No One Left to Tell (2 page)

Then a muffled gurgle dominated his senses—until there was nothing.

Euphoria swept through him with Blair's last breath. The man's body now hung limp in his arms. With a gloved hand, he reached for the night-vision goggles and tossed them to the floor. He filled his lungs with the coppery aroma of fresh blood. Closing his eyes, he released the body to fall hard to the cement. He'd used the ego of his prey as a weapon against him. His plan had worked. As he thought of Mickey Blair lying dead at his feet, only one thing came to mind.

"Death humbles you when nothing else can." The sound of laughter dotted the dark landscape. His men rose from their positions, one by one. It had been a successful hunt. The contractor on this job would be pleased. With the overhead light crackling to life, shadows ebbed from the grisly tableau.

"Job well done, men." He raised his voice, relishing the attention. He stood amidst his men. Their applause and shouts fueled his adrenaline. "But it ain't over. Let's get this place cleaned up. We got a delivery to make. And we're on a tight schedule."

St. Sebastian's Chapel
Downtown Chicago

Father Antonio's footsteps echoed along the dimly lit corridor between the rectory and the chapel, accompanied by the soft rustle of his cassock. The nip of an early freeze bored through mortar and stone, intensifying the musty, dank smell of the old church. The change in season always challenged his patience.

"Holy Father, why do you torment me so? Have I not been a good servant?" The young cleric smiled. His feelings toward the first cold front had been cultivated from childhood. It had nothing to do with his vocation or his faith.

Arched windows lined the hall, offering a secluded view of the church cemetery. His heart sank at the sight of a dusting of snow that outlined headstones and crypts. Images of death, covered by an early winter, encouraged his reflective nature. And sparse lighting along the perimeter of the graveyard only marginally repelled the decaying gloom. He identified with the daunting struggle of light against dark—a symbolic reflection of his life's work. Without slowing his pace, he let his eyes drift from one window to the next as he walked through the dim passageway.

But tonight, a lone man caught his attention. Father Antonio stopped. His breath fogged the small glass pane.

"There you are, my friend. What demons have drawn you out on such a cold night?"

Bundled in a long dark coat, a man hunched against the cold under a pale light, his back turned toward the priest. His body cast a faint shadow in the mantle of snow. A gust of wind swirled white crystals at the man's feet, clinging to the hem of his overcoat. Despite having only a scant glimpse of him, Father Antonio knew his identity by the family tombstone.

Years ago, he'd investigated the gravesite to learn his name. With the man so reticent to talk, the cleric had succumbed to his mortal weakness of curiosity. He'd invaded the stranger's privacy by searching cemetery records and old newspaper stories at the library—a result of another long winter season with too much time on his hands.

"Come inside, where it's warm, my friend. Or do you relish the weather's punishment?" He understood the need for penitence.

It was the man's ritual to stand by the grave before he'd wander into the smaller chapel to sit in the last pew on the left. Always, the man would be rapt in his own contrition. But tonight, his observance changed. He turned to look directly at Father Antonio from across the burial ground. The man peered up through the murkiness of dusk. His eyes locked on to the priest.

Father Antonio gasped. He stepped back from the window, his reaction purely instinctive. With his heart battering his chest, he closed his eyes and filled his lungs. After a moment, he exhaled with deliberation to calm his panic.

"Not very charitable, Antonio," he muttered, shaking his head. Why would he react so strongly? But he knew the answer to that question the instant he examined his recoil.

The eyes of the man were haunting. Beyond the sadness the cleric expected to find, death shadowed the stranger. That fact tempered any further interest the priest had in him. Chastising himself for his weakness, Father Antonio forced his gaze into the graveyard once again. He wanted to redeem himself as a compassionate man. But the stranger had gone.

In that brief instant he'd ducked for cover, the man had vanished, leaving only faint impressions in the snow that he'd been there at all.

"Holy Father, give me strength," he pleaded, whispering for his own benefit. Glancing at his watch, he noticed it was after seven. Already late by his usual schedule. Now, he'd have to rush through prayer after this little delay.

