What You Can't See - Softcover

Deliver Us From Evil
By Allison Brennan

Chapter One

Blood isn't red.

Blood goes beyond color. Rich and textured, dark and fathomless, blood was life and death. Burgundy didn't do it justice. If blood were wine, it would be a full- bodied cabernet, perhaps a zinfandel, certainly not something as boring, mundane, two- dimensional as red.

Especially spilled blood, filling the crevices of the nearly two- hundred- fifty- year- old limestone floor of a forgotten California mission. Every hole, every nook, every imperfection in the aged floor filled with blood, corner to corner, the porous stone absorbing death so dark red it was almost black, as black as the heart of the evil man who had murdered the twelve priests in this oppressive chapel.

Evil men. Certainly it had taken more than one person to slaughter twelve unarmed priests.

Until this morning, the most spilled blood Sheriff Skye McPherson had witnessed was a vicious murder- suicide three years ago. A man had stabbed his family to death, then shot himself, the bastard. Even the arcs of blood slashed against those white walls didn't come close to the tragedy before her today.

She'd never rid this image from her mind, never forget the stench of violence.

Violence? Twelve people dead. It was a massacre.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Detective Juan Martinez crossed himself as they proceeded carefully through the carnage.

They were in the chapel of Santa Louisa de Los Padres, a small mission closed to the public. Skye had hiked up here many times with her father, Chuck McPherson, a U.S. forest ranger who had known the Los Padres National Forest better than anyone and had befriended the priests who came to the mission on sabbatical.

That was before. Five years ago the diocese relocated the few who'd lived there, ended the sabbatical program, and moved in retired priests who weren't as friendly as their predecessors. But Skye was too busy now for weekend hikes anyway. And with her father dead, she didn't enjoy the wilderness as she once had.

Skye let the criminalists do their job as she surveyed the scene. So much violence in such a small room -- it was as if the imprint of what happened last night would forever taint this hall. The altar drew her eye. She wasn't Catholic, she didn't care much for any religion, but it was obvious something sacrilegious had occurred.

The huge stone crucifix had been turned upside down. It must weigh hundreds of pounds, in addition to the deceptively simple six- foot solid- wood carving of the crucified Christ. Blood coated the crown of thorns on Christ's head, whether spatter from the killings or put there on purpose Skye wouldn't know until the crime scene team finished their work.

One of the dead lay on the raised altar; the remaining victims were scattered around the room, on the floor or in the pews. Not all bodies were intact.

There was good news, bad news. The good news was that they had the prime suspect in custody, along with the man who had discovered the bodies. The bad news was the suspect was allegedly in a coma. She'd believe it when she had a second opinion.

"I thought de Los Padres was for retired priests," Martinez said as he looked around. Many of the dead were too young for retirement.

"That's what the diocese has said, but they've been pretty hush- hush about this place for the last couple years," Skye said. "They did some major renovation five years ago, but I haven't been here for more than a decade." She forced herself to look at the faces of the victims. Their frozen expressions of terror gave her additional motivation to find the killers.

"The crime scene has been compromised." Head of the small county CSU Rod Fielding carefully approached, his face grim, stating what they already knew. "The guy who brought Mr. Cooper to the hospital didn't take any care about stepping in blood or disturbing evidence. I need his prints, his shoes, and a statement. What he touched, why, the whole nine yards."

"I sent a deputy to the hospital to hold Mr. Zaccardi until I get over there to interview him." Skye stared at the crime scene. "I don't expect it'll be anytime soon."

"Sooner than you think."

Skye whipped around and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with dried blood on his white tailored button-down shirt. His naturally tan face was as hard as the stone walls that framed the mission, but his eyes were as deep and rich as dark chocolate. He looked like a pirate, not only out of his country but completely out of his element. His commanding presence caused everyone to pause a beat.

Anthony Zaccardi, no doubt.

"You're in the middle of my crime scene," she said.

Zaccardi stared at her with haunted eyes, his black hair falling to his shoulders. He wore a small dark stud in his left ear and bore a three- inch scar on the side of his neck along the edge of his collar. He was physically fit and muscular, more than capable of killing. But twelve men without a scratch? Doubtful. Besides, she had already verified his itinerary and the timeline wouldn't have worked, otherwise he'd be in lockup.

