"What about the killer?Can you tell if he was tall, short, skinny, or fat?"
“The blunt object used to incapacitate Mr.Schulz appears to have been some sort of truncheon.The angle of the blow suggests the attacker was roughly equal in height to Mr.Schulz.His hands would have been large but not pudgy.Long, bony fingers, very strong.Past that, there’s not much we can tell you.Itwasa male killer, but yeah, past that, we’re very dry in terms of evidence.”
“That’s plenty, Doctor…”
“Piedmont.Unfortunate name, I know.”
Kate smiled.“Thank you, Dr.Piedmont.I’m going to give you my number.If you come across anything else, please reach out.”
“I’ll do that.Good luck, special agent.”
She gave him her Bureau number, then hung up.Her throat felt stiff and tight, and she lifted her hand to stroke it, shivering at the memory of Cox’s fingers wrapped around it, squeezing the life from it.
She was so absorbed in that memory that she squeaked and jumped when her phone buzzed.French turned toward her, frowning.“You all right?”
“Fine,” she replied, reddening.
She smiled to let him know she meant it, then pulled her phone from her pocket.Gabe.Time to validate what she already knew.
This was Cox.It had to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marcus shook his head as he navigated the three blocks to St.Francis’s Parish Church.Why was he doing this?
Because she’s right far more often than she’s wrong.
His face pulled into a scowl.That was the answer: simple, elegant, and frustrating as hell.
He didn’t want Kate to be right.He wanted her to be safe.He wanted her in a safehouse in Quantico rooming with a half-dozen HRT counterterrorism agents with chips on their shoulders and psych records that fell just barely on the right side of psychopathic.He wanted to either find Cox hiding in some rabbit hole in the forest or for Cox to get stupid enough to walk into those psychopaths and end up with more holes than a cheese grater.He wasn’t supposed to want anyone dead, even a suspect, but he’d shed no tears when Elijah Cox finally met his maker.
He chuckled at the image of Elijah Cox answering to the God he pretended to worship.Oh, to be a fly on that wall.
He didn’treallywant Cox to die though.He just wanted Kate to be safe.
Which couldn’t happen.Not as long as they worked this job.If it wasn’t Cox, it’d be some other asshole.
He sighed and ran his hand down his face, grimacing when he felt the stubble on his cheeks.When was the last time he’d shaved?
A car horn sounded.He looked up and found himself a couple steps away from being pancaked by a Ram dually pulling a trailer full of landscaping equipment.The passenger of the Ram leaned out of the window and threw his hand up in the air.“Que hace, puto?”
Marcus lifted a hand in apology and said aloud, “I wish I knew, buddy.I wish I knew.”
The parish church was across the street, a modest building about twenty feet tall with a simple steel cross in the center of the front façade adding another ten feet.A street sign with backlit white tiles advertised mass every Sunday at seven a.m, ten a.m., and three p.m.A row of blank tiles separated that information with the message SANCTUARY ALWAYS OPEN!
Marcus waited until the road was clear, then crossed the street.There were two cars in the parking lot, an old Lexus sedan and an even older Toyota minivan.Both vehicles had peeling paint, and the van’s rear bumper was attached to the chassis with a trio of orange bungee cords.
He walked through the door and found an interior as modest as the exterior.The carpet was the thin, scratchy hotel special that seemed ubiquitous to any building constructed between 1950 and 1970, and ventilation was provided by a pair of loud fans in the ceiling.The pews were pine and had once been laminated, but that lamination and the stain underneath had been worn to a pale beige everywhere but the backs, which retained the artificial darkness intended to convince people that the cheap pine was some sort of exotic hardwood.The sanctuary displayed a smaller version of the building’s cross, just as plain, and was devoid of other adornment.
“Welcome,” a gentle male voice said behind Marcus.“How can I help you today?”
Marcus turned to see a priest approaching.He was around fifty with blond hair slowly losing the battle to gray and gentle brown eyes covered by thin, wire-rimmed glasses.He gave Marcus the beatific smile he’d come to associate with most priests, but this one appeared more than surface deep.He walked with a slight limp on the right side, but if he felt any pain, he didn’t show it.“Hi,” Marcus said.“This is your church?”
“Well, notmine, of course,” the priest replied, nodding at the cross.“I am the shepherd of this flock, though.”He extended a hand.“Father Dennis Holbrook.”
“Right,” Marcus replied, taking his hand.“I’m Special Agent Marcus Reid, FBI.I’m here about Warren Schulz.”
The priest’s smile vanished.His shoulders slumped, and now pain showed on his face.“Ah.Yes.I heard about him.Just terrible.He was… Well, I suppose we should go to my office.”
