The Redeemed Page 2

  You were either in the holy camp or the unholy camp in his opinion. No one could be a part of both. Good people died and went to Heaven. Unholy people died and went to Hell. Just as the Rapture would snatch good people up in the glory of Heaven, so would he snatch unholy, evil people to the depths of Hell. One day he would sit next to Satan.

  Mike was the chosen one and only he knew it.

  It was a fine line, though. He took pleasure in killing priests who had hurt children. The pleasure was a gift as everything unholy grew contrary to pleasure. Only the true God of Hell could take pleasure in the burning of souls.

  Mike turned the car on when officers noticed him parked on the side of the road. Two men in uniforms walked toward him.

  When Mike talked to Lucifer, he was promised a seat to the right of the Lord of the Flames if he could deliver the souls of God’s representatives. That was what he intended to do for as long as he could. And anyone who attempted to stop him would die. The stupid girl and her friend just went on his picture board. A dozen years from now, the murders of Catholic priests would be nothing but a memory for the city of angels. But the murder of a girl on one crutch would be forgotten within a month.

  He pulled away from the curb and performed a U-turn, passed the Presbyterian church and headed downhill. The officers stopped walking, hesitated a moment and turned back. They would probably assume he was a reporter who chickened out on getting the money shot because he didn’t have a media badge or had decided that seeing the dead body would haunt his dreams.

  Didn’t matter. He got the shot he needed.

  Next time he would snap a photo of that priest, Father Adams.

  He couldn’t imagine Adams was his real name. Who could be that high up in the Catholic Church and share the name of that man from the Garden of Eden? What are the odds?

  He smiled to himself in the rearview mirror. It was no different than the name of his girlfriend.

  Evelyn Wynn.

  He called her Eve.

  As her personal apple, he tempted her all the time.

  She was only eighteen, but the young ones were more gullible, more easily trained. And like a carrot to a horse, or a bloody steak to a starving Doberman, women that young were drawn to cash, and he had enough to lure her away from the streets, away from her world.

  He couldn’t go to Hell without taking Eve with him.

  In the rearview mirror, he saw his smiling reflection, the devilish curve of his mouth and the homicidal fire in his eyes. Murder a priest, then fuck his girlfriend, the prostitute. Murder a priest then be gifted for it.

  Maybe when he murdered the girl on the crutch he could do her, too.

  His smile widened as he puffed on the remains of his cigarette.

  The road to Hell was paved with good intentions, and he had enough good intentions to fill a football stadium. Preferably with whores. All under the age of eighteen, just waiting to be deflowered.

  But first, he had to kill another priest.

  The asbestos chamber was ready.

  He wondered how it would feel for the next priest as he was gassed and burned alive just like the Catholic Ustashi did in Croatia during World War II. Anton Pavelic, also known as the Butcher of the Balkans, was a practicing Catholic and a regular visitor of the pope during the 1940s. He ran a brutal extermination camp that burned their victims alive, killing over half a million people during the war. Many of the murderers were Franciscan Friars in what came to be known as the Vatican Holocaust.

  The Roman Catholic Church is the oldest corporation on Earth. They’re also the most evil with their lies, murder, genocide, slavery and hatred, not to mention how they handle pedophiles internally. Who better to send directly to Hell than the men representing this organization. If it was any other company, they would have been shut down centuries ago. But not the Catholic Church.

  No, because the church has always worked for Lucifer. It’s his wickedest deception, his great and secret performance.

  A little research and Mike had all he needed to murder Catholic priests.

  A little more research and he would know who the girl with the crutch was.

  Everything Lucifer promised would be his.

  He took a right on Beverly Glen Boulevard and headed to the parking lot where Eve worked. Tonight she would be his, and he would make sure she didn’t work the streets ever again. It was time to have the whore all to himself.

  He loved the sight of himself and smirked in the mirror once more.

  How could being so evil feel so good?

  Lucifer was right. Everything bad just tasted better.

  Even Eve.

  Chapter 3

  The Los Angeles sun beat down hard, pressed past the curtains, violating Sarah’s hotel room. Even with the curtains pulled tight and the air conditioner on full, the heat pressed on her as she lay in bed. Sleep had been elusive after last night’s interruption.

  Parkman hadn’t knocked on the adjoining room’s door yet. He was either still sleeping or gone for breakfast.

  She got up, leaned heavily on her crutch, and made her way to the kitchenette. She started the in-room coffeemaker and then fired up her MacBook Pro at the desk. After logging onto the hotel’s Wi-Fi, she pulled Vivian’s note from her pants pocket and typed the man’s name into Google.

  Gaspard de Coligny, a Protestant leader, was assassinated August 24, 1572, in the most brutal fashion. She read how he was killed and then understood why Vivian had given her this note.

