Carnal Sin (24 page)

Moira considered what she'd just said--it was the truth, but why would the demon be fearful of her?
Was
it vulnerable when it was trapped in a physical body? She needed to talk it out with Rafe. There was something they were missing.

"You're an exorcist?" Nina looked skeptically at Rafe. "You don't look like a Catholic priest."

"Not all exorcists are priests, or Catholic," Rafe said.

Nina stared at the photograph, her brows furrowed, thinking.

Rafe took Moira's hand under the table and squeezed it. Something else, something beyond this, was disturbing him. Moira wanted to ask, but it would have to wait.

"What do you want from me?" Nina asked quietly.

Moira opened, then closed her mouth. She had wanted to see the file Nina had. But the picture was enough, and she didn't want another outsider involved. It was too risky.

"We want you to know so that you're diligent in protecting yourself against them," Rafe said, "and because you know these people. We need a little help because we're not from here."

"I know Pam, but only through George." She frowned. "I know of Wendy Donovan. And Grant's girlfriend--she's not part of it, is she?"

"She is," Moira said, "and she's a fucking liar, so--"

Rafe squeezed her hand so tight she almost said
ouch
.

"We don't know everyone who is involved, only that Wendy recruits out of Velocity," Rafe said.

"The club has only been around for two years."

"Do you know where Wendy was before then?"

Nina shook her head. "I can find out. What do you need?"

"We need all the background information you can get on Wendy Donovan, and her fiance who died--" Moira glanced at Rafe. "What was his name?"

"Kyle Dane," Rafe said.

"Kyle Dane? You think she killed Kyle Dane the musician?"

"We don't know," Rafe said at the same time Moira said, "Hell, yes."

Rafe rubbed the back of his neck. "We can't prove it. His death was ruled a heart attack. He was ill and went against doctor's orders."

"You know she was involved," Moira said. She was tired of Rafe pinching and squeezing her leg to signal she was being bullheaded.

Rafe ignored the comment and told Nina, "Wendy has a sister, Nicole Donovan. She was involved in a coven in Santa Louisa that resulted in several deaths, including a teenager. Their mother was Susan Donovan, and she was raised in foster care."

"Here in L.A.?"

"Yes."

"I can get anything you need. Not necessarily legally, but I can find it."

"We don't want you to get into trouble--"

"I know how to cover my ass. I want to help.
If
you think this will help get George justice. I don't want him to die in vain."

"It will not only help George, but it will help us in our battle against these people for years to come."

Nina tapped her finger on the table. "I'll admit, I don't know how much of this I believe, but I do know that Pam is bad news and I'd convinced George that he had to leave her. I loved him so much--but I didn't care if he left her for me, or just left her. I just wanted him to be happy. So I can't help but feel responsible that I had something to do with his death. I--" She stopped and frowned.

"Nina?" Moira asked.

"I'm thinking." She paused. "You said that Nadine stole his soul. What exactly does that mean?"

Rafe was torn, but Moira wasn't going to lie to the woman who was about to help them put together pieces of a puzzle they couldn't complete on their own. "When a demon steals a soul--meaning, not a soul the owner promised in exchange for favors, but an innocent or cursed soul--they suck it into their body, trapping it. The person dies, because without a soul you have nothing keeping you alive. Your heart just stops. That's why his death is being ruled cardiac arrest, though he didn't have a heart attack."

Tears leaked from Nina's eyes. "George wasn't a religious man, but ... does the soul have feelings?"

"No," Rafe said as Moira said, "Yes."

Moira glanced sideways at Rafe and frowned. He was as angry with her as she was at him for sugarcoating the truth. Did he think that ignorance was bliss? Ignorance was right up there with lying to yourself. Nina asked for the truth, and she was going to tell it to her.

Nina said to Moira, "I believe you. Is he hurting?"

She didn't say anything. She didn't have to; Nina was smart enough to figure it out. If she believed that a demon could steal a soul, she had to believe in Heaven and Hell. Demons didn't go on the "up" escalator in the afterlife.

Rafe said, "We really don't know what happens to stolen souls." Moira was about to argue, but Rafe turned to her. "You know we don't. I do not believe that God allows innocent people to go to Hell."

This was a point Moira took no comfort in arguing, so she remained silent.

"Where's this damn demon now, and can I get George's soul back?"

"You can't bring George back to life," Moira said.

"That's not what I mean. I want to put his soul someplace safe. To rest. I don't want him suffering for eternity!" Nina shook her head. "I can't believe I said that. But that's what you mean, isn't it?"

