Deliver Us From Evil Part 3

CHAPTER THREE.

SKYE 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 sh.o.r.eline. 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 cras.h.i.+ng 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 Bronco.

"What are you thinking?" Martinez asked.

"There was so much wrong with that conversation I don't know where to start."

"She a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sumptions 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.

ANTHONY 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?

So many questions, and Anthony had no answers, and likely wouldn't until Rafe woke up.

Anthony was six when he first met Rafe. He'd instantly bonded with the child who radiated goodness.

But there had always been questions. Rafe was older than most, abandoned at the monastery at the age of three instead of infancy. He'd been dying until Father Philip laid hands on him. He had scars no one could explain, as if he'd survived a brutal battle, though he was still a toddler.

By the time the boys of St. Michael's reached p.u.b.erty, their gifts had been revealed. Demon hunter, psychic, healer, among others. For Anthony, it was his recognition of good and evil, his empathy, his ability to purge demons from inanimate objects like buildings. But as for Rafe-his gift was still unknown. At the age of twenty-one Rafe had decided to serve as a priest. He'd been sent to America because Father Philip sensed it was right. Yet ten years later, Rafe had still not received the Sacrament of Holy Orders. It was as if G.o.d Himself was pus.h.i.+ng him in another direction, Rafe had told Anthony on more than one occasion.

"I go through the ceremony and I can't say the words. Something holds my tongue."

"Why didn't you call me sooner, Rafe?" Anthony whispered. "I would have dropped the world for you, my friend."

Anthony reached for Rafe's hand and stared. His right hand was in a cast, his left bandaged. He pulled Rafe's chart from the end of the bed and read.