Mas and Kaddouri came out of the church several minutes later, after conferring with Dr. Osborn and the CSI team leader. They were both sickened by what they had seen, as was every other cop and first responder on the scene.
The media had gathered in full force while they were inside. Cameras and newscasters were deployed and their klieg lights only added to the circus atmosphere, but they were uncharacteristically quiet. They sensed that some inexplicably awful thing had transpired inside the church. Instead of badgering law enforcement for tidbits, they kept their distance, talking in hushed tones into their mics as they faced their live cameras. The entire nation was keeping vigil on the evening news, as the rest of the world watched over their shoulders.
Every eye was on Mas and Kaddouri as they came down the steps, but no one approached them. The cops on hand kept the gathering crowds back with no more than a glance and an occasional hand gesture, allowing Mas and Kaddouri to continue down the block toward his vehicle.
They wore their poker faces and kept their eyes cast down to the cracked sidewalk as they went. Kaddouri had a dozen questions and speculations, but he didn’t want to launch into his thoughts until they were in his car and well down the road. Besides, Mas was in the thick of puzzling it out and he didn’t want to interrupt her ruminations.
There was one particular aspect of this latest horror show that was preying on her mind. Not a change of M.O. so much as a change of motive. These latest victims were all clearly older than forty. The case had suddenly taken a new turn, but there was no hint as to why.
Up to this point, all of the Branding Killer’s victims had been confirmed as Christmas babies, born at the clinic in 1976. They were the offspring of backwater bayou yokels who had faded into the swamp with their newborns, suspicious of authority and certain that a hex had been cast on the clinic, making it almost impossible to trace them to the catastrophe. Mas had eventually done it, but only in retrospect, after each victim was found. She still didn’t know how, or why, the killer was tracking them down, one by one.
There had always been a mulish suspicion of law enforcement in that neck of the woods, and no one came forward for protection, even after ten well-publicized victims. Or perhaps it was for that very reason. Whatever Christmas babies were still alive had chosen to seek safety in anonymity, even though the killer had demonstrated that he would likely be able to hunt them down as well.
Up until now, Mas and everyone else who was familiar with the case fully expected that any new victim, just like Fareed, would be in their early thirties. But these victims were all much older. Beyond that, the crime scene showed a ghastly degree of brutality, even for the Branding Killer. He – and Mas had always had a strong hunch that the killer was a male – had always gotten right down to business in the past, dispatching his victim and anyone who got in the way, but no more than that. In that respect, he was a professional.
But this time there was no apparent victim, or even an apparent primary target. And why in a church? There had been no church connection before. Instead, this seemed to be nothing more than a sadistic exercise in blood vengeance.
Was he sending a message? Was he frustrated? Was it a calling card? A red herring? Or was it just plain old black-hearted cussedness, as her daddy used to say. She wasn’t sure what to think –
“Peter?” she said, suddenly halting in mid-stride, looking ahead.
She was surprised to see Peter Johnson standing next to Kaddouri’s Land Cruiser, among a crowd of people gathered behind the yellow tape. Kaddouri stopped beside her and looked at the crowd, wondering who she could be talking to.
Johnson was carefully writing the address of the church on his notepad. Absorbed by a whirlwind of thoughts, he hadn’t noticed them approaching. Startled, he looked up at the sound of her voice and began to stammer, casting about for something to say.
Mas sensed his pangs of awkwardness and smoothly covered for him. “Detective Mark Kaddouri, this is Special Agent Peter Johnson.”
Kaddouri recognized the name at once. Johnson was a legend of sorts – the kind of legend that was more of a cautionary tale than anything else, but he was a legend nonetheless. Kaddouri smiled cordially and extended his hand.
Johnson stuffed his notepad and pen in his jacket pocket, wiped his sweaty palm on his pant leg and shook hands with Kaddouri.
“Retired agent,” Johnson corrected Mas, and Kaddouri just nodded. I should hope so, Kaddouri thought, but he kept his smile plastered on. He dug out his car keys and took a step toward his driver’s door, hoping his body language would tell Mas that he wanted to go.
