Breaking Creed

32

The statue in the middle of the makeshift altar stood almost two feet tall. The female skeleton dressed in a black robe held a scythe and looked very much like the Grim Reaper. Had O’Dell not seen the same image on the bloated corpse of Trevor Bagley, she might have been as taken aback as Sheriff Holt was.

“It’s an altar,” she said.

“Damn straight. But what the hell for?”

“Santa Muerte. The saint of death.”

She ignored his dumbfounded stare and walked across the bedroom to get a closer look. The sheriff seemed surprised at her reaction. Maybe he was expecting her to be as alarmed as he apparently was. She calmly slipped her weapon into her waistband at the small of her back and pulled her shirt over it.

“You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”

“Only on the Internet.”

This one was quite elaborate, by the standards she had viewed. A bloodred cloth covered the entire length of the dresser top. A shorter white lace cloth lay on top. About a dozen small red and white votive candles, melted down from use, created a border around the edges. Other items were carefully placed around the statue: incense, a bowl of apples, rosary beads, small containers of oil, prayer cards, several plastic toy skulls and one rubber spider, a full pack of cigarettes, a bottle of Espolòn tequila and another of Patrón, with an empty glass in front. There were other items she didn’t recognize, but she knew each had its own significance and purpose.

“Is it some kind of cult thing?”

O’Dell shook her head and looked around the room, examining the other contents.

“People set up altars and pray to Santa Muerte for a variety of reasons — good health, a new job, a faithful husband or wife, for protection, or for vengeance. Not really much different from Catholics setting up a shrine to the Virgin Mary.”

“Hey, I’m Catholic, and this isn’t like anything I’ve seen. Tequila? Cigarettes?”

She didn’t remind him about the practice of lighting candles, using incense, taking in food for an Easter blessing. Almost every religion had something that outsiders could view as strange. But she did have to admit, praying to the saint of death gave her pause, and she glanced back at the altar.

Something wasn’t right.

The empty glass. The photos she had seen of other altars always included tequila poured and waiting in a glass or in several small shot glasses. She also didn’t remember any spiders. Skulls, yes, but spiders?

“Don’t touch anything.”

“Of course, I’m not gonna touch any of this freak show.”

“No, seriously. This house might be part of a crime scene.”

“Already thought of that.”

He shot her a look that verged on impatience. She had to admit that, outside of his initial panicked fumble to get his weapon out of its holster, Sheriff Holt had been careful and methodical.

“Sorry,” she said. “Is this the master bedroom?”

“Far as I can tell. The other has a twin bed with boxes stacked on it. And a treadmill.”

On the opposite wall were framed family photos, and O’Dell stopped at one that showed the Bagleys. Regina Bagley was small and pretty, with long black hair. In the photo Trevor wore his red hair military short. His pale, freckled skin looked even lighter next to his wife’s mocha-colored skin. The fact that Regina might be of Hispanic descent should not have tripped off any alarms, but O’Dell suddenly found herself wondering if Trevor’s beautiful wife had shared his same fate, or if she had played a hand in his. Why wasn’t she here?

From the upstairs bedroom window O’Dell had a better view of the grounds behind the house. It looked like acres of forest. Was it possible Mrs. Bagley had gotten away? Or was she still out there?

O’Dell turned back to look at Sheriff Holt, waited for him to meet her eyes.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

He put his hands on his waist, thumbs in his gun belt, and raised an eyebrow. Had it not been for the adrenaline rush, O’Dell thought he might be angry.

“Trevor Bagley was tortured before he was killed. I think it might have happened somewhere close to here. Maybe on his own property.”

“Damn! That’s a helluva way to go.”

“Do you have a dog handler you could call?”

He nodded. “I’ll see if I can get him over here tomorrow.”

Then he looked over her shoulder, out the window, and asked, “So where the hell do you suppose Mrs. Bagley is?”

O’Dell shrugged. “Hopefully she’s somewhere far away from here, hiding.”