"His soul is with the demon who took it," Moira said. "And until it goes back to Hell, it'll still be trapped there. It's feeding her, keeping her strong."

"Can you get it back?"

"I don't know," Moira said.

"George didn't do anything wrong!"

Rafe said, "We have to believe that God will protect innocents who die."

"Believe. Faith.
Bullshit,"
Nina said. "I want to know that George is safe. I want to give his soul a proper burial, and if you want my help, you'll tell me how to do that."

Nina was right. George deserved a level playing field for the Powers That Be to decide on the merits of his life whether he should get a shot at Paradise. In St. Michael's world, George was collateral damage, a sad case that they would pray for but not do anything else to help.

Moira couldn't live like that. She couldn't stand back and do nothing, not if there was something she could do. She didn't believe her prayers were going to do squat, though she prayed in her own way every day. She had been around demons; when they got a soul, they never let go. And she'd never heard of an avenging angel swooping down and reclaiming an innocent victim. If it happened, Rico would have told her, because this was one of the subjects they argued about the most.

What upset her more than that, however, was that Rafe wasn't automatically on her side. What did she expect? He'd been raised at St. Michael's; he had faith on his side. Faith that the innocent would be saved at the end-time.

But what about the decade, the century, the millennia between then and now?

Moira said, "There's a way, but it's dangerous."

"Tell me," Nina said. "I don't care how dangerous; I will do anything."

"Moira, no--" Rafe began.

"I can't let George Erickson suffer any more than you can," Moira told Rafe. "He had nothing to do with this, and
damn
I'm not going to wait around for the end of the world before he's saved. We know how to get his soul back."

Rafe abruptly stood, knocking over Moira's near-empty cup, his jaw tight. Through clenched teeth he said, "I won't let you. You'll get yourself killed."

"You won't
let
me? Since when did you become my guardian angel?"

Rafe was furious and deeply hurt. From the minute he'd seen Moira two weeks ago, he knew she'd been sent to save him. She was
his
angel, and he was hers. It came to him as clearly as she sat in front of him: he had to protect her. Every day, every minute. She cared too deeply for everyone but herself, and she was going to die if she didn't accept that she couldn't save everyone.

The only way to take back a soul that had been stolen by a demon was to exorcise the soul from the demon while the demon was contained in a spirit trap. But that entailed great risk to the exorcist, who had to get far too close to the demon to ensure that the soul had an escape route, as well as the very real possibility that the soul--disembodied from its own physical self--would claim the exorcist's body as its own, resulting in a possession. Then a second exorcist would have to convince the soul that it was dead, and to willingly leave. There was also the risk of the soul being forever lost, stuck between this world and the afterlife, becoming a ghost or vengeful spirit.

It was physically and emotionally treacherous for everyone involved, but the risks to the exorcist were the greatest. Too many of Rafe's friends at St. Michael's Order had died performing just this type of ritual to save one of their fallen brothers.

"Moira, it's too dangerous," he said quietly, sitting back down.

"I'll do it," Nina interjected. "I don't care what the risks are; I want to help George."

Rafe turned to Nina. She was sincere. "Why?" he asked.

"I love him. I would do anything for him, even die. I couldn't live with myself if his soul was lost forever and I could have prevented it." She grabbed each of their hands.
"Please."

"All right," Moira said. "Get the information Rafe needs about the Donovans. We'll get what we need for the exorcism."

She smiled. "Thank you. I'll get right on it." She slid over her card and took down Moira's cell phone number.

"If you can't reach me, call Jackson Moreno at Grace Harvest."

Nina looked at her, surprised. "Pastor Moreno?"

"You know him?"

"Everyone knows him. He's the dot-com genius who made a fortune, sold his company, then became a minister and lives very modestly. An enigma in this town."

"He's a friend," Moira said. "Give him the information if you can't find me; he'll know what to do with it."

Nina stood to leave, took both their hands, and said, "Thank you. I really mean that."

When Nina had left, Rafe turned to Moira. "You lied to her. She can't do it!"

"She doesn't know that."

"You're not going to."

"Of course I am."

"I will not let you! You could die."

"I can die every day. Our lives aren't exactly safe. But if we can't help people like George Erickson, why are we doing this? Revenge? Fuck that. George was imperfect, like the rest of us, and we both know there is a limited window of time to reclaim his soul and give it proper last rites. We know the demon is possessing someone. I hope Julie figures it out fast, and I hope she's not lying, or we're really screwed."