Resuming his duties, he headed for the entrance to the auxiliary chapel. With the larger cathedral closed for restoration work, the smaller facility remained open to the public at this hour. Unlocking the breezeway door into the church, he was surprised to find the chamber dark. Light from the street filtered through the ornate stained-glass windows. Eerie hues of blue and red spilled across the floor, eclipsed by shadows of tree limbs tossed in the brisk winds off Lake Michigan. The stone walls of St. Sebastian's muffled the howl of the winter blast.

He expected the stranger to be seated in his usual spot at the back of the church, not sure how he'd handle the awkwardness of seeing him. A sense of relief came when he found the place dark and empty.

Allowing his eyes to get accustomed to the dark, he remained at the door. He listened to the sounds of a room he knew well. With the stillness, he presumed he was alone. But who had turned out the lights? Feeling his way in the dark, he found the control panel for the interior lighting.

"Let there be light," he commanded. Slowly, he turned the knobs for the fixtures along the walls. It would be all the light he'd need.

With barely a glance through the church, he set about his routine. Late-night confessions in this urban setting brought a variety of sinners to God's door. Over the years, Father Antonio had grown familiar with many of their faces, people who'd be invisible to others in the light of day.

Kneeling at the base of the crucifix, he closed his eyes to pray for his flock. It had become his nightly ritual before he'd slip into his confessional at the first sight of a sinner seeking absolution. The hush of the church graced his prayer, making it easy to lapse into the familiar. But a faint repetitive noise beckoned his awareness, detracting from his purpose.

A rhythmic patter summoned his consciousness.

A measured, tedious sound.

Being a resident of St. Sebastian's, he'd grown accustomed to rain finding its way through the worn roof of the rectory. But the chapel and its sacristy were another story. Opening his eyes, he caught sight of motion to his left. He spied the offending puddle. A dark, slick pool collected at the base of the crucifix. It bled through the spacing between the patterned tiles. Now, a metallic odor invaded his senses, mingling with the sweet aroma of incense. Nearly choking on his next breath, Father Antonio felt the chill of the empty chamber crawl along his flesh.

Inch by agonizing inch, his eyes trailed up the wall.

The beautiful porcelain face of Jesus Christ, forever frozen in his sacrifice upon the crucifix, had been replaced. Lifeless eyes stared down at him. Grotesquely twisted in death, a man's head dangled at an odd slant, contorted by a gaping wound across the throat. The body reflected the pale light of the church in its thin furrows of blood.

A muffled scream gained momentum, reverberating through the chapel. For a long while, Father Antonio hadn't realized the cry was his own.

Detective Raven Mackenzie spotted her partner, Tony Rodriguez, on the sidewalk outside St. Sebastian's on Erie Street. His silhouette was backlit by rotating beacons of red and blue from the police cars parked behind him. Captured by the streetlamps overhead, plumes of exhaust fumes drifted in vaporous clouds.

The flashing color should have been a deterrent to spectators, warning of police activity in the area. But every nutcase in the vicinity came to watch the show despite the weather, like there wasn't enough murder and mayhem conveniently available by clicking the TV remote at home. And the purveyors of bad news gathered like vultures. Huddled en masse, the media stood along the street, voices raised with questions, vying for attention. She studied the rank and file of expectant faces, well aware how cynical she'd become in the last two years since her assignment to Homicide as a new detective.

"Hell, you live closest. What took you so long, Mackenzie?" Rodriguez grinned, his words fogging the air.

Being on call, she had her evening interrupted by the chirp of her cell phone, the jaded voice of her partner on the other end of the line. She'd just popped in her latest DVD acquisition and was chowing down on a mega bowl of cereal. Nothing that couldn't be interrupted.

"Quit your whining, Rodriguez. Your wife would probably love to get a whole five minutes out of you."

Irregular gusts whipped between the buildings, gaining momentum. She walked beside him down the sidewalk next to the main cathedral, heading for the smaller church. The darkened stained glass encased in stone brought back memories of an untainted childhood. But she hadn't seen the inside of a church in a very long while. Somewhere along the way, real life had severed the link.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don't get any complaints in that department, thank you very much." Raising an eyebrow, he badgered her. "At least I got a life, such as it is."

