Damnable
CHAPTER 17
WRIGHT WATCHED FROM HER CAR AS SHERMAN BACKED the truck up to the rear of Grace Church, parked it, and climbed down from the cab. The limo came to a stop a few yards away and a trim, distinguished-looking man whose face she immediately recognized stepped out and stood next to it, looking on. The man tossed Sherman a set of keys, then leaned back against the trunk of the car. Sherman walked behind the truck and out of view.
“That’s Valentine,” Reynolds said.
Wright pushed against the steering wheel, pressing herself back into the seat, thinking. They were across the street, two buildings away. The view was partially obstructed, but what she could see was suspicious enough. Truth was, anything involving Lucas Sherman was suspicious. The presence of Demetrius Valentine only made it more so. But suspicious in the real world and suspicious in court after lawyers got involved were two very different things.
“I think I read something about this,” she said. “About him buying this church. He planned to renovate it, restore it. Said he was going to give it the diocese or something when he was through.”
“Warms my heart. How much you want to bet they’re up to no good?”
A sucker’s bet, Wright thought, reaching for her purse. If Sherman was involved, they were up to no good. She didn’t know what to make of Valentine.
“What are you doing?”
She riffled through her bag, pulled out a cell phone. “I’m calling Maloney. We need to get a real surveillance organized.”
“And what if he says no?” His voice took on a smug, serious tone. “And he will say no.”
“Is there something you want to tell me, Reynolds?”
“I’m just saying, if Maloney shuts us down, like I have a feeling he will, we’ll never know what’s going on. I told you, I don’t trust him.”
“Wait one giant second—when you said you didn’t trust him, I thought you meant he might try to screw you over in the department, or something like that. Maybe he was holding back info. Are you seriously suggesting he’s dirty? That he’s on the take?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying before we do anything else, we should find out more about what’s going on, make it so no one can question whether we should move forward. Aren’t you curious? I know I am.”
“Okay, Supercop, what do you propose?”
He pointed through the windshield. “One of us circles around the other side of the church, sees if there’s a way to peek inside. The other keeps an eye on our boys. We see if we can catch a glimpse of what they’re up to in there. What they’re unloading.”
“Without a warrant?”
“This is a church, not his house. Where’s his expectation of privacy?”
A misty rain started sprinkling over the windshield, blurring the various lights into starry shapes. “I don’t know. Sherman is dangerous.”
“I’m not scared of him.” Reynolds pulled his arm back and patted his Glock. “All that muscle can’t stop a bullet. We can silence our phones and text each other. Hopefully, I won’t even have to go inside to get a look.”
There was movement. The angle was bad, but Wright could see a large crate, about six feet by eight, being rolled off the back of the mover. Sherman was operating some kind of motorized hand truck. The sidewall of the cargo compartment blocked most of the view, with Wright only catching a glimpse as the crate crossed a loading ramp. It disappeared into the rear of the church, Sherman guiding it.
Reynolds hummed. A phony sound of surprise. “Well, Detective? Curious yet?”
“Okay. You win. But I’m the one who’s going. You stay here. I’ll look for a window. Text me if anything out of the ordinary happens. And no confrontations. Understand?”
“Completely.”
“I sure as hell hope this doesn’t bite us in the ass,” Wright said.
“Aw, c’mon. You love this kind of thing. You have to. It’s why people like us become cops, isn’t it? It certainly isn’t for the pay.”
Wright said nothing. She wasn’t sure she liked this new Reynolds. She realized she wasn’t sure she’d liked the old one, either.
She got out of the car quickly. Reynolds slid over to take her place behind the wheel.
The light mist moistened her face as she hurried up the sidewalk. It took her a few steps before she was confident the church blocked any view Sherman or Valentine might have had. She slowed to a brisk walk and glanced back over her shoulder. Reynolds gave her a thumbs-up and she cut across the street.
An alley ran along the opposite side of the church, blocked by a wrought-iron fence set in several feet off the sidewalk. Wright stopped in front of the rope-twisted bars and tested the gate. Locked. She rattled it once, stared through the bars at the church windows. The big ones were stained glass. And high. The few that weren’t twenty feet off the ground were tiny and opaque and very low. Basement windows. Trying to find a window to look through had been a stupid idea.
