He felt certain that her upbringing, the experiences of her teen years with a psychopathic brother played a large role in the woman she was now. But Curran knew plenty of priests and nuns who would have scoffed at the idea of the Devil being resurrected by an antique dealer who drove a silver Saab.
What made Lauren different?
And what made her so appealing? So very appealing?
Curran glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock.
Maybe demons need rest.
He almost laughed out loud. And then he frowned. Was he actually trying to rationalize this stuff now?
What a wishy-washy bastard I am, he thought with a wry grin.
He just couldn’t decide one way or the other if he believed. Cold breezes not withstanding. But even as he fought the contradictions swirling about inside his mind, a small part of him felt certain that within a short time Curran would know, one way or the other, if what was happening in the house was a load of bullcrap.
Or terribly real.
Ten minutes later, the front door opened.
And Darius emerged. He was dressed in a charcoal suit complete with herringbone ankle-length overcoat. Probably no human bone buttons on that one, mused Curran.He ducked.
Darius’ eyes swept over the street. Curran wasn’t hidden, but he wasn’t out in plain sight either, being a good hundred and fifty feet down the street. He was just another car. A friend of a neighbor over for a visit.
Darius locked his front door and then climbed into the Saab. A second later, Curran heard the engine roar as it turned over. Darius gunned it for almost twenty seconds before the motor slowed as he slipped it into drive and sped off down the street.
Away from Curran.
Curran punched Kwon’s number into the phone.
“Yeah?”
“He’s heading your way now. Just left.”
“Okay.” Kwon paused. “Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“Be real careful, man.”
Curran nodded, more to himself than Kwon. “Let me know when he arrives.”
Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed. “Yeah?”
“Just rolled up.”
“Got it.”
Curran got out of the car, locked the doors, and wandered over to Darius’ house. At this time of day, he hoped there weren’t many people home in the neighborhood who might spot him lurking about. Even more, he hoped Darius was as reclusive as he believed.
He ignored the front door in favor of the more concealed back one.
He kneeled and examined the lock.
A simple deadbolt.
Curran slid out a slim black leather package full of picks and selected two of them for the job at hand. He paused. The he inserted the picks and began working the lock very carefully.
He felt the pins sliding into place.
First one.
Then another.
Until at last they were all properly positioned. Curran exerted enough force to turn the cylinder.
The bolt slid home with a solid thunk.
The door was now open.
Curran glanced around, suddenly feeling like a teenager about to be caught peeping into his neighbor’s windows or something.
The realization of what he was about to do suddenly washed over him.
He would no longer be the by-the-book cop people spoke about. He would cross the line, from law abiding to law breaking.
But if it was in the name of justice — even universal justice — could it be so wrong?
Curran wasn’t sure how the courts would feel about universal justice.
A cool breeze swept over him again.
The cold returned.
Along with the idea of Faith.
Believe.
Believe.
Believe.
Curran shivered, held fast by the cold surrounding him. He wanted to believe, he decided. He wanted to believe that the world truly was in danger. He wanted to believe Darius was the servant of the Devil here to set his master loose upon the innocent.
And standing there shivering, though morning sun beat down upon his shoulders, Curran finally gripped the doorknob.
He turned it.
Swung open the door.
Believe.
Took a step.
And then at last -
— crossed the threshold to the other side.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As soon as Curran entered, he closed the door quickly and leaned against it.
Breathing.
Listening.
He stayed absolutely still.
Did anyone see him come in? Were they calling the police right now? He didn’t want to lose his job again. He didn’t want to be fired for breaking the law.
He did want to put Darius away. Although he doubted if there was a cell that could hold him. And truthfully, Curran wanted to see him dead.
He glanced around the house, trying to decide what direction to proceed in. Old lessons from his FBI academy days in Quantico came back to him. Of course, those lessons were based on having obtained a proper search warrant. Breaking and entering, well, that was another story.
Probably not the best decision I ever made, he thought as his breathing returned to normal. But it’s definitely necessary.
Necessary because Curran still wasn’t sure if he could commit totally to the notion of supernatural influences unless he found some sort of hard evidence.
But he felt certain about one thing: that Darius was indeed the serial killer he’d been tracking for years. Darius was the reason for Curran’s plight. The reason for his termination at the FBI. And the countless deaths that had marred cities across the United States.
Curran wanted to stop it.
Soon.
Now?
He sighed. He’d accept the consequences of breaking into a suspect’s home, if there were any, at a later time.
For now, he had business to conduct.
Immediately to his left, a tall thin coat rack stood silently guarding the entranceway. Underfoot, a thin Persian carpet in muted blues and maroons ran from the doorway to an intersection of stairs and a hallway.
He walked toward the hallway. A tall table he thought might be cherry stood under an old silver-framed mirror. Atop the table, an assortment of unopened mail — mostly bills — awaited inspection.
Curran ignored them. He didn’t think incriminating evidence would be found opening Darius’ credit card statements. At least not yet.
He moved right down the hallway, investigating a sitting room with two high-backed chairs and enough shelves to make a small library. Curran scanned the titles on the bookshelf but found nothing relating to Satanism.
Not even a book of ghost stories, he thought frowning.
He sighed and moved on to the next room where he found a large roll top desk, recently oiled, and still shining in the dull afternoon light. Atop the desk was a Rolodex filled with names and numbers of fellow antiques dealers in cities across the world.
Should he copy the information down? He shook his head. It would take too long.
He’d been right at least, judging that the interior of the house would probably look a lot better than the outside. Darius obviously had a degree of understated taste. Quiet wealth masked lightly in the guise of old pieces of furniture no one but the experts would know were valuable pieces.
He frowned as the thought entered his mind. Would a demon — a real servant of the Devil — have need for such things as the very human trappings Curran had seen so far?
He came to the staircase and took the steps up, marveling at the intricate molding running along the baseboard and the delicate handspun spindles adorning the railing. The house had been built to stand the test of time. The higher ceilings confirmed it was about a hundred years old.
On the second floor, Curran found the master bedroom. A California king-sized bed hugged the far right corner of the room. Deep maroon sheets bunched up in tight piles on the mattress. Someone didn’t sleep very well last night, thought Curran.