“Yeah. You’ll call me if there is trouble?”
Hector nodded. “I have to call Prout, too.” He glanced up at the security cameras. “I wouldn’t, but he wanted to know when you showed up, and he’ll go through the tapes.”
“Got it. Don’t want you jammed up.”
“I’ll wait till the end of my shift, about an hour, to call, you know, if that will help.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t care. He’d call Prout. Prout would call me. I wouldn’t answer. It didn’t matter.
“Thanks.” I left the jail armed with two things. The first was the list. The fact that Martha had given it to me without hesitation spoke against her guilt. If she were killing people, there’s no reason she would hand me a list of her victims.
Unless she wanted to be stopped.
Serial killers feel compelled to kill, which is why they cycle faster and faster, their need pushing aside anything else. I wanted to dismiss the possibility of Martha’s guilt outright, but I didn’t know if she had alibis. I only had her word about how nicely things had gone. What if Anderson and Hogan set up the trusts for another reason, to deny her funding and to oust her? What if they were scheming to move the mission and profit from the location, using that project as some cornerstone to gentrify a swath of the city? Would that be enough to make her snap?
I crossed to a little bistro and ordered coffee. Martha was talented. She sat in that den of lions and made them into lambs. I’d felt it. I knew her power. I’d benefited from it. But that was the good side of it. Was there a dark side? Could she talk someone into hanging himself or chopping off his own leg?
And if she could do that, could she convince a jury-no matter how overwhelming the evidence-to let her go? If she could, there was no way she could ever be brought to justice. While the Fellowship was a noble undertaking, did its preservation justify murder?
Those were bigger questions than I could answer, so I did what I could do with the meager resources at hand. Starting at the top, I called down the donor list. I left messages-mostly with servants, since these sorts of folks like that personal touch-or talked to the donors directly. I told them there was a meeting of donors in the Diamond Room at the Ultra Hotel at nine. I told everyone to be there. I didn’t so much care that it disrupted their evenings as much as I hoped it would disrupt the killer’s pattern.
It took me two hours to go through the list. I spent a lot of time on hold or listening to bullshit excuses, so I used it to study those case files. Cate was right; I really didn’t want to look at the Preakness photos. There was something there, though, in all of them, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
At the end of those two hours I was no closer to knowing who the next victim would be.
Then it came to me.
Prout.
He’d never called.
I drove to his home as fast as I could. Red lights and a fender bender let me double-check the full case packages Cate had sent me. I finally saw it. As far as a signature for a serial killer goes, this one was pretty subtle. Maybe there was part of me that didn’t want to see it before, but there was no denying it now.
I rolled to a stop on the darkened street in front of the little house with the white picket fence. Figured. He probably owned a poodle. A sign in an upstairs window told firefighters there were two children in that room. I didn’t even know he was married.
I fished the whiskey from beneath the seat and drank deep. I brought the bottle. Prout wouldn’t have anything there, and if he did, he’d not offer.
That’s okay. I don’t like to impose.
I crossed the street and vaulted the fence. I could have boosted my leap with magick, but there was no reason to waste it.
And it didn’t surprise me that the hand I’d put on the fencepost came away wet with white paint. Had my head not been full of whiskey vapors, I’d have smelled it. White footprints led up the steps and across the porch, hurried and urgent. The screen door had shut behind him, but the solid door remained ajar.
Beyond it, darkness and the flickering of candles. That wasn’t right for the house. It should have been brightly lit, all Formica and white vinyl, with plastic couch-condoms covering every stick of furniture. Lace doilies, and white leather-bound editions of the Bible scattered about.
I toed the door open.
I got the last thing right. Bibles had been scattered, page by page. They littered the darkened living room. Across from the doorway sat a woman in a modest dress, and a little girl in a matching outfit. Both had been duct taped into spindly chairs, with a strip over their mouths to keep them quiet.
On the wall, where I guess once hung the slashed portrait of Jesus crumpled in the corner, someone had painted a pentagram in sloppy red strokes. A little boy hung upside down at the heart of it, from a hook to which his feet were bound. He’d been muted with duct tape too, and stared in horror at the center of the floor.
His father sat there, naked, in a circle of black candles. Thirteen of them. He’d cut himself on the neck and wrists-nothing life-threatening-and blood had run over his chest and been smeared over his belly. He clutched a long carving knife in two hands. He waved it through the air, closing one eye, measuring his son for strokes that would take him to pieces.
I took another drink, and not because I needed the magick.
Prout looked up at me. “Yes, Father Satan, I have serve thee well, and I now have this sacrifice for you.”
I held a hand out. “Easy, Prout.”
He wasn’t listening. “You come to me in the shape of my enemy to mock me. I did harm to your pet. That opened my heart to you, didn’t it?”
I had no idea what he was going on about, but talking was better than slashing. “You begin to see things, my son.”
He nodded and studied his reflection in the blade.
I looked at him through magick. Prout had always been leopard-spotted, just full of weaknesses. That had changed. The spots had become long, oily rivers that ran up and down his body, like circulating currents. I’d never seen its like before, but it wasn’t part of Prout. He had no talent.
I closed my fist and opened it again. A blue spark, invisible to Prout and his family, flew from my palm and drilled into his forehead. His stripes went jagged. He tried to rise, then toppled and fell, snuffing two of the candles against his belly.
I looked past him toward the kitchen. “Come on out, Leah. This ends here.”
The young artist stepped from the darkened kitchen, glowing silver with magick. She’d streaked paint over her face and in her hair. It had to be her trigger-something in it, or the scent-and the glow made her very powerful. She opened her hands innocently and stared into my eyes.
“You don’t know what he did, Trick.”
“He arrested Martha for your murders.”
“Not that.” Her voice came soft and gentle, like a lover’s whisper. “Before that, when he was investigating you. He knew you were set up. He had evidence to clear you. He didn’t. You know why? Your mother is part of his church. You were an embarrassment for her. He wanted to make you go away.”
I stared down at the man and suddenly found the knife in my hand. Prout had known I was innocent. He destroyed my life because magick was evil, and he couldn’t abide it. He got me tossed from the force and hid behind being a good church-going man, an upstanding officer.
I weighed the knife in my hand. “Right. He’s a hypocrite.”
“Just like the others. They all pledged money, but only in trust, only upon death, for capital expenses, not operations.” Leah’s eyes narrowed. “They knew how tight things were for the mission. They helped Martha to expand until she couldn’t keep the place going. They had their own plans. They’d move her out, revoke their gifts. They had to be stopped.”