And Reynolds probably knew that. She stood there thinking about him for a few moments, then stepped back and glanced at the car. Reflections off the windshield made it impossible to see him, but she knew he could see her. It dawned on her that he never intended to just peek through a window, that it was just a pretext to put things in motion. She shook her head and scraped one index finger across the other in his direction. The little shit.
The rain started to fall a bit more heavily as she made her way to the front of the church. She climbed the stone stairs to a large pair of wooden doors set back in a portico. The handles to the doors were black iron, cold to the touch. She pressed a thumb latch. It didn’t budge. She grabbed both handles and shook them.
Goddamnit.
She pounded the side of her fist against one of the doors and turned around.
Leaning back against the wood, she wondered why she was feeling so frustrated. But she knew the answer before she formed the question. It was because Reynolds was right. Sherman and Valentine were up to something, something definitely no good, and she wanted to know what.
The headlights of a passing car illuminated her as she circled back to the fence, stretching her shadow across the sidewalk, then snapping it back into darkness. She gave another look at the side of the building. A recessed side entryway was visible about halfway back, sunken, with a pair of rails descending down a short staircase.
There had to be a way to get back there.
Climbing the fence was not a realistic option. It was at least eight feet high, and she was in a skirt. And pumps. And not much of a climber.
The adjacent building was a general purpose structure, unmarked and dark. Probably belonged to the church at some point. She dismissed the idea. It would be locked, too, and even if it could get her behind the fence, there was no reason to believe the side entrance to the church wouldn’t be.
An uncomfortable feeling swept over her as she realized she was wondering what Hatcher would do. That was ridiculous. Her brow tensed as she pushed the thought of him from her mind. The jerk. She couldn’t care less what he would do. He was clueless. A clueless jerk.
Wright stood at the gate for a few more moments, staring through it, running mental traps. She had a habit of meticulously exploring all her options before reaching a decision. She wasn’t about to give up and do nothing, not when Sherman was involved, so as she saw it there were only two choices. One was to try to get a warrant. That would take too long, another point she had to admit Reynolds had been right about. So really, there was only one. She would go back and get Reynolds, call for backup, and the two of them would go in and find out exactly what was going on. Let the lawyers fight it out.
Halfway across the street on her way to the car, she stopped and looked back. A sliver of pale yellow light knifed across the portico, falling from an opening between the doors.
She hesitated, then shot a glance over to Reynolds. She still couldn’t see him through the windshield. The rain continued to thicken, drops audibly plopping off the sidewalk. Rivulets of water ran down her face and she wiped at her eyes. Trading looks between the car and the side of the church, she quickly cut across the street. The truck was still back behind the building, but no sign of Sherman or Valentine as she made her way to the driver’s-side door. That seemed a good thing at first, and she felt a bit of relief. But it didn’t last long as she realized that meant she wasn’t certain where they were.
The windows were streaked with water and the inside of the car was dark, but even with the rain making it so hard to see through the glass, she knew before she opened the door. The car was empty. Reynolds was gone.
Her eyes shot back to the front of the church. A glance up and down the street, one behind her, then back to the church again. Did he go inside? Was he the reason the door was cracked? How did he open it? How’d he get by her?
She stood in the opening between the driver’s-side door and the car, getting drenched. Think. Maybe he hadn’t seen her circle back to the side of the church to look through the fence the second time. Maybe he’d gone looking for her. Had she tried both handles at the entrance? Had she pressed down hard enough? Maybe he was in there, needing help.
Call for backup.
She glanced down into the car and stared at the radio beneath the dash. Backup for what? She had no idea where he’d gone.
Cell phone.
She retrieved her phone and punched in a quick text. She stopped just as she was about to send it. What if he was inside and hadn’t set his phone to vibrate? He hadn’t done it when she did. Not that she saw. That begged another question—why hadn’t he texted her if he didn’t know where she was?