"Moira--"

She interrupted. "We take back George's soul first. Then we trap the damn demon Lust and put it up with her evil brother Envy at Olivet."

"Don't you understand that I can't lose you?"

A flash of Moira dying in his arms came and went so suddenly, Rafe would have missed it if it weren't so vivid that it etched itself in his mind. Fear gripped his throat, then an overwhelming sense of loss, of Moira being physically torn from his hands.

"I'm good at this," Moira said, reaching for him. "Trust me."

Rafe took her hand and kissed it. "Anthony is working on answers, but he says by sunset we need to have Grant Nelson protected in a reverse spirit trap. The demon will find him whether we use him as bait or not." But that didn't make Rafe feel any more confident. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"You can watch my back, okay?" She was trying to make light of the serious situation. Rafe took her face in his hands and kissed her softly.

He'd do a lot more than watch her back.

TWENTY-FIVE

Grant tried to ignore his partner, who was watching him too closely. Grant felt as if he were onstage. He rubbed his head and finished filling out the report on his interview with Moira O'Donnell.

Witness claims she's a psychic and saw deceased kill Craig Monroe in Velocity alley. Called it a death imprint
.

He tore up the report into tiny pieces. This was ridiculous. No one would believe her;
he
didn't believe her. He didn't know what game Moira O'Donnell was playing, but he had to stop thinking about her because all he wanted to do was screw her brains out.

He froze. Where had that thought come from? He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead.

Johnston said, "Hey, Nelson, you're exhausted. I'll take care of the rest of the paperwork. You should head home."

He shook his head. "I just didn't sleep much. Julie was upset about what happened to Nadine and we stayed up half the night." More like all night. And he still didn't feel satisfied. When Moira O'Donnell walked into police headquarters, all Grant could think about was taking her to bed. Hell, forget the bed. He just wanted to have sex with her. Grant had always enjoyed sex--too much sometimes--but he'd always put his job first. Now he couldn't get sex out of his mind. It was making him physically and mentally uncomfortable. He felt like a randy teenager who wanted to convince the head cheerleader that if she didn't put out he was going to die in agony, just to get in her panties. Only now, he had the uncomfortable sensation that he
was
dying.

Impossible. No one died because they didn't have sex.

Grant wanted to divert Johnston's attention from his physical condition to the case at hand. "Did you get anything on the man in the photograph Nina gave us?"

"Nothing. I sent his pic to Missing Persons and maybe they'll have something. I looked into the P.I.'s death, talked to the responding officers. The witnesses were solid; his staff reported that he was acting paranoid and skittish, and more than one thought he was on drugs. He had a drug problem years ago, was clean, but as you know it just takes one time to go back."

"What kind of drugs?"

"Cocaine."

"Did they find the dealer? Evidence of cocaine during autopsy?"

"I said that the witnesses
thought
he was on drugs--it went to his state of being."

"Do you have the autopsy report?"

Johnston sighed. "No."

"I need to contact the morgue anyway. Find out about our frozen waitress, and Nadine Anson's autopsy. Maybe I'll go down; sometimes showing up gets more answers."

"I'll go," Johnston offered.

"You hate the morgue."

"But I like that cute pathologist."

"Fern?"

"Yeah. The one with the sexy little nose ring."

"Maybe you should let me talk to her for you."

"I can hit on a woman all by myself," Johnston said.

"Yeah, but I've known Fern for years. Come on too strong and she'll knock you down."

"I wouldn't mind that too much." Johnston grinned. "I like women who stand up for themselves."

"Fine, come with me."

"You should go home. You look like shit."

"Fuck you," Grant said without animosity.

"Right back at you."

"If we split up the workload, we can both be home in time for a late lunch."

"You want the morgue," stated Jeff.

"Yep. And I have seniority. You can interview Pam Erickson again, feel her out about how she really felt about her husband's relationship with other women and see if you can push her a bit, without letting on that we think she had something to do with it."

"So does this mean you believe Nina?"

"I don't know what I believe. But Nina is a straight shooter, and I'm more inclined to trust her instincts than I am to trust a woman who was having sex with her ex-husband while her otherwise healthy current husband died. And then after Mrs. Erickson, talk to Marcus Galion about both his brother and Nadine Anson. Both his brother and girlfriend dead within a week?"

"Don't you want to do it?"

"You're good at making people comfortable. Feel him out. If you think we should bring Marcus in, we'll bring him in."

