Forbidden Passion (26 page)

“Just look,” Raysen said.

Marlena noticed a file coded with numbers and clicked on it, then exhaled in relief when the data they’d been looking for appeared on the screen.

Six names:

Jordie McEnroe.

Brenda Mulligan.

Ruthie Mae Stanton.

Gerald Daumer.

Prudence Puckett.

Judge Beau Brannigan.

“Judge Brannigan?” Dante said in surprise.

“I thought it was odd, too’ Edmund said. “What does it mean?”

“It looks as if Sneed altered these subjects’ genetic makeup, some through blood transfusions and others through injections.” Marlena narrowed her eyes, skimming his notes. “And here, it looks as if he kept notes of changes in their behavior.”

“The subjects exhibited more violent tendencies after the treatment,” Dante said.

“That and other psychological problems.” Marlena scrolled down the page. “Jordie was becoming paranoid. Brenda manic-depressive and suicidal. Ruthie Mae became addicted to sex and craved domination. Gerald thought he was possessed by the devil and admitted to hearing voices telling him to kill. And Prudence hated beautiful women and the men who ditched her for them. She talked of making them suffer the way she had to suffer. And Judge Brannigan, addicted to S&M.”

“If he’s sadistic, Brannigan could be the killer,” Edmund suggested. “Or maybe Sneed killed his subjects.”

“But why would he kill his own subjects?” Dante asked.

“Perhaps he didn’t get the results he intended,” Edmund said.

Marlena sighed. “If his experiment was illegal, he might have been afraid that if the truth got out, his reputation would be ruined.”

He was creating bloodborn demons, Dante thought. “So his subject list became his hit list?”

Marlena clutched the edge of the desk. “Oh, my God. Look.” She pointed to a separate file and opened it. Silence stretched between them as they read the notations.

“Look at the date,” Marlena said. “Sneed first tried the experiment on himself, then the others.”

“And look at this date. Three months ago, he noted changes in himself. Symptoms he was experiencing mimicked the others.” Marlena skimmed further. “He had fantasies about committing murder, about craving the feel of someone dying at his hands. And he was obsessed with blood.”

“Then he realized his subjects were starting to exhibit the same tendencies and that they would only escalate so he decided to kill them himself,” Dante concluded.

But why would Sneed keep these notes on file where’ someone could find them?

“Jesus. The man thinks he’s some kind of savior,” Dr. Raysen said in a grave voice.

“He’s no savior,” Dante muttered with a snarl. “He’s a monster.”

Zion stood over his minions, listening to their reports. The elements had wreaked havoc the night before. And more was on its way. As soon as he had Dante by his side, the true anarchy could begin.

The tidal wave, the tsunami, the deaths…

Then the demons could rule the world.

Yet Marlena Bender had survived the tornado.

All because of his son.

He gestured toward the Seer. Time was running out. The anarchy must begin, with or without his sons. And if they chose not to follow him, they would have to be destroyed. “You planted the images of Vincent and Quinton for Dante to see?”

“Yes.” The Seer smiled, her teeth gleaming against the darkness. “Two shapeshifters appeared outside the Bender woman’s house. It should plant doubt in Dante’s mind.”

Good. And he had appeared in front of the woman twice now. First at his son’s house when he caused the Bender whore to crash. The second, at the hospital when she’d been brought in after the fire and he’d momentarily morphed into the doctor’s body.

She would remember his eyes when he finally orchestrated his plab and she saw him again. She would realize that she carried Satan’s ‘child.

And that his son’s people had taken her family’s lives.

Laughter boomed from his chest, echoing through the cave of black rock. Then she would turn on his son and break the bond that could save his soul.

And Dante would realize that trying to fight his demon side was useless.

 
Dante hated leaving Marlena for a moment, but she would, be safer with Raysen than with him. He met the security guard on the first floor by the front door. “Be sure to call me if Sneed shows up. I need to question him concerning the recent murders in town.” He paused. “And be careful. He could be dangerous.”

The security guard frowned but agreed, then Dante hurried to his car, climbed in, and headed toward town. While he drove, he phoned Hobbs and explained his suspicions. “I’m on my way to the judge’s house. Make sure forensics doesn’t miss anything at the crime scene.”

“Look, get off my back. I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far,” Hobbs said.

“Just keep doing your job,” Dante snapped, then abruptly ended the call.

The blizzard forced him to slow down as he steered through town to the courthouse, the wind screeching. He tugged his jacket around him as he raced up the steps to the building, then went straight to the receptionist’s desk to ask about Brannigan.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff, but he’s not in today. He called this morning and asked for his schedule to be cleared.”

“I need his home address.”

She gave him a wary look. “I can call him for you.”

“No,” he said, not wanting to tip off the judge. “I’ll do that on my way.”

A bald-faced lie, but he didn’t want to share his suspicions with her. And if Brannigan wasn’t a killer, he might be the Torcher’s next victim.

Every second counted.

“All right.” She scribbled the judge’s address and phone number on a sticky note and handed it to him.

Evening was setting in, the storm intensifying and making visibility -difficult, the wind-chill factor nearing zero as he approached the estate on the outskirts of town.

The stately Tudor house was set on a five-acre estate on the outskirts of Mysteria. Dante cut the lights and parked beneath a cluster of trees in the drive, pulling his gun and bracing himself as he inched up the drive to the front stoop.

He quickly conducted a visual sweep of the property. The place was isolated, miles from another house. A private lair where Brannigan could kill without notice, where no one could hear a woman’s screams or pleas for mercy.