The rain began to sheet. Wright shut the car door and darted toward the church, splashing through gathering puddles with short, rapid strides. She took the steps two at a time and paused only briefly at the front doors before pulling the open one wider and squeezing through as quietly as she could.
The change in surroundings was jolting. The damp and wind and outside noise were all suddenly replaced by a hollow, almost sterile quiet, a solemn sense of space, of stillness. She moved further into the anteroom and peered down the aisle toward the distant altar. The church appeared empty, but the feeling in her bones told her otherwise. A church was one of those places that never felt empty, even when it was.
A small pool of water formed at her feet on the marble floor. She tried to shake off the excess before moving further. Without unholstering it, she placed a hand on the stock of her compact nine-mil. There was something about drawing a weapon in a church that didn’t seem right.
She stepped forward into the nave, taking in her surroundings with a series of quick visual sweeps. Movement near the altar caught her eye, and she realized it had been more than just a feeling. She wasn’t alone. She could make out a figure in a hooded robe, huddled down low, hunched over as if kneeling and bowing in prayer. She drew her pistol, held it low, arms extended, her left hand cupping her right, holding it steady.
Where the hell was Reynolds?
She tried to maintain area awareness as she moved closer to the person, keeping tension in her arms, her weapon in a ready position. As she drew within a few yards, she noticed a bouncing movement under the cloth, a rising, falling shudder. Whoever it was seemed to be sobbing. The slope of her back, the angle of her body, told her it was a woman.
“Police,” she said, still moving closer, her voice low but clearly audible in the echoing quiet of the church. “I have to ask you to identify yourself. And to show me your hands.”
The hood rose slowly, the face inside it obscured in shadow. Wright’s fingers tightened around her weapon. The robed figure lifted its arms, and Wright saw delicate female hands, bound together with tie wraps. Wright reached forward and flipped the hood back, revealing the woman’s face.
She drew back in surprise. The unmistakable double click of a hammer being cocked filled her ears. Before she could react, she felt the end of the barrel press against the back of her head. A hand closed around her upper arm like a vise, squeezing three fingertips into the nerve below her bicep so hard the entire side of her body seemed to go limp. By the time a squeaky whisper from behind told her to drop her weapon, it was already tumbling free.
Her gaze jumped to movement above her. A man leaned over the edge of an ornate pulpit protruding from an angled wall. The instant she recognized him, she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her buttocks. She yelped and jerked her hips forward.
“Well, well, well. So glad you could join us, Detective,” Valentine said, looking down at her. He flashed a broad smile, teeth sparkling like porcelain. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t show.”
HATCHER WATCHED THE SHAPE TWIST AND CONTORT BENEATH the glowing aura, the eyes of the host intermittently changing color. Changing owner. He wasn’t certain whether he could trust his own eyes, and if he could, whether the form coming in and out of view was actually his brother.
“I . . . I’m glad I get to meet you, Jake,” said a voice that didn’t seem to quite come from the body.
Hatcher continued to stare, but didn’t respond.
“Come now,” Soliya said. “Don’t you have anything to say to him? He’s your flesh and blood. Or, was.”
Hatcher turned his head toward her, his eyes lagging behind a bit as he peeled them off the spectacle pulsing in front of him. “This is some sort of trick.”
Soliya’s eyes danced. A short, bemused laugh escaped with her breath. “Feel free to test him. His memory will be limited, but it should be good enough to erase your doubts.”
“I’m not falling for this.”
“You’re boring me, Mr. Hatcher. There’s nothing to fall for. Talk to him.”
A sickening air of fear and anxiety seemed to emanate from the boy. Hatcher could see it in the shifting expressions and undulating movements, could almost smell it, taste it. He was well acquainted with that mix of emotions.
“Why’d you get sent to Hell?” Hatcher asked, tossing the question out like he was making small talk.
“I don’t know. They don’t exactly tell you. Or maybe I just don’t remember.”
Hatcher glanced at Soliya, frowning.
“What’s my—what’s your mother’s favorite animal?”
The boy’s eyes seemed to close, though it was hard to tell through the bluish haze and stretched flesh. “My real mother, you mean? Our mother? Flamingos. She loves flamingos.”
