Deliver Us From Evil Part 5

FIVE YEARS AGO, Anthony had explored the forest surrounding the Santa Louisa de Los Padres Mission and remembered an alternate way in. The unpaved road was overgrown, but it would lead to the back slope and, hopefully, allow Anthony access to search the mission without police interference. He couldn't use the main entrance. During his earlier reconnaissance he learned Sheriff Skye McPherson had left a deputy to guard the place, either against the killers returning, or curious citizens.

He parked as far down the trail as possible, his headlights cutting harsh swaths of light against chaparral oaks and rocks. The eyes of an animal glowed against the black and gray, then disappeared with a blink. An easy wind tapped the car, the swish-swish of oak leaves brushing the roof.

Anthony pulled a windbreaker from the back of his rental and stuffed a small packet of tools into the pocket. He doubted the locks had been changed, but if they had he'd still be able to get in.

Rafe was no killer, and Anthony had to find proof to turn the course of the police investigation. While Sheriff Skye McPherson didn't believe a demon was at work, she was searching for human killers. Someone had used the strength of demons to murder those priests, and Anthony had to work with the sheriff to find those people. Because there were two evils in Santa Louisa: the evil of h.e.l.l itself, and the evil human beings who had brought a piece of h.e.l.l to earth.

Demonolatry was alive and well in the world, a platform for h.e.l.l to prevail. Anthony was a soldier in the fight against evil. He couldn't do it as a priest, and he couldn't do it within the rigid structure of the church. There was a place for men like him, and that was fighting against the most insidious evil of all.

That which preyed on the innocent.

People would die if he did nothing. That was his fate, and a charge he did not take lightly.

With a deep breath, he stepped from the car and into the cold spring night, snapping on his flashlight. He walked parallel to the mountain, the slope treacherous and overgrown with saplings that slapped him in the face. He tasted blood on his lip. The moonless sky aided his disguise, but thwarted quick movement.

Help us.

The whispers of the dead told Anthony he was close. The path to the mission was steep, but his years of physical labor aided his journey up the mountainside. He spied the three-story bell tower under the dim light of an ancient lamp. Faint, subtle, like everything about the mission.

He paused at the tree line, trying to sense where the guard was while catching his breath. All he sensed was evil.

Help us help us help us Rafe had been extremely worried these last few weeks, otherwise he would never have contacted Anthony in the first place. Anthony wished he'd asked more questions, pushed Rafe for answers. Now, he had to think like his friend. Had he kept a journal? Where would he have hidden it? Had the police found it? Would Skye tell him if they had? The police had no weapons to fight incorporeal beings, but if Rafe had left a clue, a message, anything, it might help Anthony in this battle.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket shortly after he crossed the tree line and walked through open s.p.a.ce. "h.e.l.lo," he said quietly, kneeling low to the ground to avoid being seen.

"Anthony, I found what you're looking for."

The voice of Father Philip gave Anthony the only sense of home and family he'd ever had. The image of the demon on the wall of the sacristy had haunted Anthony because it wasn't a common demon, one he was familiar with. He'd spent most of the afternoon trying to figure it out, but he didn't have access to his books and papers and so had called the one man who knew more about demons than he did, the one man who had never let him down, the one man who had saved him.

"Is it Aaba.s.sus?"

"No, but you are close. Ianax."

Anthony's heart turned cold. Ianax was an ancient demon rumored to be one of the most powerful under Satan until a falling out with the devil himself had sent Ianax farther into the pits of h.e.l.l.

"Are you certain?"

"I am. You were correct that three human souls are needed to summon him. The interior circle shows the powerful connection between the three, and how that connection creates a second sight. An energy, for lack of a better word. They can use that energy to control inanimate objects."

"But only when they're together, correct?"

"They are most powerful when all three are together and the demon is at their center. But I suspect they are long pract.i.tioners of demonolatry and black magic."

Anthony feared the same. "Anything else?"

"Ianax can't survive long without a body. Are you sure he hasn't claimed Raphael? Perhaps the coma is his way of fighting the demon."

"No," Anthony insisted. "I was with Rafe this afternoon. I would have sensed the demon."

"Yes, my son, yes, you would have." Father Philip sighed. "The danger of these people is they believe they will grow stronger with the demon at their side. And for a time, that is true. Perhaps one of them offered their body to him."

"Why? Why would they willingly give up their body?"

"It is said that those who willingly sacrifice their body to a servant of Satan will be given rewards in h.e.l.l. Some believe aiding the demon will give them the key to the fountain of youth. Immortality."

Walk with the willing dead. The phrase took on a dangerous new meaning.

"But it's not a possession?"

"No. That's what makes this demon more dangerous, and the human immortal. If someone willingly gives up their body, the demon is not waging an internal battle. All his strength can be used for evil. Be careful, Anthony. Now that Ianax is loose he is growing in power and seeking revenge. Soldiers like us have kept him trapped for centuries."

"I'll be careful."

He hung up and considered how the presence of Ianax changed everything. During the battle between Satan and Saint Michael the Archangel, Ianax had been Satan's strongest ally. He'd betrayed Saint Michael with lies and treachery, and had been sent with Satan into the pits of h.e.l.l for eternity. For his loyalty, Ianax wanted to rule half of h.e.l.l, but Satan's ego would not have it. A smaller battle ensued and Ianax was sent to rule the lowest pit of all, the darkest corner. He fed on revenge, betrayal, and lies, and could only be summoned by a union of three dark souls chanting the proper ritual. A ritual Anthony thought the earth had long forgot.

But it wasn't just a ritual he required. Ianax demanded human blood, and he'd be doubly pleased with the blood of G.o.d's men. Was the death of those men a rite of pa.s.sage for Ianax's worshippers?

