Blood Dreams

Chapter Seventeen

DANI STARED AT THE formidable list of warehouses, storage facilities, and any other isolated building that might provide the space and privacy a murderous serial killer might need, and drew a deep breath.

"Damn," Paris said before she could.

Nodding, Dani said, "I had no idea. And I never realized how many of these places have been locked up and abandoned for years."

"Decades," Marc said. "My deputies check the doors during patrols-when they remember to. But we don't have vandals to speak of, and unless there are complaints… In all honesty, these places are easy to forget unless you're staring right at one of them."

Hollis chewed on a thumbnail briefly as she studied her copy of the list. "I know big abandoned buildings are difficult to repurpose, but I'd think some of these would have been somewhere along the way. That or torn down to make way for new construction."

"I might have an answer for that." Jordan was going over a different list, frowning. "Marc, take a look at this. And tell me how in the hell we didn't know about it."

Dani waited until Marc had the list in hand and began to frown himself to ask, "What is it?"

"Looks like about eighty percent of these old buildings have been bought up by a properties-anagement company."

Dryly, Hollis said, "I don't see much management involved. Wait a minute. The same company?"

Marc grunted an assent, then said, "Huh. How about that. The properties-management company is owned by a church."

"A church?" Paris asked. "A single church?"

"Yeah. The Church of the Everlasting Sin."

They all exchanged glances, then Hollis said, "I did a quick recon when I first got here to get the lay of the land, and one thing definitely caught my attention. The Church of the Everlasting Sin. It's currently being housed here in Venture in that onetime grain-storage facility, right?"

"That's the one," Marc confirmed.

"It didn't appear to me to be very wealthy. To say the least."

Jordan looked baffled. "At the last town council meeting, Reverend Butler claimed he couldn't afford to rehab the place. But if his church owns all these other properties…"

Hollis moved to the other end of the conference table, where her laptop lay open and ready. She sat down and typed rapidly, then sat back and waited, her gaze fixed on the screen.

While they waited, presumably for more information, Dani said, "I know I've been away for a while, but as I remember it, the churches in the area have always been sort of… bland. I mean, just straight-up Protestant, mostly Baptist, nothing out of the ordinary."

"We get the occasional outside-the-mainstream church," Marc said. "A small block building goes up, or a trailer, or an old storefront gets a new sign painted on the window. Nothing as extreme as snake-handling, say, or Satanism, but there's been talk-forgive the pun-of speaking in tongues, and we've had complaints from neighbors when the worshipping got a little loud on Sunday. Most of those churches don't seem to stick around long, even though they have congregations."

"Maybe the congregations aren't large enough to support the churches," Dani offered.

"Could be. All I know is, one day they're there, and the next they aren't. The Church of the Everlasting Sin, though, that one has stuck around. At least ten years, I'd say."

"No wonder I don't remember it," Dani murmured.

Marc nodded. "You wouldn't. Reverend Butler set up shop the summer after you left Venture."

She refused to be dragged back into the past, saying only, "I can't imagine he'd have much of a congregation. Unless it's just an ordinary Baptist-type church with an unusual name?"

"I'm not sure what it is, to be honest with you, but the congregation is sizable. We've had a few complaints, especially in recent years, about some of their practices, but nothing I've been able to get any real evidence on." Marc shrugged. "It's a tight-knit congregation, I can tell you that much. And you seldom see any one of them out alone. It's a bit weird, actually."

"Creepy," Jordan translated. "Far as I can tell, you never see one out alone. Well, except for the reverend. Marc, weren't there some rumors about him when he first got here?"

"Yeah, that he killed his wife."

"False rumors?" Dani ventured.

"Depends on your point of view. When I became sheriff, I checked into his background, and what I found was mostly vague except for that single bit of his history. His wife died under mysterious circumstances about fifteen years ago. Investigators were pretty sure in their own minds that he did it, apparently to collect the insurance, but there was never enough evidence to arrest him, much less convict him. Then he got involved with his church and more or less dropped off the map as far as the police were concerned."

Paris said, "I guess it's too much to hope he could be our killer here?"

"He's the wrong age according to the most recent profile we have, he isn't psychic, and as far as I can remember he was in Venture all summer."

"So that would be no," Paris murmured.

"Pretty much," Marc told her. "Which isn't to say he might not know something that could be helpful. Especially since his church seems to own most of the abandoned warehouses and other derelict buildings in Venture."

"Well," Hollis said, "the Church of the Everlasting Sin is wealthy, whether this particular congregation is or not." She was frowning at the screen of her laptop. "The IRS has its suspicions of Reverend Butler even if the police couldn't prove theirs, but it appears he has a very good accountant-in Atlanta-and they haven't been able to pin anything on him. But the church, now that's something different."