Chances were he had nothing to do with these murders. But she wasn't going to assume anything.

"I want my cross back."

She frowned. "What's he talking about?"

Tommy Reiner, the cop she'd sent to sit on Zaccardi, stepped into the room. He paled at the sight and scent of death. "He wanted to talk to you."

"I told you to keep him at the hospital."

Zaccardi repeated, "I want my cross."

Just what she needed, a lawsuit that she was denying Catholics their right to worship the way they saw fit.

"Uh -- " Tommy hesitated.

"Give it back to him."

"It appeared to be a weapon."

"For shit's sake," she muttered. She motioned for them to leave the chapel, then turned to Rod. "You need me, I'm outside."

"I have enough to keep me busy," he said. "But when you're done with Zaccardi, I'd like him to walk me through his exact steps."

She ushered everyone out of the chapel and into the courtyard. "This is a crime scene. I -- "

"You need to know what I touched when I arrived, where I went. I understand. I need my cross, Sheriff."

Zaccardi spoke with a subtly luxurious European accent. He looked Italian, dressed well, and had an aura about him that suggested he always got what he wanted, when he wanted.

Reiner said, "It's a knife, Skye. I swear."

She snapped her fingers. "Let me see it."

The cop left through the main courtyard entrance. They'd cut the lock on the gate when they entered. With one survivor at the hospital, they had to assume going in that there were other survivors, regardless of what Mr. Zaccardi had said over the phone.

There weren't.

"So you weren't lying when you told my deputy you just flew in from Italy."

"I don't lie."

Everyone lied, but she refrained from saying so. "What are you doing so far from home?"

"Rafe asked me to come. He was concerned about something happening here. He felt something -- " He paused.

"Something what?"

"He said something evil had slithered inside."

She raised her eyebrow. "Were those his exact words?"

"Yes."

"And you dropped everything and flew halfway across the world?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Rafe wouldn't ask for help if he didn't need it."

"Help?"

"Yes."

"What kind of help."

"I told you. Something -- "

She waved her hand dismissively. "Something evil, right."

"What kind of evil?"

Skye had almost forgotten her detective, Juan Martinez, had followed them out of the chapel, until he asked the question. A few years older than she was, Juan had been one of her few close friends in the department since she became a cop eleven years ago.

"The kind of evil I understand."

"For a man who doesn't lie, you're being awfully evasive," Skye snapped.

His jaw tightened. "I'm a demonologist."

That was the last thing she expected to hear. She glanced at Martinez, who was nodding. "You study demons," he said, as if it were in the same career category as brain surgery.

"Among other things." Zaccardi stared at the chapel doors. "I was here five years ago. It had been safe." His voice trailed off.

"And now? You're saying demons killed those men?"

Skye snorted. "Please. We're looking for the men who helped your friend butcher those priests."

Zaccardi stepped toward her, aggressive. She put her hand on the butt of her gun, but he didn't so much as blink. "Rafe did not kill those men. He didn't have any part in it."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"That doesn't matter -- "

"All I'm saying is we don't always know our friends, especially those we don't see all the time." And sometimes we don't even know our own family. Skye steeled herself against her memories.

Zaccardi shook his head. "Rafe and I might as well be brothers. I know his heart. He knows mine. We were raised together, studied together in Europe."

"When?"

"Until he moved to America ten years ago."

"And you haven't seen him since," Skye said flatly.

"No."

Deputy Reiner came back with an evidence bag. Inside was a knife in the shape of a cross. Dagger would be a more descriptive word.

"This is your cross?" Skye took the bag from Tommy. "How'd you get this on the plane?"

"I checked my baggage. It is a cross."

"Right." This guy was getting weirder and weirder. But he didn't seem dangerous. Not physically dangerous, at any rate. His alibi had checked out. Between the time his flight landed in San Francisco and the four- hour drive to the mission, he couldn't have killed the priests. She handed him the bag.

Surprise lit his face. He retrieved the cross and slid it into a loop on his belt. For a moment he looked just like the pirate Skye had envisioned earlier, the dagger-cross his sword, a breeze lifting his hair, the morning sun chiseling his face.

Rod stepped into the courtyard...