He hesitated, debating his approach. He didn’t have a warrant, so he decided to just ring the doorbell. One, two, three minutes passed but no one answered.

Warrant or not—hell, these were exigent circumstances. He’ had to go in anyway.

He glanced through the front window. The house was dark, the heavy drapes drawn in the back, yet the sound of dogs barking ferociously echoed through the walls. He tried the doorbell again and tapped his foot while he waited, but still no answer.

The cold seeped through him, and he heard fragile

limbs breaking with the force of the wind and weight of the snow.

Dante moved quietly around to the backyard, pulled on gloves, then jimmied the back door. Two Dobermans pounced immediately, teeth gnashing, charging at him, threatening attack.

He didn’t like to hurt animals, but he wouldn’t be their dinner either, so he reached out and pressed one hot finger to each of their necks. Just enough to send a slight burning sensation through them and to make them back off. The dogs whimpered, then ducked their heads and allowed him to pass as they settled into a corner.

He strode through the house, his eyes easily adjusting to the dimly lit rooms with their thick velvet drapes and dark wood paneling. No one was inside. No pictures of family, a wife, or children. No collectibles. A portrait of the judge hung above a stone fireplace behind a huge, polished cherry desk. It was immaculate, with matching desk paraphernalia, and as he would have guessed, there was a safe, securely locked and camouflaged by a portrait of hunters.

A gun cabinet held what appeared to be a collection of shotguns and rifles, and another glass case displayed a collection of coins dating back centuries.

He stalked through the rest of the house and found the man’s bedroom. More masculine furniture and drab colors, yet no sign of anything to indicate an obsession or fetish.

He was missing something.

If the judge was a sexual deviant, into kinky stuff and S&M, he would probably have a secret chamber where he engaged in his twisted sexual activities, one that wouldn’t be visible to any visitor.

Dante checked the bedroom again, searching the closet to see if there was a private door, but found nothing.

Years ago, many of the houses had been built above the underground tunnels. If Brannigan’s had, he could have followed the tunnels and discovered the Dungeon.

Determined to find the judge’s fantasy room, Dante returned to the man’s office and searched the bookcases for a key or secret door, but again found nothing. Damn. Was he wrong?

No.
. .
it had to be here.

Dante strode into the kitchen, then checked the walk-in pantry and discovered a second door in the back of the closet. He searched the pantry shelves for a key, but didn’t find one. The judge probably kept it with him. Then he had another idea. Maybe he’d missed it.

He dropped to his knees and felt along the bottom of the lower shelf.

Adrenaline churned through him as he grabbed the key and unlocked the door. The stairs were pitch-black, the scent of smoke, linseed oil, and blood wafting up toward him. He braced himself in case the judge was downstairs hiding and slowly inched his way down the staircase. When he reached the landing, he paused, listening.

Again, the scent of blood and smoke assaulted him, stronger this time, and he found a low lamp and turned it on. He had to blink at the sudden light, then saw the bed in the corner, the ropes and harnesses, the dog collars, whips, and chains.

The judge’s chair, as if he held court here.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and the sound of pinging made him turn in a wide arc. His lungs tightened at the sight of blood dripping onto the floor.

The judge had been strung up with his own S&M straps, a wooden gavel crammed in his mouth, his naked body charred, the imprint of the Satanic S burning on the bare soles of his bloody feet.

 
Dante fisted his hands by his sides. He couldn’t touch anything in the judge’s ‘private sex chamber. CSI would have to process the scene, and the last thing he wanted was for his prints to be mixed with the killer’s. He also wanted them to open that safe—maybe he’d find more information on the experiments inside.

But he studied the Satanic S and knew its significance. The killer was a Satan worshipper. He’d made a deal with the devil.

Whether he was human, one of Sneed’s bloodborn demons, Sneed himself, or a true demon was the question.

He had to locate Sneed.

The upstairs door had been locked, meaning whoever had killed the judge had returned upstairs to lock the door and replace the key. But there had been no blood upstairs, no signs of a cleanup, suggesting the killer had escaped through the underground tunnels.

The tunnels where the demons thrived.

Where Zion would find willing soldiers.

He searched the dank room and located the door into the underground. It was unlocked but closed, a partial handprint marring the surface. He knelt and examined it, then sniffed the faint scent of sulfur and charred ashes.

Assuming the judge had kept recordings of his sexual escapades, he glanced around and noted the cameras on the walls, the CDs arranged in a shelf above the computer. They were labeled by date, and he popped one in and grimaced. A woman was tied to the same S&M ropes from which the judge now hung, and the judge raised a whip to strike her.

The woman was Prudence Puckett.

So the judge had fucked her before he’d killed her. What about Jordie, Brenda, and Ruthie Mae?

He removed the CD, stored it in its place, then checked the row again, searching for others. He discovered one for Ruthie Mae but not one for Brenda or one for Jordie. He checked the camera and computer, hoping the murder might have been caught on tape, but they were empty.

Damn.

Leaving the evidence intact for forensics to analyze, he glanced at the judge’s torched skeleton once again, then quickly climbed the stairs. He phoned Hobbs, explained his findings, and requested a CSI team.

“Don’t let this get out to the press yet,” he said. “Not until we find Sneed and have a chance to interrogate him.”

Hobbs agreed and Dante slithered through the darkness back to his vehicle.

Time was critical.

He had to find Sneed before he came after Marlena. If he was cleaning up after himself and thought that Marlena was on to him, he’d go after her next.