"How so?" Paris asked. "I've heard a few wild rumors, but-"

"Maybe not so wild. Says here that the Church of the Everlasting Sin first made an appearance about twenty-five years ago, out west. Gossip had it that among their practices was some kind of supposed cleansing ritual that involved screaming at members-including children-in order to scare the sin out of them."

"I've heard that here," Marc admitted. "But we could never find any evidence of abuse, and neither could Social Services."

"Couldn't find much out west either, according to the FBI files," Hollis told them. "The Bureau was called in initially because a former member charged that the church kidnapped his children, took them across state lines to another-well, they call them parishes, apparently. So what you've got here in Venture is a parish of the Church of the Everlasting Sin. Anyway, turned out the man's estranged wife, still a member of the church, had the kids with her and eventually won legal custody."

Jordan said, "But the FBI kept the case file open?"

"Looks like. Over the years, they had reports from some of the watchdog groups that monitor cults, and complaints from quite a few former members, but so far nothing they could take to court."

"Sounds familiar," Marc said.

"Yeah, only this church doesn't seem to be building its wealth through its members, like most cults do. Nobody signs over their properties or businesses-in fact, that's forbidden. Members are expected to tithe, but no more."

"So how can they afford to buy up all the property here?" Jordan asked.

Hollis scrolled through a few pages, reading intently, then said, "It's one of the reasons the IRS is suspicious. It looks like they use the member contributions to purchase land and other properties, and the member businesses provide donations of goods and services to keep the church and all its parishes running."

Marc said, "Jordan, I can think of at least three local businesses owned and operated by members of Reverend Butler's church; let's see if we can put together a list of the rest." As his chief deputy nodded and left the room, he added, "Not that I see how any of this might help us track a killer."

Quietly, Hollis said, "Well, here's the thing. The church owns an awful lot of the seemingly abandoned warehouselike structures in Venture, yes. The church, in fact, owns lots of those kinds of buildings in other parishes around the country. In plenty of small towns probably like this one. And in quite a few cities. Portland, Kansas City, Cleveland, Baltimore, Knoxville."

It was Paris who guessed "Boston?"

"Boston."

The smell of bleach stung his nostrils, but he breathed it in deeply anyway. He liked the smell of bleach. It was clean.

He liked things to be clean.

His worktable had been scrubbed down, and after he poured the bleach onto the stainless-steel surface, he let it remain there for a while, thoroughly disinfecting, before rinsing it off.

In the meantime, he went to his trophy wall, studying the pictures, enjoying them. All the different candid shots, taken without their knowledge, as they went about their day.

Each individual board told the mundane story of a life.

Walking. Shopping. Getting the mail. Going to church. Pausing on the sidewalk to speak to a friend. Walking a dog. Kissing a husband. Working in a garden.

"This is your life," he murmured, and chuckled.

Such ordinary, sad little lives they led.

Until he transformed them, of course.

First Becky. Then Karen. Then Shirley. All taken from their bland lives and transformed.

He knew they weren't really Audrey.

He wasn't crazy, after all.

They came into his hands someone else, someone boring and uninteresting. Someone the world would have failed to notice if not for his work. Nobodies.

He made them Somebody.

He made them Audrey.

Standing before the first board, he reached out and touched one of the two central images, an eight-by-ten he had taken himself, the record of all his preparations.

Becky as Audrey. Naked on his worktable, her dark hair glossy, her brown eyes staring into the camera's lens, because he had turned her head just so before taking the picture.

Brown eyes filled with terror.

He savored that, the power swelling within him, his body stirring, hardening. He unzipped his pants and freed himself but kept his gaze on the photos.

The other central image was the final shot of Becky as Audrey, when he had finished his work. He touched that lightly, his index finger slowly stroking the image of her, all laid open on his table, her breasts and sex removed and her torso slit from throat to crotch, the cold fluorescent lights above making her exposed organs glisten.

Her eyes were closed for the final shot.

He always closed them for that, because while he enjoyed dying eyes, dead eyes bothered him.

Haunted him-or would, if he let them. But he didn't believe in ghosts. Didn't believe in an afterlife. That's why he worked so hard to make this life fit him, because every moment, every second, had to count.

He stroked the picture a moment longer, feeling himself hardening even more, then moved to the second of his trophy boards.

Karen as Audrey. Same pose, same terrified brown eyes staring into the camera's lens.

And the same growing sense of power inside himself, the feeling that he could do anything, bend anyone to his will.