Grant just wanted Jeff to leave, because it was getting harder and harder to keep up the act that everything was fine. In fact, he couldn't. He shut down his computer and stretched. "I'm going to take a leak, then head to the morgue. We'll touch base this afternoon."

"Roger that, Boss."

Grant knew he should go home. He was in no condition to talk to anyone or go to the morgue. Events were spiraling out of control and he didn't know what to do about it. What the hell was wrong with him?

In the bathroom, he locked the door. Though the police station never closed, it was midshift Saturday morning. Quiet. He'd seen something this morning in the mirror--thought he'd seen something--but in denial, he hadn't paid much attention to it.

But he hadn't been able to get it out of his mind.

He stripped off his shirt, hoping the mark was a figment of his imagination and lack of sleep. The bathroom had one long mirror above the sinks, and if he angled his body right he could look over his shoulder and see most of his back.

On his lower shoulder blade was the mark. He could lie to himself and say it wasn't
exactly
like the odd tattoo-like marks on the two dead guys, but he didn't. It was as close to being identical as he could remember. Red, like a port-wine-stain birthmark. The edges seemed to bleed into the surrounding skin, but there was a fine red line, like a blood vessel, that created an odd image.

He didn't need to see more. He pulled his shirt back on and walked out.

How the
hell
had he gotten that thing on his back? It hadn't been there yesterday morning. It didn't hurt. The skin was slightly raised when he felt it, so slight that he might not have noticed it if he hadn't seen it.

It was not possible--but it was there. He considered calling Moira O'Donnell, the cult expert. Psychic or not, that woman knew a hell of a lot more than what she'd told him.

He drove to the morgue while contemplating bringing in Moira O'Donnell to help. His head ached in spite of the milk, the coffee, and an untold number of aspirin. The bright sunlight burned his eyes and he fumbled for his sunglasses on the visor, nearly hitting a parked car. Though he had only drunk one beer last night, he felt hungover.

One beer. At Velocity. He could have been drugged. He'd gone home with Julie. He couldn't imagine that Julie--whom he'd known for two years--would have done anything like drugging him or tattooing his back. But he'd been at her place, and his memory was spotty. Those dead men with the marks were all connected to Velocity, and so was he. Had he stumbled upon a criminal activity where someone would kill a cop to keep it secret? Was Julie part of a conspiracy?

A ghost of Julie's image on the YouTube video of Nadine's death seemed impossible, but right now Grant could almost believe she'd been there. Right now, all he knew was that something was wrong with him.

He flashed his badge to the guard at the morgue parking lot and called Moira O'Donnell.

"Hello, Detective, miss me?" she asked, exaggerating her Irish accent.

"Meet me at your hotel."

"What's wrong?"

"I have questions."

"Okay, when?"

He looked at his dashboard clock. It was nearing the lunch hour. He had the morgue, then needed time to cross town and find food somewhere, though the thought of eating made him ill. "Two o'clock. Your room."

"We checked out--"

"I told you not to leave town!"

"It was a little pricey for me. We'll meet you in the Palomar lobby."

"Fine."

"What's going on--"

He hung up. Her voice was so damn unique, so seductive with that Irish lilt, his penis began to throb painfully and he reached down to adjust it. Grant had the overwhelming urge to jerk off. He was so hard that he was afraid someone would see, or that he'd have some sort of waking wet dream.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself as he got out of his car and walked in through the employee entrance, flashing his badge to the receptionist. He found the bathroom; there was no lock on the main door. Fortunately, no one was inside. He went into the stall, slid the lock in place, and pulled down his pants. His penis was large, red, and painful to the touch. Damn, this couldn't be natural. Something was wrong.

What could he tell his doctor? That he had a perpetual hard-on all day? Maybe someone at the station spiked his coffee with Viagra or something. Some sick joke because he'd stepped on some asshole's overly sensitive ego. Not Johnston--but there were a couple of cops who didn't like Grant. He
wanted
to believe it was a prank, but he knew it wasn't. More likely he'd been drugged at Velocity last night, and his rock-hard cock was a side effect.

He couldn't live like this. He reached down and, embarrassed and angry and in pain, he jerked off. He pictured Julie last night and the things that he'd done to her, and he felt ashamed. He'd never been that callous before, that unconcerned about pleasing her. He closed his eyes and pictured himself fucking her, over and over, and then Moira O'Donnell's face replaced Julie's and Grant moaned, then bit his tongue so hard his mouth filled with blood as he spurted semen into the toilet.

He stood there, head down, flushed, ashamed at what he'd pictured, what he'd done, and what he wanted to do. He spat into the toilet, a bright red wad of saliva.

