What You Can't See (3 page)

But Zaccardi was among those pathetic humans who wanted a piece of the pie. As if destroying demons would grant him a larger room in Paradise. Because of Zaccardi and his powerful friend, he’d failed. He hadn’t been able to keep Zaccardi at bay and Cooper trapped at the same time he manipulated death. And in that sliver of time, the soul he’d been promised got away from him.

He burned at the unfairness of it!

Losing the body chosen for him greatly irritated the demon. That which was lost would have given him more power than he’d ever had. He’d have ruled on earth forever! He would have opened new portals for his Master, converted more humans to dark service. They would be a potent force, undefeatable. No angel would be able to destroy them. No human would be able to fight them. They’d have the numbers and strength to come and go at will among the pitiable human bodies.

What a travesty that he needed such a weak vessel to survive in this dimension!

With the remaining strength from the ritual that had brought him from Hell, he’d be able to keep the souls trapped until he could complete his mission and send them to the fiery pit. He needed another body, which his earthly servants would soon provide.

He could survive in an unwilling body, but the constant battle to restrain a fighting soul would prevent him from attaining his highest power. Sooner or later, he would need a willing human to increase his strength.

The dead around him moaned with dread of their fate.

No one can save you. You were betrayed by one you loved, and you’re mine for eternity.

The demon laughed, and waited, and the trees of the forest groaned.

S
KYE LISTENED TO
D
ETECTIVE
J
UAN
M
ARTINEZ
as she drove from the mission back to town.

“While you were talking to Zaccardi in the courtyard, I spoke to the delivery boy,” Juan said, glancing briefly at his notes. “Brian Adamson. He delivers every Monday morning between nine and noon.”

“Did he have anything to add?”

“He confirmed what Zaccardi said about Cooper being a recent transplant. Came here a month ago. The interesting thing is that Cooper recently fired the housekeeper, a Ms. Corrine Davies.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Ten Seaview Lane. North of town.”

“Let’s go pay her a visit.”

Juan flipped through his notes and said to Skye, “According to the property manager, Corinne Davies and her daughter, Lisa, moved into the house nearly two years ago when the mother took a job as cook and housekeeper at the mission. They’ve never been late on the rent, no complaints, not even a call for repairs. Ideal tenants.”

“How old is the daughter?”

“Twenty. A college student.”

“Background?”

“No warrants, no arrests. I have Ms. Davies’s credit application. A widow, her last address was in Salem, Oregon, where she worked for the Catholic diocese. Her references included the bishop.”

“Who hired her in Santa Louisa?”

“Bishop Carlin.”

Martinez had spoken with the bishop earlier in the day to inform him of the murders and ask questions about Rafe Cooper. Skye had met the bishop only once before, when he presided over the funeral for one of her deputies. She was more comfortable with Juan handling the religious contacts. She didn’t need religion, didn’t understand people who sacrificed everything for something they couldn’t see. People who abandoned their family, their homes, everything, for a promise only good when you were dead.

Skye pushed that all from her mind. Already, this case was eating at her and memories of her mother threatened to return. She was as done with her mother as the last criminal she’d locked behind bars.

“Why is Cooper here?” she asked.

“Raphael ‘Rafe’ Cooper is a seminary student up in Menlo Park,” Martinez said. “The bishop doesn’t have any personal information on him.”

“How does he just move to the mission without the diocese knowing his history? Isn’t there some sort of background check, employment verification, anything? I need Cooper’s background, ASAP. But what I really want to know is, why is he
here
?”

“Bishop Carlin didn’t know. The mission, though technically part of the diocese, isn’t under his control.”

“So who controls it?”

“The Vatican.”

“As in Vatican, do you mean like the Pope and the Catholic Church Vatican?”

“Apparently. Someone in Rome, Francis Cardinal DeLucca, sent the bishop an introductory letter a month ago stating that Cooper was being sent to evaluate the priests for service. Cooper is a psychologist, perhaps he was giving them a mental health update, I don’t know.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. That’s all he knew.”

Switching gears, she asked, “Why did the diocese fire the housekeeper?”

“They didn’t. Cooper did. Ms. Davies is still on the payroll,” Martinez said. “Bishop Carlin told her to take a couple weeks and he’d find her a different position. He seemed angry with Cooper for firing her without consulting him.”

“Maybe I should talk to the bishop.”

“Are you questioning my investigative abilities?”

Skye bristled at the accusation in Martinez’s voice. “No, and you shouldn’t think that I would. But you’re Catholic, you have respect for the office, maybe you didn’t ask the right questions.”

“I asked the right questions.”

Skye changed the subject as she turned off the highway. “Do you know why Davies left Salem?”

“No, but her daughter is a student at UC Santa Barbara.”

“She’s commuting an hour to college?”

“We do what we can when we’re broke,” Martinez said with a half grin.