Anyone.

The knowledge, the certainty of his own invincibility caught at his breath with its strength. He was so hard he ached but exercised his self-control by touching only the record of his work, not himself.

He touched each of the two central photos, stroked them, savored them. The throbbing of his power spread throughout his body, pounded in his ears, and he could hear his breath coming fast now, not quite panting. His vision began to blur, but he forced himself to move on to the third board.

Shirley as Audrey.

Hers was the most complete transformation yet, and he spent long moments stroking the images, remembering every action, every detail of the process.

"Almost perfect," he whispered.

He took a step back but then leaned forward and braced his hands on either side of the board, his gaze fixed on the central photos, refusing to touch himself. His rigid legs were trembling, and his hips wanted, needed, to thrust, to pound, but he forced himself to remain utterly still. His eyes completely lost focus, his breath rasped, but he was otherwise silent as the memories of Shirley/Audrey's final moments made his hard flesh throb and twitch and finally empty itself in spasms of pleasure.

Teeth gritted, he rode out the waves of release without making a sound. Not because he had to, but because he could.

He was Power, and he could do anything.

The Prophecy said so.

Dani-

"Dani, are you ready to-" Marc broke off, staring at her with a frown. "What is it?"

She pushed herself up from her seat at the conference table. "Nothing. My mind must have wandered. Did Paris and Jordan report back in?"

"Yeah." He was still frowning. "So far they've managed to quietly talk to two of Karen Norville's fellow tellers from the bank. Only one says she remembers actually seeing a man with a camera last summer, maybe taking pictures of Karen, but she doesn't remember what he looked like. Paris said both women are worried that they didn't take what they thought they knew seriously, that they didn't report it to someone. Guilt, of course. Jordan said it was pretty obvious they were afraid Karen's dead."

Absently, Dani said, "Smart to interview them at home rather than at the bank. But you know the news is bound to break by Monday, don't you? I mean, break publicly in a big way."

He nodded. "We've been damn lucky, but with every Venture citizen we talk to, we knock a few minutes off the clock."

"We can only do what we can do. So where's Hollis? Aren't we off to see the reverend?"

"She's in the bullpen talking to one of my deputies who has in-laws in the congregation of the church. We figured a little inside information couldn't hurt. Dani, what is it you've been trying very hard not to tell me all day?"

Paris was right; he read her all too easily.

"It's probably just my imagination."

"The voice? His voice?"

"It's an exaggeration to call it a voice, at least now. A faint echo of a whisper."

"Because you're able to shut him out?"

"I wish I could say yes." Dani shrugged. "But I've only been taught the bare bones of shielding, and since I never needed it, I haven't really practiced. No, I don't think it's anything I'm doing."

"Which is bothering you more than anything else."

"Well, yeah. I should be able to shut out psychic contact from someone else. If that's what this is. Dammit, I just don't-"

Marc put his hands on her shoulders. "Dani. Why do you keep trying to carry all this alone? You aren't Cassandra, but if there's a war coming, you sure as hell can't stop it alone. Let us help. Let me help."

She stared up at him, very aware of his hands, aware of the connection with him that she had tried her best to block ever since that other voice had pushed its way in. Because she didn't want Marc to sense or feel that, not that cold, implacable, evil voice, not in her-even if it wasn't her.

Especially if it wasn't her.

Instinctively, she tried to close off a bit more of herself. "You are helping. One step out of this building, and I'm practically surrounded by your deputies."

"That's an exaggeration. And not what I meant, as you damn well know." He sounded frustrated, and his frown deepened.

"The best thing you can do for me," she said deliberately, "is to keep looking for this killer. And Reverend Butler is a possible lead, right? So let's go. If that was thunder I just heard, we may be in for a storm."

She hoped she was speaking literally and hoped it would only be the weather that would turn violent.

His fingers tightened, and for at least a minute, Dani wasn't sure if he was going to let this drop-for now, anyway. But finally he released her, and said in a match of the even, deliberate tone she had used, "You of all people should know that none of us can get through this life alone. When you're ready, I'm here, Dani. I always have been."

He released her shoulders and turned away. Dani followed him from the conference room, wishing she didn't feel so strongly that she had just made an awful mistake.

The Reverend Jedidiah Butler was an imposing man, at least in his own mind. To the rest of the world outside his admiring congregation, he was rather average in size and build, could have been any age between forty and sixty, and possessed as his single distinguishing feature a shock of silver hair.

He didn't even boast the sort of booming voice common among Southern preachers, but instead spoke to Marc in the slightly nasal tone of someone with bad allergies.