  It was a guide, a flashlight in the dark. Vivian was pointing the way. The only problem was her timing. It was too late.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “I’ll be a minute,” she shouted.

  Sarah moved to the bed and gingerly slipped into the track pants she used when lounging in the hotel room. Then she hobbled over and poured the coffee at the little kitchenette.

  The knock came again.

  She sipped her coffee then stepped closer to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Detective David Hirst.”

  “Parkman’s in the other room.”

  “I came to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “Will you open the door?”

  She took another sip of her coffee and thought about it, her wounded ankle suspended in the air.

  “No.”

  “I can’t talk to you through the door.”

  “What’s with the unannounced visit? Where’s Parkman? How many people do you have with you? Since I don’t have any new information for you and I didn’t call you, why are you standing outside my door? You see, Mr. Hirst, I have too many unanswered questions to simply open the door. I’m just a little girl with a broken ankle. It’s too dangerous to open the door to men I don’t really know. Bye-bye.”

  “You know me,” he said. “I’m Parkman’s colleague. You can trust me.”

  She sipped more of the coffee. “Thanks for the advice, but I decide who I trust and right now that’s only Parkman. Not after what happened in Canada, anyway. So move away from my door and enjoy the rest of your day. Remember, I’m only here because Parkman asked me to be. I’m not here for you.”

  She moved back to the desk slowly, making sure not to spill her coffee. Even if Hirst was clean and only here to talk, which she felt most likely, it was rude to just show up at a girl’s hotel room unannounced. Especially considering what she went through in Canada. All of North America heard her name in connection with the brutal murder of a police officer. Even though she was cleared, it still changed the way cops looked at her.

  By the time she finished her first coffee and was getting up to pour more, there was another knock at the door. She hobbled over to it and smacked it hard with her hand.

  “Are you thick? Go away. Don’t you have something more important to do than harass me?”

  “Sarah, it’s Parkman.”

  “Oh, shit.” She unlocked the door and opened it. “Sorry. I thought you were Hirst—”

&nbs
p; Detective David Hirst stepped into view from the right side of the door. She glared at Parkman.

  “What?” He shrugged. “I didn’t trick you. He said you wouldn’t talk to him without me. I was in the restaurant eating a tasty breakfast. Now I’m here.” He walked past her into the room fiddling with his toothpick. “So talk, Hirst. Tell her what you came to tell her.”

  “Yeah, tell me what was so bloody important.”

  Hirst entered the room and closed the door behind him. Sarah headed for the chair at the desk to get off her good foot. She couldn’t be mad at Parkman. The opposite actually. She owed him for almost killing him in Santa Rosa last month. Then he saved her life from a maniacal cannibal in Canada. Being eternally grateful to Parkman meant just that. It also meant she would do anything for him and couldn’t wait for the chance to repay him for the sacrifices he had made for her.

  On the other hand, she’d just met Hirst and she always let the other person set the standard. If Hirst remained respectful, she would be respectful. If Hirst was a dick, she would respond in kind. Friend of Parkman’s or not, she had to engage in a relationship with professionals on her terms from the get-go or it wouldn’t work.

  Hirst crossed his arms as he leaned back on the room’s door.

  “My hands are tied,” he said. “I don’t know what to do or where to go with this case. Calls are being made. Big shots are coming to L.A. If I don’t get some leads on this case within a couple of days, they’re going to form a task force and take it from me.”

  “What are you saying?” Sarah asked. “Are we done here?”

  “You’ll be off the case by the weekend if nothing breaks. Let me rephrase that. I will be off the case this weekend if nothing breaks.”

  “What big shots are you talking about?” Sarah went to drink from her cup and forgot she hadn’t refilled it yet. She got up and started for the kitchenette, but Parkman raised a hand. He took her cup and refilled it for her.

  “The Catholic Church is bringing in a representative from Rome.”

  “How does that affect you?” Sarah asked. “Or us? Aren’t we only advisors?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Hirst pushed off the door and walked farther into the room. He addressed Sarah directly. “I’ve heard about you for years. I knew Parkman was your friend. I have always wanted to meet you. When I got to three dead bodies with no clues, not even DNA under a fingernail, I called Parkman. Well, here you are,” he spread his hands wide, “and still, I have nothing.”

  “There’s no guarantees with what I do. I’m sure Parkman was clear on that point.”

  “Yes.” Hirst nodded at Parkman. “Yes, he was.” He brought his attention back to Sarah. “Not to mention the flack I’m getting for you being here.”

  “None of this is my problem. Nor will I feel responsible for it. If I can help, I will. If I can’t, well, you get the picture. Is there anything else?”

  “There is.” Hirst tapped his bottom lip and looked down at the carpet, lost in thought. “Have you ever met Father Adams before?”