Johnson smiled nervously and patted the fender. “I got one of these...”
Kaddouri just smiled again and nodded. But Johnson’s attention had already drifted away, nervously looking around at the buzz of activity. The lights in particular bothered him, and he squinted as he took in the scene. He leaned toward Mas, and she dipped her head to listen to what he had to say. Kaddouri took a step closer to hear.
“It’s too...” Johnson began, and then he tried again. “It’s not...” But he couldn’t get it out. He leaned closer and finished in a harsh whisper, speaking to both of them. “We’re not safe!”
At that moment, he was distracted by something that was transpiring behind her. Mas and Kaddouri turned to see what it was.
The church doors were opened from the inside, and the coroners rolled out the first victim, zipped in a body bag. The press and the throng of hushed onlookers murmured, and surged forward in response. The cops running crowd control reasserted their authority, and no one got out of line or did anything stupid. News reporters gripped their mics and tersely narrated the latest development, and a flurry of camera flashes went off as the body was wheeled into the back of a van.
Mas pointed out the corpse for Johnson, and glanced at him, thin-lipped. “Look!” she said. “People are dying. No one is safe.”
He stared at her, and blinked. Her cordiality had suddenly evaporated, but as far as she was concerned that was his fault. He brought his case of jitters into town with him, and she didn’t want to be subjected to it again. Now that she had his attention, she got right to the point.
“What I want to know, is how do we narrow the field before this monster casts a wider net?”
“He’s coming,” Johnson told her, directing his gaze above her head. “And this time, he’s going to triumph.”
“Who is?”
Instead of answering, Johnson pointedly closed his mouth and moved away from her ever so slightly. Kaddouri wondered what Johnson knew about this, if anything, but Mas was out of patience and scowled at the retired Fed.
“Who is?” she demanded.
Her blunt tone was like a physical impact. Kaddouri cracked a glimmer of a smile. He’d been on the receiving end of her anger before; the woman knew how to fight. It was one of the things he admired about her.
She took a step toward Johnson, but not to threaten him. She wanted to break through whatever wall he was hiding behind.
“Who?”
He just stared at her, mesmerized.
“You need to tell us!” she urged him. Mas was clearly angry now, and yet her tone was more pleading than anything else.
“Help us get to the truth, Peter,” she said to him, her voice suddenly soft and reassuring.
He peeked at her from behind his mental wall. She had gotten through to him; Johnson owed her a response.
Kaddouri just watched them. Something was happening in Johnson’s fevered skull, and Kaddouri was anxious to see what it was. If anyone could dig it out, Mas could.
“Who’s going to triumph?” She prodded him. “Over what?”
Johnson suddenly became agitated, his breath coming fast and shallow. There was a giddy edge to his demeanor, as if he were about to laugh. Mas scowled at him.
“You find this amusing?” she demanded to know.
But Johnson quickly shook his head. Kaddouri glanced at her, noting her change in tone. Whether she was willing to admit it or not, Mas was nearing the end of her rope. He could sense it, and he wondered if she could.
Kaddouri looked back at Johnson and saw that the man’s eyes were suddenly wide open. He was terrified. Mas had pretended to misread him. Johnson wasn’t amused, and she knew it; he was about to freak out.
“You don’t understand – ” Johnson tried to tell her, but her expression had turned stone cold.
“Snap out of it.”
That brought him around, somewhat. He just looked at her, waiting to be chewed out.
“You can have a breakdown when this is over,” she told him, and he began shaking his head.
“No, you don’t understand –”
“Then you make me understand!” she snapped.
He sighed, and glanced at Kaddouri for a little help. Kaddouri, however, was firmly in Mas’ camp, and wasn’t about to lend him a hand. Johnson looked back to her.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He stared at the pavement, formulating his reply, and then looked directly back at her. Mas saw that for the first time, all the craziness was gone from his eyes.
“Lucifer walks among us,” he told her in a quiet, clear voice. “And his work is nearly finished.”