"Sheriff, I don't understand this visit. As I explained to the town council, I haven't the means to-"

Marc waved that away before the usual rant could get good and started. Thunder was rolling all around, and since they hadn't been invited inside, he wanted to get this interview over before the storm finally broke.

At least, he hoped it would break. They needed rain in the worst way.

"I'm not here because of the council's concerns, Reverend." He glanced at Dani, saw the almost imperceptible shake of her head, and bit back a sigh.

Well, it had been worth a try, he thought. But even without the benefit of Dani's vision, his own judgment told him this onetime grain storage facility was unlikely to be the "warehouse" she had seen in her dreams. For one thing, the silo was still standing, and even with that the building was by no stretch of the imagination "huge." It was, however, in need of serious repairs and smelled strongly of chickens.

Besides, having shaken hands with the good reverend on more than one occasion, Marc already knew the man lacked psychic ability or, indeed, any level of perception even as high as simple intuition.

"Then why are you here?" Reverend Butler demanded. "Is it about those murdered women?"

Marc stared at him, not as surprised as he wished he could be, especially after talking to Miss Patty. It was a bit difficult to read anything sinister or even suspicious in a local preacher's knowledge when the local florist shared it. He mentally knocked a few more minutes off the clock in terms of when he could expect the media to descend on Venture.

It was Hollis who stepped forward, offering her I.D. folder and badge for the preacher to see. "What do you know about that, Reverend?" she asked pleasantly.

He studied her I.D. for a long moment, then answered with a show of exaggerated patience. "Everybody knows about the murders, Agent Templeton. But out of respect for the families, of course we've kept our distance and our silence. Especially as you and the sheriff haven't seen fit to positively identify the victims."

Marc stopped himself from going on the defensive, though it wasn't easy. "Lab results take time," he said.

"Yes, one of my congregants was the gardener out at the Blanton place. He found the… remains."

Marc and Hollis exchanged glances, but all the sheriff said was "Information he was ordered to keep to himself."

"He came to me in confidence, Sheriff, as any troubled soul would." Butler shrugged. "But, as I said, the situation was already being discussed."

Hollis's voice was not quite light when she said, "Just as long as there are no lynch mobs forming up."

"We're God-fearing people, Agent Templeton. Even if we had some idea who this evil killer is-and I assure you we do not-we would never take it upon ourselves to hunt him, far less punish him. That is for the law, and the courts, and God to do."

It was a nice little speech. Dani wondered why she didn't believe it.

Because she was a cynic, probably.

Or maybe it was something else.

She tried to concentrate on the possible something else, not really listening as Marc asked Butler a few routine questions about whether he'd seen or heard anything suspicious during the last few weeks. Instead, against her better judgment, she realized she was listening for that voice again.

His voice.

Because with every second that passed, she became more uneasy, more uncomfortable. She was acutely aware of the urge to look back over her shoulder, behind her, but when she looked she saw nothing but the countryside she recognized.

So what was it she was feeling? Sensing?

The fine hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight up, her hands felt cold, and there was a leaden queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Yet when she looked at Butler, at her surroundings, nothing about him or them seemed responsible for what she felt.

Thunder rumbled louder now, rolling around as it did in the mountains so that it seemed to circle them, and she wondered if that was it. Could it be? She had never been as sensitive to storms as many psychics were, to the point of discomfort, but they did tend to affect-enhance, strengthen?-her normal senses.

So maybe that was all it was. Still, she knew she was trying to listen for something beyond her normal senses and honestly didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that she could hear no faintest hint or echo of the whisper that so terrified her.

"Dani?"

She blinked at Marc, then scrambled mentally as she realized the reverend had already turned to go back inside his church and that Marc and Hollis were both looking at her with raised brows.

"Sorry." She got back into the front passenger seat of Marc's car, hoping she hadn't missed anything important.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Fine. My mind just wandered, that's all." She was still listening for that voice but at the same time was aware that what she was feeling physically was very familiar. Pressure.

Like in the dream walk. Could that be from the approaching storm?

She reached up surreptitiously to touch her nose, a little surprised to find no blood there. Because the pressure was increasing, and she had to fight the urge to move, to try to somehow get out of the way of whatever it was that was pushing at her, pressing against her.

Nothing. There's nothing. Just the storm coming. Just my imagination.

Marc looked at her a moment longer, frowning, then started the car and began to maneuver it down the long, rutted "driveway" that wound through a mile of countryside to the old storage facility.

From the backseat, Hollis said, "I hate storms. But maybe that's why. Because I've never been able to see auras before."