Fifty-eight

When Sabrina drove away from the station, she half expected Phillip to follow her. He didn’t. Instead, his chauffeured car peeled away almost instantly, turning left while she turned right. The red silk pouch he’d given her sat in the center console, the delicate scent of the tea Eun hand-blended for her drifted upward. Tempting her.

Who do you think you’re foolin’? We both know you aren’t gonna drink it, darlin’. You need me.

As soon as the words came, she rejected them. “Like I need a fucking hole in my head,” she muttered, her remark greeted by laughter.

I’m the only person who knows him. I’m the only person who can show you the way.

“You’re not a person.” Sabrina pulled off the pavement and into the dirt parking lot that surrounded Saint Rose of Lima church. “You’re not here. You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.”

We both know that ain’t entirely true. I might be dead but I’m not gone, and I’m as real as you are.

She slammed the car into park and cut the engine. “If you don’t shut the fuck up—”

Alright, alright … just calm down, darlin’. You don’t want to go in there all riled.

The words were a warning—either from her subconscious or the dead man inside her head—that experience told her she should heed. Looking around, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The squat stucco building in front of her looked quiet. Almost deserted. The main door was cracked open—a slice of black against the bright heat of the afternoon. By modern standards, the chapel was primitive. No electricity meant no heating or cooling. Father Francisco and his patrons would be careful to keep it closed against the oppressive heat of the late Arizona summer.

Apprehension prickled against her scalp. She got out of the car and looked around again, casting her gaze past the empty lot that surrounded her. In the distance, cars and trucks lined the shoulder of the road, waiting while their owners worked the fields. Scanning the fields, she watched the men and women as they stooped and crouched, moving with almost surgical precision as they cut, pulled, and tossed their bounty into baskets and bags. None of them seemed out of place and none of them paid her even the slightest bit of attention.

Whatever waited for her was waiting inside.

Careful, now …

The words echoed softly, so close she could almost feel the mouth that delivered them brush against her ear, cautioning her to move slowly. She closed the distance to the church, approaching the cracked door until she stood on the other side of it. Sounds drifted through it. Dull thuds, coupled with a soft squelching. Harsh breathing punctured with muttering.

Sounds like someone’s havin’ themselves some fun.

Her hand found the grip of the Kimber .45 that rode her hip as she turned sideways to ease through the opening, her body’s width forcing it to open wider, the wedge of light doubling as it shot through the dark chapel. The sounds were suddenly cut off. Whoever was inside knew they were no longer alone.

Better shake a leg, darlin’.

She yanked the Kimber clear of its holster, bringing it up as she charged forward, leaving the sun behind. Spots danced in front of her eyes while they tried to adjust to the sudden lack of light. “Stop,” she bellowed as she ran though the atrium and down the center aisle of the church. A dark figure shot across her vision, streaking from one side of the room to the other, followed by a sudden burst of bright light as he pushed his way through the side door that led to the prayer garden.

She started after him, lengthening her stride as she rushed blindly up the center aisle of the church. That’s when she found him, nearly tripping on the outstretched arm splayed across her path.

It was Father Francisco—or at least she thought it was him. The blood-splattered clerical collar was his only recognizable feature.

“Oh God …” She dropped to her knees, one hand gripped around the Kimber while the other fumbled into her jacket pocket to find her phone. “Hang on, okay? Jesus, just hang on,” she said, eliciting a groan from the figure beside her. She stabbed her thumb against the keypad while she listened to the labored breathing of the man on the floor, blood bubbling and whistling through his ruined nose, his mouth nothing more than a jagged maw, teeth broken and scattered on the blood-smeared ground around them.

Takes a lot of rage to stomp someone’s face in. I’d know, wouldn’t I?

“What’s up?” Church’s tone reached out and grabbed her, shaking her back to reality.

“He was here. He was here—” She took a deep breath, casting her gaze toward the man she knelt over. His face wasn’t just flat, it was caved in, flesh torn and split from repeated blunt force blows. “Send an ambulance. He—Father Francisco.” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to remain calm. “Hurry.”

Sabrina ended the call on a tidal wave of questions, letting her phone clatter to the floor beside her. “Stay with me, Father,” she said, her free hand reached out to find the priest’s. “Help is coming.”