“Let’s go.”

The coastal cottage on Seaview Lane had an exquisite view of the ocean, almost identical to Skye’s own property three miles down the shoreline. The cottage rested on a bluff with a sheer drop to the Pacific Ocean beyond.

Skye surveyed the rental house. Small, neat, functional. The perfect place for a recluse or lovers, separated from nearby homes by nature. Craggy, wind-sculpted cypress trees lined the property, and with the smell of salt water and sound of crashing waves below, the entire setting was picturesque.

She opened the door of her police-issue Bronco and they walked up the cobblestone path to the porch. The cottage looked well lived in with lots of plants, herbs, and flowers growing in pots resting on every available inch. Skye rapped on the door.

A moment later a young woman answered. She had long dark hair and large pale brown eyes. To say she was beautiful would be an understatement.

“May I help you?”

“Sheriff Skye McPherson and Detective Juan Martinez,” Skye said. “We’d like to speak with Corinne Davies, if she’s home.”

“My mom is on vacation. Is something wrong?”

Lisa Davies would hear it from the press, so Skye said, “There’s been a multiple homicide at the mission.”

The girl’s eyes clouded with tears and her delicate hand went to her mouth. “What happened?”

“I can’t say, but we’d like to speak to your mother about anything she may have witnessed or heard during her time working there.”

Lisa shook her head. “Mom was so upset after—I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Cooper was a vile human being. He hurt my mother cruelly, fired her for no reason. She’s at a health spa, trying to accept what happened and look for another job…’’ Her voice cracked. “She knows I love going to college here and she’s trying to find something local.”

“Where can we reach your mother?” Skye asked.

“I don’t want to trouble her. She’ll be heartbroken.”

“I need you to trouble her. This is important.”

Lisa relented. “I’ll call her. I’m sure she’ll come home immediately.”

“Please have her call us as soon as she returns.” Skye handed Lisa Davies her business card. “Did you frequent the mission?”

“I went up there a few times.”

“And what was your impression of the men who lived there?”

“Harmless,” she said. “Nice, I guess. I really didn’t talk much to them.”

“Did you meet Rafe Cooper?”

She hesitated, and Skye suspected she was about to lie. “Once.”

“Did you have an impression?”

“He seemed mightier-than-thou. I’m sure my feelings are clouded by what happened to my mother. He fired her. For no reason.”

“Please have your mother contact us as soon as possible,” Skye said and led the way back to her Bronco.

“What are you thinking?” Martinez asked.

“There was so much wrong with that conversation I don’t know where to start.”

“She assumed Rafe Cooper was dead.”

“Exactly. And she didn’t ask who else had been killed, if we’d caught the suspects, nor did she seem fearful of her mother’s life.” Skye paused as they climbed into the truck. “You said the bishop kept Corinne Davies on the payroll. Why did her daughter think she’d been fired and needed to find a job?”

“Perhaps the bishop is keeping her on payroll until she finds something,” Martinez suggested.

“Hmm.”

“You think she was involved?” Martinez asked.

“I’m not making any assumptions at this point, but I can hardly wait to speak to Corinne Davies. I’d like you to do a deeper background check on mother and daughter.”

Skye turned the ignition. “Let’s go check in with Rafe Cooper’s doctor.”

A
NTHONY SAT AT
R
AFE’S
bedside, praying over him, concentrating so hard that he was oblivious to everything else, trying to figure out what had happened.

If only it were that simple. If only he’d been blessed with second sight, like some of the others. If only he could reach into Rafe’s mind and see what had happened…

He admonished himself for his futile plea. As Father Philip often said, accept the gifts you have and don’t covet the gifts of others.

As a young child, he had found it difficult to understand what advantages he would have in the ongoing war. He’d been sheltered by the monks because of his strong empathic ability. He sensed good and evil in both people and things. When he was young, overwhelming waves of negative emotion nearly destroyed him; it was only with age and training that he learned to control his senses.

Now, his ability served him well as a demonologist. And sitting here, at Rafe’s side, he knew there were no demons inside him, nothing evil that kept him comatose. Only emptiness, a void, as if Rafe were already dead.

“What happened in there, Rafe?” he whispered.

Perhaps the coma was Rafe’s way of dealing with the tragedy. Where had he been during the slaughter? Had he witnessed it? Had he listened to it? Had he been somehow trapped by the demon? Why had he been spared? What had caused him to collapse at the altar?

So many questions, and Anthony had no answers, and likely wouldn’t until Rafe woke up.

Anthony was six when he first met Rafe. He’d instantly bonded with the child who radiated goodness.

But there had always been questions. Rafe was older than most, abandoned at the monastery at the age of three instead of infancy. He’d been dying until Father Philip laid hands on him. He had scars no one could explain, as if he’d survived a brutal battle, though he was still a toddler.

