What You Can’t See Read online

  He saw Skye scribble a note. Of course, a sabotaged generator was tangible, something she could investigate. But who would know these men feared the night?

  Anthony held the crucifix—dagger point out—in front of him as he ran down the hall toward the smell of death.

  “I smelled fresh blood. The chapel doors were closed.”

  Resisting the urge to call out, he pushed open the solid wood doors and stepped into the house of worship. A rush of burning heat came at him, then the temperature dropped and he saw his own breath.

  Anthony couldn’t tell this cop about the demon he felt vacating the chapel. She wouldn’t believe him.

  “I checked for survivors, but it was clear they were butchered. I was too late.”

  Eerily beautiful, the early morning sun filtered through the tall, narrow stained-glass windows bathing the dead in colorful rays of light. Body upon body filled the narrow chapel. Some decapitated, some without limbs, all murdered.

  The crucifix hung upside down. It was a sign of demons, of Satanists, but this cross weighed too much for even a large group of men to invert and rehang. It had been carved from granite in Mexico and brought to the mission when it was first built in 1767.

  “I began looking among the dead for Rafe, giving blessings as I went.”

  “What spirits tortured you?” Anthony whispered to the dead. Where was Rafe? He carefully crossed the floor, checking the pulse of the men he passed. All dead. As he neared the altar, he saw his friend.

  “I found Rafe behind the altar.”

  He lay facedown, white T-shirt covered in blood. Anthony squeezed back tears of anger, regret, and deep sadness as he knelt beside Rafe and turned him over. Anthony wasn’t a priest, but at this point he doubted God would care who gave last rites. The crying for help intensified as Anthony began the prayer.

  “After I turned him over, I saw that he was breathing. His pulse was strong and I ripped open his shirt to find the wound that had caused all the blood, but there was nothing. No visible injuries. I couldn’t wake him, so I carried him out.”

  The trapped souls of the dead priests cried out to him. Maybe they hadn’t been dragged down to Hell. Maybe they were in between worlds, like ghosts, waiting for help. Waiting for him.

  First, save Rafe. Then he could return to save the dead.

  “I called 911 as soon as I started down the mountain.”

  “We have the call logged at 5:32 A.M. You told my deputy you arrived at the mission about twenty minutes before that.”

  He nodded, rubbing his temples as the whispers continued, scratching at his subconscious. “Skye,” he said quietly, not looking at her, calling on the person, the woman, not the sheriff.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know of doubting Thomas?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “He had to see Jesus to believe. He had to touch His wounds to believe in the Resurrection.”

  Anthony turned, stronger now, faced the woman whom he needed in order to save these men. He could stop the demon, but it would be her investigation that led him to those humans responsible for calling on Hell. To the ritual that maybe, with luck, strength, and faith, he could reverse.

  He reached out, touched her soft skin. “I am asking for faith from a doubting Thomas. But I am still asking.”

  Skye stared at Anthony Zaccardi, the dark pirate, because that was most certainly what this man was. She should be laughing in his face—demons and Hell? Ridiculous. Her own mother had left to seek God and look what happened to her. Their entire family had been torn apart. Skye didn’t need religion or belief in anything she couldn’t see when she had cold, hard facts that didn’t lie.

  But she couldn’t laugh at this man whose middle name could be Serious. His expression when he recounted finding the dead priests would stay with her for a long time. So full of pain and agony, as if he felt what they’d gone through. Zaccardi believed everything he told her, of that she was positive, and she couldn’t figure out how he had anything to do with the murders.

  But the investigation was still young and she refused to let her feelings cloud the facts.

  “I am a cop,” she finally said, her voice a mere whisper. “I want the people who did this. Demons or not, someone was responsible for killing these men and I will find them.”

  Skye turned from Anthony Zaccardi’s eyes, so piercing it was as if he could read her mind. She didn’t like that, not one little bit.

  She surveyed the courtyard. Two wings extended on either side, leading toward the main entrance, with the traditional rounded arches of California missions. Entirely surrounded by the Los Padres National Forest, Santa Louisa had been built by a reclusive sect of the Franciscans and dubbed the “lost mission” because it wasn’t easily accessible from the Mission Trail that started in San Diego and ended in San Francisco.

  The courtyard was beautiful in its simplicity. Six arches on both sides framed the buildings. Brick walkways. And roses, everywhere roses. The fountain in the center was designed as a natural rock waterfall, water trickling over gray and brown stones that looked so precariously balanced that Skye was surprised they didn’t topple over.

  Saint Jude, Zaccardi had said. Patron saint of lost causes. She was certainly a lost cause. But one thing she was good at, thrived in, was being a cop. And her instincts told her that God or no God, a man was responsible for these deaths.

  “I’ll need your passport, Mr. Zaccardi,” she said, regretting her decision when a cloud of disbelief crossed his face, but knowing a good cop would insist that Zaccardi not be able to leave the country. He reached into his back pocket and handed her the documents.

  “I’m sorry,” she found herself saying.

  “You’re just doing your job,” he finished for her.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The Coastal Inn outside town is a nice place. I know the owners. Tell them I sent you, they’ll give you a good rate.”

  He looked over her shoulder. What did he see? All she saw was a simple stone building. His troubled eyes told her he saw something more. She wanted to ask, but bit her tongue. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, be sucked into his fantasy. Or hers.

  Detective Juan Martinez stepped out of the chapel, waved her over.

  “I’ll keep in touch,” she said to Zaccardi.

  A chill wind swept through the courtyard as he turned and left, as if he’d summoned the elements himself.

  Or they came in his wake.

  Trapped himself without a human body, the ancient demon imprisoned the twelve souls that fought for the Light, but didn’t have the strength to bring each soul back to his Master.

  He had failed. Black pain twisted his noncorporeal mind as he hovered in the mountains, invisible to those who did not know what he looked like, how he smelled, how he felt, in his true form.

  He had never faced Zaccardi, but the human was known to all in Hades. Zaccardi was a relic from the past, relishing the destruction of that which ensured balance on earth.

  If the Master of Heaven hadn’t wanted them to exist, He would have extinguished Satan and the rest of them during the Great Battle. But it was a game. How many souls could they win over? How many would serve the Dark Lord? The more they won, the hotter Hell burned, the more of his kind walked the earth.

  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, u
ndefeatable. 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.

  Chapter Three

  S KYE LISTENED TO DETECTIVE JUAN MARTINEZ 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 Bronc
o.

  “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.”

  Chapter Four

  A NTHONY SAT AT RAFE’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?