"What are you talkin' about? I've got a life. I was spending some quality time with Walt. Just started the Platinum Edition of
The Lion King
before I was so rudely interrupted."

Normally her penchant for classic animated Disney had been a secret she kept all to herself. A ritual lovingly instigated between a father and daughter. But Tony had found her
Cinderella
DVD on her coffee table once, before she'd tidied up and shelved it in her small media room, another eccentricity. Without the excuse of having kids, or even a husband for that matter, she'd been busted and had to fess up. So she'd been forced to contend with his incessant ribbing ever since.

"Sorry. What can I say? It's all about the circle of life, Raven." He shook his head and shrugged, gently bringing her back to the reality of their situation in Disney lingo.

"Hakuna matata,
my friend." She grimaced against the chill. "No worries."

The idle chitchat allowed her to prolong her sense of normality—in denial that she'd soon look into the glazed eyes of another victim, sharing the intimacy of death. But casual conversation at the scene hadn't always been a part of her demeanor. In her first few investigations, she had remained stone quiet when she crossed the yellow tape, the pit of her stomach wrenching with anxiety. Now, she and Tony talked about nothing, their humor masking something neither of them wanted to discuss. But she'd never learned how to rid herself of the twist in her gut. It came with the territory.

Out of habit, she felt for the CPD badge clipped to her jeans belt loop under her sweatshirt. She moved it to an outside pocket of her leather jacket. It would give her clearance through the yellow tape and beyond the line of uniformed police officers protecting the integrity of the crime scene.

"What do we have, Tony?" She pulled a small notepad and pen from her jacket, making a note of the date and time. Tugging at the bill of her ball cap, she continued toward the front steps of the chapel. "DB in a church? What a world, huh?"

"I don't know. Maybe dying in a church is like getting sick in a hospital. Could be worse, I guess."

A young officer held his hand up, but let them pass when she tapped her detective's badge and muttered in reflex, "Homicide." Then she indulged in the twisted banter only another cop would appreciate.

"Dead is dead, Tony. No matter how you slice it."

"Don't say slice, Mac. Trust me on that one."

Donning her game face, she walked through the main door, snapping on her latex gloves. Down the main aisle and to the left of the altar, lights were ablaze. Crime-scene investigators were already hard at work taking photos, dusting for prints, and bagging and tagging evidence. Staring at the wall to her left, she caught the macabre sight, barely aware she held her breath.

Flash.
The split-second flare of a camera cast a sickly pallor onto the face of the dead man.
Flash . . . Flash.

A man in a rumpled suit hung from a crucifix. His body covered the porcelain likeness of Jesus Christ, strapped in front of it with rope. As she looked at his suit, an odd thought found fertile ground in her mind. Dressing for work this morning, did the man deliberate on his choice of suit or contemplate his shirt color?
All of it . . . so pointless.
Raven's world had grown colorless, accented by varying shades of mortuary black. This same theme had infringed on her peace of mind more than once lately.

"You all right?" Tony reached for her elbow. His dark eyes centered on her, blocking out everyone else in the room.

"Yeah." She waved him off. "Just thinking about something else. It doesn't matter."

"There is nothing else, Mackenzie. For people in our line of work, it all begins when we cross the line. Remember that." He smiled faintly, falling into the role of her training officer once again. After she nodded, he turned and blended in with the others.

"It all begins when we cross the line," she repeated one of Tony's favorite sayings to reinforce the thought— getting her head back in the game.

But crossing the line for Tony meant the crime-scene barrier set in yellow tape. For Raven, it took on a more symbolic meaning. Crossing a line meant risk. And in taking that risk, change would be inevitable. Was she prepared for a change in her life? When she gazed around the room, a familiar thought gripped her.

"There's gotta be something else, Tony. At least, I hope so," she whispered as if in prayer. And St. Sebastian's was a good place for that.

Raven drew closer to her partner. She heard him give a directive to one of the beat cops. "Canvass the neighborhood. See if we can catch a break, find someone who caught some suspicious activity outside the chapel. You know this neighborhood best. Grab yourself a team."