By the time the boys of St. Michael’s reached puberty, their gifts had been revealed. Demon hunter, psychic, healer, among others. For Anthony, it was his recognition of good and evil, his empathy, his ability to purge demons from inanimate objects like buildings. But as for Rafe—his gift was still unknown. At the age of twenty-one Rafe had decided to serve as a priest. He’d been sent to America because Father Philip sensed it was right. Yet ten years later, Rafe had still not received the Sacrament of Holy Orders. It was as if God Himself was pushing him in another direction, Rafe had told Anthony on more than one occasion.

“I go through the ceremony and I can’t say the words. Something holds my tongue.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner, Rafe?” Anthony whispered. “I would have dropped the world for you, my friend.”

Anthony reached for Rafe’s hand and stared. His right hand was in a cast, his left bandaged. He pulled Rafe’s chart from the end of the bed and read.

Three broken fingers on his right hand and a shattered wrist. Fingernails on six fingers half torn. Wood slivers embedded in the tips, down to the bone.

There had been so much blood at the chapel Anthony hadn’t noticed Rafe’s hands had been so damaged. Slivers of wood? Had he been trapped somewhere during the massacre? How? Who? The demon?

“I must go to the mission tonight,” Anthony whispered. “I need to find out what happened to you.”

He would search not only for answers to what had happened to Rafe, but for some way to free the souls still trapped.

“I’m going to try,” he said aloud. How could he not? How could he do nothing? Evil would triumph, the demon would grow stronger, Hell would burn hotter.

Anthony sensed that he stood on the edge of something big. Hell churned, working overtime. They, the fallen ones, would be coming in waves. As more human beings worshipped the darkness, more demons would rise to the surface. This, the slaughter at the mission, was the beginning of a battle that Anthony feared would last until end times.

He took out his holy water and prayer book. He blessed Rafe, then surrounded his friend with a powerful protection against Hell. Rafe was at his weakest now; Anthony refused to let Satan claim him.

Martinez was silent on the drive to the diocese’s main office.

“What?” Skye finally said.

“Have you considered that maybe Mr. Zaccardi is right?”

Skye rolled her eyes. “I should
never
have told you what he said.”

Martinez’s light brown face tensed. “Are we partners on this case, or are you pulling rank,
Sheriff
?” he asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the best detective on the squad.”

“If you want me to do my job, you need to listen to me.”

“I always listen to you.” Skye was hurt that Juan thought she was pulling rank. “I value your opinion.”

“Then take it,” he said. “I think you should listen to what Mr. Zaccardi has to say.”

“That
demons
killed those priests? Come on, Juan. You’re not so damn superstitious to think that something not even human could slaughter those men!”

“And I didn’t think you were so closed-minded that you couldn’t see the possibilities.”

“Please.”

“You’re letting your mother stop you from seeing the truth.”

Skye fumed. “Don’t talk about my mother. She’s dead, if you haven’t forgotten. And if anything, her murder should tell you that those people are all a bunch of freaks.”

Juan’s jaw tightened. “Is that how you think of me? A freak?”

“That’s not what I meant—” It had come out all wrong. But isn’t that what those people did? Promise the world as long as you give up everything you know and love? If her mother had never left, her father would never have been out in the woods that night; he wouldn’t have died and left her alone.

Juan didn’t say anything. She was angry with herself for hurting him, and angry with him for being so easily swayed.
Demons.
Right.

“Dammit.” She resisted the urge to pound her head against the steering wheel.

“Look, you know that one man could not have done that. Not all those priests were old. They would have fought back. Rafe Cooper has no marks on him whatsoever. No defensive wounds. No offensive wounds. His hands are bruised and scraped and Rod thinks it’s from pounding on his bedroom door. The blood from the door matches Cooper’s blood type.”

After Zaccardi left the mission, Rod had discovered evidence in Rafe Cooper’s room that suggested he’d been trapped inside. But there were no locks on the door and no plausible way he could have been locked in.

“What do you think happened?” Skye finally asked.

“I don’t know. But I think you need to look at all possibilities.”

She didn’t want to hurt Juan—he was one of her few friends in the Sheriff’s Department. But what he was saying was ludicrous. “Okay, here are the facts. Twelve men between the ages of thirty-six and eighty-one were murdered in cold blood. Rafe Cooper was unharmed. A thirty-one-year-old man, healthy, strong, unconscious for no reason?”

“Maybe he walked in on the scene after the fact, collapsed from the stress. Especially if someone had locked him in and he heard what was happening.”

Skye weighed that and admitted that perhaps Juan was onto something. “Then let him out of his room when they were done? I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense to me, to leave a potential witness.”

“Why was no blood found outside of the chapel?”

“They’re still processing evidence,” Skye said, “but an organized killer might wear a jumpsuit and shoe coverings. Strip upon leaving the chapel.”