  “No. Why?”

  Hirst met her gaze. “You seemed overly aggressive with him last night.”

  “It’s in my nature.” She drank from her cup. “I wish I was softer, kinder.” She shrugged. “But I’m not.” She offered him a wry smile. Then her lips drew back to a line again. “It’s kept me alive.”

  “Father Adams seemed anxious in your presence.”

  “Maybe he can recognize when someone isn’t intimidated by the clothes he wears or what his belief system is. I don’t have a lot of respect for authority to begin with. Don’t get me wrong. I have no personal issue with religion. Believe in what works for you and let me believe in what works for me. I would never push my beliefs on anyone and I don’t want to be preached to. But when a man walks around thinking he has an idea of what God might think or say is just a clown in vestments. Yeah,” she nodded, “that’s what he might have felt from me.”

  “So you two don’t have any history?”

  She looked at Parkman, then back at Hirst. “Really? Didn’t I just answer that?” She turned back to Parkman. “How do you know this guy again?”

  “Sarah,” Parkman said. “If you don’t have anything, I’m fine with that and so is the detective. Calling us down to L.A. was a last ditch attempt.” Parkman walked over to Hirst, his hand extended. They shook firmly. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”

  “It’s fine, really.” Hirst looked past Parkman at Sarah. “I believe in what you do because I trust Parkman. He wouldn’t bring a charlatan to me. I guess I was just hoping you’d have something.”

  Hirst released Parkman’s hand and stood there, his suit clean and pressed, Windsor-knotted tie, shiny black shoes. He looked like the stereotypical TV detective. The strain showed on his face. He needed to eat better and slow down.

  “I have a name,” Sarah said.

  Both men exchanged glances.

  Hirst, his eyebrows raised, said, “A name?”

  “Gaspard de Coligny.”

  “What kind of name is that and how does it help us here?” Parkman asked.

  “Vivian gave me the name when we were called to come out to the murder scene last night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this last night?” Hirst asked.

  “The name wasn’t relevant last night. It is now.”

  “How could you know it wasn’t relevant last night?”

  “Because your killer always engraves the names of the victims on a cross. You would know the name of the body regardless of the condition it was in. He has been consistent on that point.”

  “What if it’s the name of the killer?”

  “It’s not the name of the killer.”

  “How could you possibly know something like that?”

  “Google it. You’ll see that Gaspard has been dead for over four hundred years.”

  “We’re really getting nowhere with this, aren’t we?” Hirst put his hands on his hips. “How is it relevant at all, then?”

  “Your killer isn’t just out to execute Catholic priests. He’s replicating atrocities the Catholic Church have been involved with going back as far as the Crusades and the Inquisition. At least that’s my guess.”

  Hirst and Parkman both frowned. Parkman spoke first.

  “You got all that from a name?” he asked.

  “Let me ask you something,” Sarah said as she placed her coffee cup on the desk beside her computer. She rested her broken foot out in front of her. “The body you found last night, were the clothes wet?”

  Hirst’s eyes twitched briefly. He was surprised, astonished.

  “How … did you know that? It was dark. He was partially covered in dirt. You didn’t get down and examine the remains.” His voice rose a notch. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Gaspard de Coligny was stabbed with a sword in the 1500s. A mob of Catholics mutilated his body by cutting off his head, his extremities and his genitals. Then they dumped him in a river. After a moment’s reflection, they decided he wasn’t fit for fish food, so they yanked the corpse out of the water and dragged his body to a local gallows where they let the maggots work on him.” She waited a moment to let that sink in. “When the call came last night, Vivian gave me the Gaspard name. It’s not that hard to figure out the killer is reenacting against the Catholics what the Catholics have done to others. Since the Catholic Church has committed hundreds of atrocities over centuries and your killer is picking them at random for each kill, you won’t be able to catch him by that alone. There are simply too many horrors committed by the Church over the centuries to be able to nail one down, let alone know what his next murder will copy.”

  Hirst moved to the bed and sat on the corner. Parkman went to the window and looked out.

  “We do crime scene analysis, fingerprints, DNA, investigative work,” Hirst said. “I hadn’t thought of examining the kill to see if it had been done before.” He turned to face her. “I would’ve never
discovered the murder of a man in the 1500s. Even if we did, I would’ve brushed it off as coincidence. Father Alvin went through the exact method of murder that you just described.”

  “This means,” Parkman said, “you have an educated man out there killing priests.”

  “An angry man,” Sarah added. “Someone who hates Catholics. Probably someone who has had a terrible experience with them. There has to be something to drive a man to murder priests in a way that resemble past crimes committed by the church. Father Alvin wasn’t the only victim killed to replicate the past, I’m sure.”