Had Rafe seen something that made him suspicious? Who were the three responsible for this evil act? Three couldn't have killed twelve people, unless . . .

Unless the priests were incapacitated in some way. Had they not been able to fight back? Had they been led like lambs to the slaughter?

Anthony wanted the crime scene report, but after his disappointing meeting with Skye McPherson, he doubted she'd include him in this investigation. The head of the crime scene unit, Rod Fielding, was too loyal to go behind her back. Maybe the detective-he might agree to help. But at risk to his career? Anthony would have to tread carefully.

The sheriff didn't know where to look. She was suspicious of Rafe, didn't have any faith to accept-on Anthony's word alone-that Rafe wasn't involved. He'd have to prove it to her. Skye didn't seem like the type of woman to rely on faith or trust for anything. He needed to learn more about her, find a way through her emotional shields. Earn her trust. Quickly.

The cold whipped Anthony as he hid downslope of the mission, a hundred yards away.

Help us help us help us.

The windlike chanting grew louder, the dark whispers taunting him, begging him with fearful urgency.

Moving low and fast, he ran toward the mission.

Skye relieved her deputy at eleven that night. She dismissed his inquisitive stare. She knew what he wanted to ask: why was the sheriff staking out a crime scene?

She didn't answer the unspoken question. She wasn't even sure herself why she was here. Except that she knew, as certain as the sun would rise in the morning, that Anthony Zaccardi would be here tonight.

The generator had been sabotaged, Rod had told her shortly after her meeting with the bishop. Rod had dusted the equipment, but it was devoid of any fingerprints.Wiped.

Rod fixed the generator so the crime scene techs could finish working once the sun went down. When they'd turned on the power, every wall sconce came on. Now, in the dark of night, each narrow window glowed yellow. Every window. What had those men feared that the dark terrified them?

She shivered in her Bronco. When was Anthony Zaccardi going to show?

After meeting with the bishop, she'd further researched Zaccardi-he was who he said he was. A historical architect hired by the Catholic Church to restore ancient buildings. He was a citizen of Italy, specifically Sicily, but he was born in a small town she'd never heard of. There were no other records for him until he'd used his pa.s.sport for the first time at the age of ten, from Italy to France. She had no records of parents or guardians, which seemed odd, but she was dealing with foreign governments. Still, everyone she'd spoken with had been protective of Zaccardi. One high-ranking priest in the Vatican even threatened her.

"You can't hold Anthony," the man had said. "I demand you allow him to return to Italy."

"He doesn't seem to want to return right now," she'd said and hung up. Interesting.

What was more interesting, however, was the light behind the mission. Anthony Zaccardi, right on time.

CHAPTER SIX.

ANTHONY PICKED THE POLICE LOCK.

He didn't need his flashlight; the lighting had been restored in the mission. He quickly walked through the kitchen and down the main hall.

The mission had been destroyed from within. He'd seen the destruction earlier when he'd broken in to save Rafe; now the sad reality sank in.

Beautiful artwork, hundreds of years old, had been defamed. Every statue in the alcoves had its head removed. Paintings slashed. This, Anthony thought, was the work of human hands. A demon would crush the statues; humans defaced.

Anthony found Rafe's room, accurately guessing that it would be closest to the kitchen. There was one small window facing the rear of the mission. A small night-light in the corner illuminated the room with shadows.

Anthony closed the door, looked at the wood. It was splintered and cracked, as if someone had been scratching from the inside. He shined his light on the marks, saw the damaged wood stained with dark blood. Deep gouges, likely made with something metal or hard wood had been used to pry open the door. Now Anthony knew how Rafe's fingers had been broken, his fingernails torn.

The police had obviously gone through the room. Rafe's computer was gone, only wires remaining. His files had been rifled through and many had been removed. The drawers of his desk were open.

But the police didn't know the secrets the mission held, nor the many hiding places.

Anthony traced the ridges of the stone wall. He'd been in many missions, in many ancient buildings. He could find any hiding place . . . there. Around the edge of one stone he found a small, ancient release. A facade for a stone safe.

Sure enough, Rafe had left something in the s.p.a.ce. A leather-bound journal. Anthony removed it, put the stone back in place.

Anthony carefully opened the journal, hoping for a clue. Several sheets of paper fell out and he stooped to pick them up.

The door opened and the lights came on.

"I thought you were going to do something stupid." Skye McPherson stood in the doorway, gun drawn. "You're under arrest."

"Don't."

"Hand me those papers."

He did.

"And the book."

Reluctantly, he handed it over.

"Are you armed?"

"I don't carry a gun."

"Turn around and put your hands on the desk."

"I told you-"

"You expect me to believe you? You broke a police seal and entered this building in the middle of the night. You're attempting to remove evidence. You're in hot water, Mr. Zaccardi."

Help us.

Skye frowned, glanced around the room.

"You heard," he said, incredulous.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Hope claimed a corner of his heart. "You heard the voices."

"I don't hear any voices," she snapped. "Turn around."

He complied. Her hands moved around his waist, his thighs, his ankles. He wanted to think of her as a cop; he could only think of her as a woman. A woman who didn't know what danger she was in, nor what power she had.

She removed his cross. "You're clear, but I'll keep this for the time being."

He faced her. She was close, only inches from him as she holstered her weapon. He reached up to touch her face, and she flinched. He dropped his hand and said, "You can't deny what you heard."

She swallowed, took a step back. "What's this?" She started flipping through the journal.

"I suspect it will speak of Rafe's concerns. He would have hidden his notes if he thought something was going on here."

She frowned, reading the journal.

"What?" he asked, inching closer. She smelled of pine and soap. All natural. All woman.

"It's in Latin."

Latin? Rafe hated Latin. Anthony could practically hear him groaning during cla.s.s.