“Good point. But why? Why was it important not to get any blood outside of the scene?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe the vandalism occurred before the attack, while the priests were praying or something.”

Martinez flipped through his notes. “Time of death is estimated at four-thirty
A.M
., take or leave thirty minutes.” He glanced at her. “Odd time for a prayer meeting.”

They were dead between four and five in the morning. Anthony Zaccardi had arrived just after five. Dawn. Right on the heels of the murders.

Skye had called ahead for a meeting with Bishop Zachariah Carlin, but the sun had long set when she and Juan arrived late that evening.

“Thank you for speaking to us,” Juan said.

Carlin shook his head solemnly. He was in his sixties, with a full head of gray hair and bright blue eyes. “I won’t be sleeping tonight. I’m still in shock.”

“We’re sorry to have to ask you these questions,” Skye began, “but it’s important that we have an understanding of who lived at the mission, who worked there, and any threats you, they, or the church may have had.”

“Threats? Someone is always threatening the church.”

“I’m talking something specific. A letter or phone call aimed at the mission.”

Carlin shook his head. “The mission is its own entity. It isn’t really part of the diocese.”

“But you own the property.”

“Yes, but five years ago the Vatican asked if they could use the mission as a home for retired priests.”

“Certainly you noticed that not all the priests there were of retirement age,” Juan interjected.

“We didn’t want to advertise that the mission was for mentally disturbed men of the cloth.”

“Mentally disturbed how?” Skye asked.

Carline steepled his fingers. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“They are
dead,
” Skye said. “Murdered in cold blood. They couldn’t care less if you discuss their mental health. All I want is to find their killers.”

Carlin said, “I was told that the mission priests were on sabbatical after being witness to horrific acts of violence. I was given one example. Father Diego Ortega. He was serving the people in Africa. He and a group of missionaries built a church and school in a village and taught the natives how to grow food. The village began to thrive, be self-sustaining. One Sunday during Mass a rival tribe barricaded the church and burned it to the ground. Many died. Father Ortega survived without a scratch. He believed this was a sign to preach the word, but he went to two more villages and met the same fate—his parishioners died and he survived. He was recalled when he showed signs that he was not capable of serving as a shepherd.”

“Well, he’s dead now,” Skye said, cringing at how cruel that sounded. “So he was recalled to what? Get over it?”

“To heal. To know that God’s plan is not our plan.”

Skye inwardly winced. What God would allow a bunch of innocent people to be burned to death? What God would allow his most faithful servants to be brutally slaughtered in cold blood?

She didn’t know what she believed, but she held fast to the knowledge that bad people did bad things, and it was her job to find justice for the victims.

And no acts of
God
would stand in her way.

“Why wouldn’t the diocese or the Vatican or whoever was in charge hire a qualified doctor to counsel these men?”

“Dr. Charles Wicker is retained by the U.S. Bishops,” he replied. “He works up in Santa Clara and, from what I’ve ascertained, makes monthly visits to the mission. I don’t know him personally.”

Skye switched gears. “Who hired Rafe Cooper?”

“He’s not an employee of the diocese,” Carlin said carefully.

“Then why was he there?”

“I received word that Mr. Cooper would arrive to counsel the priests.”

“You didn’t like him.”

“He’s not a likable person.”

“How so?”

Carlin didn’t respond.

“Bishop, I need all the information in order to do my job.” When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Who paid him?”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“Mr. Cooper is a seminarian, I believe from a seminary in Northern California. He’s also a trained psychologist, from what I’ve ascertained. He’s been to medical school, but doesn’t have a doctorate or medical license.”

Skye made some notes. Rafe Cooper was becoming even more interesting as the day—and night—wore on.

“When did he arrive?”

“March sixteenth.”

“And he fired Ms. Davies two weeks ago. Under what authority?”

“He had no authority,” Bishop Carlin said, anger in his voice.

“But you didn’t reinstate her.”

“Under the circumstances, I could hardly put her back into that hostile situation. I suggested that she take a week or two vacation and I’d find her a position in another church. We run numerous schools and a hospital.”

“Did Mr. Cooper tell you why he fired her?”

“No.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“He refused to tell me. All he said was that she was a threat to the mental health of his priests.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t there some sort of hierarchy here? How could he just fire a diocesan employee without your permission?”

“He can’t. He told her she wasn’t allowed at the mission.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!”

This was going nowhere. “When was the last time you were at the mission?”

“Months ago. Thanksgiving dinner was my last visit.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Cooper?”

Carlin thought. “Two weeks ago, after he’d banished Ms. Davies.”

Walking out, Skye whispered to Juan, “You dig into Corinne Davies and contact Dr. Wicker. I’ll pump Zaccardi for information on Rafe Cooper and work with Rod at the crime scene. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”