Sighing in relief, she traded her phone for her car keys. Raising them, she aimed the fob at the car to silence it. That’s when she saw the white slip of paper secured to her windshield with her wiper blade, heavy black ink spilled across it. She stopped in her tacks, reading the note from where she stood, the words tightening her grip around the set of keys in her hand.

  Ellie took a step back, reaching for her phone. Before she could pull it from her pocket, a strong arm snaked around her waist, pinning her arms at her sides before yanking her off her feet while the other clamped over her mouth, forcing the scream she’d built up back into her mouth.

  “Well, Elena? Do you?”

  She grunted, whipping her head backward, trying like hell to crack his nose with the back of her skull. He was ready for her, dodging the blow, and she connected with his shoulder instead, her head bouncing against the crook of his neck. Not ready to give up, Ellie remembered the keys in her hand and lashed out, stabbing them into his thigh. The angle was wrong, his pants too thick. The keys fumbled out of her hand, landing at her scuffling feet.

  Her eyes wheeled wildly in her head, trying to get a look at him. All she caught sight of was a smooth jawline and skin only slightly darker than her own. But it was enough.

  “I know you,” she wheezed against the hand at her mouth, breath squeezed by the tightening of his arm around her middle. “I know—”

  Her eyes took another spin before landing on the windshield of her car and the letter attached to it.

  Do you believe in miracles?

  Sixty-three

  What are the odds, darlin’?

  Sabrina pushed her way out of the church, scanning the gathering mob that pushed and crowded against the yellow tape that ran its perimeter. People were worried, terrified shouts breaking through the horrified whispers.

 
; “Is Father Francisco okay?”

  “What happened?”

  “Who did this?”

  With every unanswered question the mob pushed harder, jostling and shouting to make themselves heard while the quartet of uniformed officers did their best to keep everything under control.

  “I’ll handle it.” Church pointed to a lone figure standing off to the side. “There’s your boy,” she said before heading in the opposite direction, toward the crowd that seemed to have grown in only the few seconds they’d been standing there.

  What are the odds that two sisters, a thousand miles apart, get kidnapped by two completely different serial killers within a few years of each other?

  Croft shifted from one foot to the other while he watched her approach, his expression growing more apprehensive the closer she got. “I don’t like that look,” he said to her as she grabbed his arm and dragged him farther away from the crowd. “I like this even less.”

  “Yeah? You don’t like being grabbed?” she said, casting a quick look over her shoulder. Church was addressing the crowd and incredibly they were all listening. “Now you know how I feel.” She turned in Croft’s direction to find him watching her. “Got a passport?”

  “Of course.” Her question sent Croft’s expression from apprehensive to downright suspicious. “Why?”

  They’re pretty damn good. Want to know why? Want to know what the common denominator is? What makes such an incredible thing possible?

  “Great.” Finally, something was working in her favor. “You’re going on a field trip.”

  “A what?” He shook his head. “No,” he said, his head shake gaining speed. “Anything you could ask me—expendable, I hope you die in a fire me—to do that requires a passport is more than likely a suicide mission. I happen to like living. So thanks, but no thanks.”

  “I really don’t like that word, Croft.” The hand on his arm tightened for a second before letting go entirely. “But if that’s how you feel, there’s nothing I can do about it, is there?” The last of her words were heavy, the weight of them reminding him there was plenty she could do. His gaze drifted behind her and undoubtedly settled on Church. His expression changed again—half fear, half resignation. He might not be afraid of her, but he was scared shitless of Church.

  You’re the reason, darlin’. You. The common thread that runs through everyone’s life and ruins it. No matter what you do or where you go, you’re a sickness that invades and pollutes everyone around you.

  “I’m a writer, Sabrina.” Croft shook his head. He knew he’d end up doing what she was asking him to do, but he wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Too bad for him she was running out of patience. “I’m not some badass super assassin like your dead-but-not-­really-dead boyfriend. I’m a nerd with too much curiosity and a laptop. Notice the absence of a death wish. I’m a writer—I write.”

  “No …” Sabrina shook her head. “You invade. You push. You blackmail. You stalk. And then you write. And your lack of a death wish is debatable.”

  “That’s how the job is done,” he said in a sullen tone that told her he knew her description was more than a little accurate. “And I never stalked you.”

  “You were a war correspondent.” Sabrina took another look over her shoulder. Church had the lotful of congregants holding hands, heads bowed while she led them in prayer. “You’ve seen plenty of action.” Even the uniforms on their side of the tape were standing quietly, faces tipped downward. “Hell, you’ve been shot. Twice, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” He laughed at her. “Forgive me for not being eager to repeat the experience.”

  No one who loves you is safe. Our boy has little Ellie, darlin’, and he can’t wait to get to work on her. He’s gonna make her bleed and

  scream—

  “I’m not Church. I don’t have a ball gag or the time to drive you around in the trunk of my car and do God knows what to you. What I do have is a gun,” she hissed at him, curbing the urge to bitch slap him. “The only person you need to worry about shooting you is me.”