Okay, he thought. Score one. “What’s it like? Hell?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Soliya spoke up. “Keep in mind he’s been severely traumatized. Memories of actual life begin to fade immediately once the soul is in Hell’s depths. What is retained is just enough to maximize emotional duress. Even after mere days, he would be completely incoherent, virtually insane once brought back. So the summoning is designed to block all that out. If he had any clear recollection of the torment now, you wouldn’t even be able to converse with him.”
“It’s cold,” the voice interjected, still eerily disembodied though appearing to come from the moving mouth of the figure. “A burning cold. I sort of remember that. And I remember it being so lonely. Like no one else exists. I just know I don’t want to go back. Oh, God, I’d do anything not to go back.”
Hatcher thought he could hear a sob in the voice. He turned to Soliya again. “This is ridiculous. I don’t believe any of it.”
Soliya wagged her chin. “You’re not exactly asking him anything of substance.”
The face pressed out again, a flash of light brown irises Hatcher had seen before. Every time he looked in the mirror.
Hatcher wasted no time striking the thought. This was absurd. Just ask him something.
“Do you remember how you died?”
“I remember being in traffic. There was a woman. I was trying to save her. Did I?”
“Yes.”
A pause. “Guess it wasn’t enough, huh?”
“Guess not.”
“I did a lot of bad stuff in my day, Jake. Maybe, maybe I do know. Oh, God, yes, that’s it. That stuff, I remember. I was a contractor. You know what I mean by that?”
“Like Blackwater?”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
Hatcher nodded faintly. The so-called War on Terror had prompted new approaches to military operations, the extensive use of private security contractors being among them. They were well-paid mercenaries, tasked to do things the government didn’t want the military being implicated in. Hatcher hated the whole notion of a War on Terror. You can’t win a war with troops and weapons when the enemy is a concept. He hated the use of contractors, too. Not because they weren’t good at what they did, but because they were. That led to bad strategy, winning battles while losing ground. Wars needed to be fought by soldiers, not mercenaries, and against enemies, not labels. Ideas don’t die by bullets or bombs. They’re defeated by will. You don’t break your enemies’ will by outsourcing.
He realized, though, that if any of this was real, you do apparently send those hired to do your dirty work to Hell.
“You’re good,” Hatcher said, turning to Soliya.
“Oh, I see. You still think this is some elaborate hoax. How predictably simpleminded of you. Regardless of whether you’d prefer to believe that, Mr. Hatcher, this is all very, very genuine.”
“I wish it weren’t, Jake,” the maybe-Garrett said. “I can’t tell you how much.”
Hatcher started to move forward. He raised his hand, reaching toward the blue aura. “Let’s just see about that.”
“No.”
Her voice was firm enough that Hatcher stopped. There was a quality to it that reached into his past, plucked at strings of experience, struck a jarring chord. It was that unnatural combination of urgency and calm. Like when someone was warning you your foot was about to trip a claymore. The experienced guys didn’t raise their voices too much. Only enough to get you to pay attention. They didn’t want you to jump at the sound.
“If you so much as touch him,” she explained, “you’ll share his fate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The damned are, for lack of a better description, unclean. Once in Hell, a soul carries damnation like a plague. Touch him, and you’ll be headed there when you die. No amount of repentance or faith or good works will change that.”
“That’s assuming I buy into any of this. Which I don’t.”
Garrett spoke up: “I’d listen to her, Bro. I don’t know much about what’s going on. I just know I’m completely fucked. I wouldn’t want that for you.”
To Soliya, Hatcher said, “Fine. Let’s say I was to believe you. Why’s he here? Why am I here? I think it’s time you dropped the smoke and mirrors and told me what this is all about.”
“He’s here because I thought we might need to impress upon you the importance of the stakes. Those stakes are what this is all about.”
“Stakes.”
“Yes. Enormous ones.”
“And what do these enormous stakes have to do with me?”
“That’s an easy one, Mr. Hatcher.” Her lips flattened and she gave him a sober, piercing look. “Everything.”
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