Still feeling ill, Grant washed his hands and face with icy water, then went to the main morgue level and asked the desk to page Fern Archer.

While he waited for Fern, he called Julie on her cell phone. No answer. He hoped she wasn't angry with him about last night. She had every right to be. He wanted to make it up to her, but didn't know how--or if he could.
Fool. She's the one who most likely drugged you. Have Johnston pick her up for questioning
.

How could he do that to Julie?

How could he not? He was a cop first.

He called Jeff. "Hey, Johnston, I need you to track down Julie. I have some questions for her."

"About what?"

He couldn't very well tell Jeff the truth because he didn't know what the truth was, and his theories were insane. Sure, tell his partner that he'd been drugged and assaulted last night. That he practically raped his girlfriend. That he was so sick he jerked off in the bathroom and was still hard and uncomfortable.

"Don't tell her why, just find out where she'll be this afternoon. Tell her we need to ask her some follow-up questions."

"What are you thinking, Grant? I'm your partner--tell me what's going on."

Fern walked into the lobby. Grant used her as an excuse. "I'm at the morgue; I can't talk now. It's about Nadine and drugs," he added to get his partner off his back.

"I'll let you know what I find out."

Grant hung up. "Hello, Fern."

She smiled, her nose ring of yesterday now an emerald green stud. "Hey, Detective, what can I do for you?"

He glanced at the receptionist and said, "I wanted to ask you some questions about the woman who was brought in yesterday, as well as Erickson. And I need an older autopsy report."

"Sure." She hesitated. "I could have faxed you a report. You didn't have to come all the way over here."

"I wanted to take another look at the marks on the bodies."

"Whatever floats your boat. Right this way." Fern handed him disposable cloth booties for his shoes and he slipped them on. "We finished the suicide yesterday."

"She was a suspect in the death of George Erickson."

"Yeah, I saw the video on YouTube."

"Shit, who hasn't seen it?"

"No one in L.A., that's for sure. It's rare that you get such a fabulous, public confession."

"What did the autopsy reveal?"

"She died from massive internal bleeding--a no-brainer since a bus ran over her. She didn't live through it, which I suppose is lucky for her. She obviously was suffering enough before she went over the edge. Her ribs were crushed. A mess, really."

Grant didn't need to know the details. "Blood tests?"

"Not back yet. We ran a few in-house--no alcohol in her system--but the biggies won't be back until the end of next week. We've been sending more than our usual number of blood tests to the lab, and they've been complaining, damn lab bureaucrats." She shook her head. "We have a pool going here among the pathologists. PCP is leading, though without the alcohol chaser I don't see it having the effect I saw on the video. She was paranoid and panicked. I think it's a newly engineered LSD, probably made in some kid's basement, and she tripped. She was lucid and disoriented at the same time. She spoke clearly, but she sure wasn't acting sane. She was also dehydrated and hadn't eaten in more than twelve hours."

Grant really didn't care about the morgue's betting pool. "Did she have the same mark on her body as Erickson, Monroe, and Galion?"

"No, but I found a tattoo."

"You're certain it's a tattoo?"

Fern glanced at him as she stood outside the crypt. "Of course I'm sure. High-end, too. Quality ink, intricate design. Gorgeous, really. Almost makes me wish I were white." She laughed. "Not."

She opened the door to the crypt. "Monroe's family is taking possession of the body today. It's being shipped back to his home state; the transport company will be here this afternoon." She pulled off the sheet. Grant stared at the mark on the pale body, dull but still red against Monroe's skin.

"Have you figured out what that mark is?"

"No, but the coroner is going with a tattoo." Fern frowned. "His theory is that it's a new kind of process that uses an organic ink."

"That's bullshit. We'd be able to know whether it was a tat or not."

"I agree, but he didn't want to hold up the body when it's clear Monroe died of cardiac arrest."

"You're certain."

"Well, we know his heart stopped. We have the initial drug panels back. We've sent the blood for additional screens, and the coroner is agreeing to cardiac arrest with a possible secondary cause unknown narcotic since his endorphin levels were high. Which makes sense. If your suicide victim comes back with something else, we have enough of Monroe's blood samples to run more tests. Some labs have been engineering Ecstasy with LSD and other drugs. Nasty shit, and we've seen teenagers come through here pumped up with drugs that are variants of what's popular. They end up in the hospitals, too. Some are brain-dead; some just die. I promise, we'll keep at it. We want to know, and I know your Narcs want to keep up with anything new hitting the streets."