  Croft’s gaze traveled to the bulge at her hip before finding her face, seemingly calculating how serious she was about shooting him. “Okay,” he sighed, satisfied that, despite the dispersing crowd and police officers milling around the parking lot, she was totally serious. “What do you need me to do?”

  Sixty-four

  Kootenai Canyon, Montana

  The parachute was unmarked. Most recreational jump schools marked their chutes because they were expensive. Run for profit, they took great care to protect their equipment, which meant that leaving a spent rig behind was practically unheard of. The Halo helmet tossed into the grass next to the tangle of nylon lines and straps confirmed that the person who landed in his canyon wasn’t a weekend adrenalin junkie looking for a fix. The person walking around unchecked was a trained operator, and their landing here hadn’t been an accident.

  Michael looked up. As usual, the sky was clear. Because of its previous presidential owner, their canyon had long ago been removed from commercial flight paths, but a Halo jump maxed out at 35,000 feet. A small civilian aircraft could be easily missed at that altitude.

  Gathering the bright green chute, he rolled it with a haphazard precision that said he’d done it a million times. Under normal circumstances, an operator would be careful to roll the chute and tuck it under a bush or rock so that it wasn’t readily visible. That this one was left to drift and billow in the breeze told him one thing: Whoever had landed in his canyon wanted him to know they were here.

  Or they wanted to mark their landing site.

  Stuffing the chute back into its pack, Michael slung the strap of it over his shoulder. Next to the dumped helmet was the starting point of a trail, nothing more than a slight bending of the knee-high grass. It snaked eastward, parallel to the trail he and Alex had been following, hidden from view. Their uninvited guest was heading for the house.

  –––––

  The trail ended at the bridge, veering out of the grass in order to cross the river. Now he could see the impressions leading him across the water, toward the cluster of buildings that lay beyond it. He stood there for a moment, watching. Weighing his options.

  The deep, shaded porch that housed a pair of wicker armchairs and a table was unoccupied. The yard that surrounded it was undisturbed. The house looked just as he’d left it an hour before. That left the barn. Whoever it was would be smart to take the barn first. It offered the best vantage point from which to watch the house while waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

  He’d been stupid to assume that once he’d found him, Livingston Shaw would send an army. He knew better. Shaw wasn’t a full-court press kind of guy. He was too sneaky to come at him head-on. Instead of looking straight ahead, Michael should have been watching for Shaw from the corner of his eye.

  Dumping the pack, he crossed the bridge at a fast clip, formulating his plan on the fly. He’d clear the house first. Get Miss Ettie and the kids into the bunker and seal it. The barn was wired with explosives, just like the bridge. As soon as they were safely below ground, he’d blow it.

  Mounting the porch steps, Michael put on a show, stomping the mud off his boots while he listened. He could hear his family moving around inside. The click of Avasa’s toenails across the hard wood of the floor. The clank of dishes being washed in the sink. Alex and Christina talking about who was beating who at rummy.

  The scrape of a fork against a plate as someone finished up a late breakfast.

  He nearly kicked the door in, pulling the TAC off his shoulder in a fluid motion that brought it up into position and had it aimed at the intruder almost before Michael saw him. The face staring back at him was one he’d never expected to see again.

  “Alex,” he said in a casual tone, “is there a reason he’s still breathing?”

  “Vy skazali, chtoby strelyat�
�, kogo ya ne uznal.” You said to shoot anyone I didn’t recognize. Obviously Alex wasn’t ready to admit to everyone else what he already knew—he spoke better English than he was letting on. Michael wanted to ask him why. He also wanted to ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean, but instead he stored both questions away for later. There was plenty of time to ask Alex what was going on. After he got rid of their uninvited guest.

  The man at the table laid his fork down carefully before lifting the napkin in his lap to wipe his mouth. “Thank you for the pancakes,” he said to Miss Ettie. “They were delicious.” He was wearing a jump suit, unzipped and peeled down to the waist, its sleeves tied around his waist to reveal a thin white undershirt. He appeared to be unarmed.

  The old woman stood frozen in his peripheral, stunned by the sudden turn of events. “You’re welcome,” she said, phrasing it almost like a question before turning in Michael’s direction, waiting for him to tell her what to do.

  “Take the kids into the living room, please,” he told her. As soon as they were hustled out of the room, Michael flipped the safety off on the TAC. “Who the fuck let you out of your box, Dunn?”

  Noah Dunn placed his napkin on his plate and stood. Michael placed his finger on the trigger and waited. “Ben Shaw,” Dunn said, lifting the plate before carrying it to the sink.

  His finger tightened slightly. “Bullshit.” He spat the word out like there was no way it could be true but he knew better. Unlike his father, who measured every move he made, Ben was an odd mixture of calculation and recklessness. Releasing one of his father’s prisoners without considering the repercussions was absolutely something he would do.

  “He said you’d say that,” Dunn said, slipping the empty plate into the sink full of soapy water. “Pink pony.”

  It was an old safe word. One he’d used with Christina years ago when he’d been her bodyguard. He’d shared it with three people since then and Ben had been one of them. One of them had also been Church—who just happened to be, last time he checked, Livingston Shaw’s favorite FSS operative. “What did you say?”