Original Sin

EIGHTEEN

At 1830 hours, a 911 call of shots fired came in from Rittenhouse Furniture Emporium. Now, thirty-three minutes later, Skye commanded the crime scene from a makeshift staging area, the beams from several squad cars lighting up the parking lot. Inside the store, an employee held several hostages at gunpoint.

Skye listened in as Deputy David Collins talked on his phone to a victim, the manager Grace Chin, who was hiding in a bathroom stall and had had the wherewithal to call out using her cell phone.

The situation was grim. Grace was trapped in the bathroom with no way out except the door that led to the shooter, whom she identified as Ned Nichols, a longtime salesman for Rittenhouse. He’d shot three people and was holding hostage a customer, Ashley Beecher McCracken.

Skye knew Nichols. Though he was two years older, she remembered him from school. In a town like Santa Louisa, you knew pretty much everyone who grew up here. She’d already sent another cop in search of everything they could get on Nichols, starting with his cell phone number, because he wasn’t answering the Rittenhouse telephone line.

A deputy came up and handed Skye the blueprints of the building. “The owner, Rittenhouse, just arrived with these. He wants to know what’s happening.”

Skye put her hand over her phone. “I’ll talk to him when I can.”

“What do you want me to say? His sister-in-law was shot.”

His sister-in-law was Betsy Rittenhouse, who’d been shot in the leg as she fled the building. She was on her way to the hospital.

“Tell him there’s one confirmed gunman inside, with hostages. That’s it.”

“Got it,” he said, and left.

She spread out the blueprints, and she and David studied them under a bright portable light. There were three offices on the east side of the building, the break room in the rear, what looked like a large janitor’s closet that had access to the electrical room, and a large L-shaped showroom that took up more than 80 percent of the square footage. She tapped her finger on the women’s bathroom next to the break room.

“You’re in the women’s room?” David clarified over the phone.

“Y-Yes,” Grace said.

“Where do you think Nichols is now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“Can you hear anything?”

She didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“He’s talking,” she said. “Ranting about something; I can’t hear the words. Ashley’s crying. I think they’re just outside the offices.”

Nichols had shut down the overhead lighting, but dim lights from the back of the building, near the offices, illuminated the interior well enough.

As David continued to extract information from the victim, Skye finally received the information she needed: Nichols’s cell phone number.

She showed David and put a finger to her lips. David told Grace that he was still there, but they had to be silent for a minute.

“You ready?” David asked her.

“Yeah.” No, but she had no choice. She called Nichols.

Four rings later, his voicemail picked up. His recorded voice sounded normal and calm, not the voice of a killer.

She said, “Hi, Ned, this is Skye McPherson. Remember me from high school? I’m now Sheriff McPherson, and we need to talk.” She left her number and hung up. Then she called again. Again it went to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message. Waited a moment. Called a third time.

It took sixteen calls before Nichols picked up.

“No!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m not talking to you, stop calling me!”

“Ned, it’s Skye McPherson.”

“I don’t care, I’m through with everyone. It’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair, Ned?”

“Everything. Deric doesn’t deserve the sales; he did nothing that I couldn’t have done! It’s random, all random, all a game; it’s not fair, I’m good enough.”

“Of course you’re good enough, Ned. Let’s talk about this. If you come out now, you and I can talk. Just the two of us. You can tell me everything.”

David was nodding at her, making the hand motion to keep talking.

“Ned, I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. Let’s talk this out, and-”

Nichols cut her off. “You know why she got the promotion? Do you know why?”

She? He wasn’t talking about Deric anymore. Skye needed to keep him talking, so asked, “Why?”

“Because she fucked him. I should have gotten the promotion, but she’s a little whore; it’s the only way she could have gotten the job that was mine!”

Skye motioned toward the owner, who was sitting in a squad car on the perimeter. David nodded and ran over there to ask what Nichols was talking about.

Skye said, “That’s not fair. Why don’t you come out so we can talk about this face-to-face?”

“Did you fuck your way to the top, too?” His voice was taking on a more fevered pitch, and she heard a female crying in the background. Skye didn’t know if he was talking to the hostage or to her.

“If we-”

He cut her off. “I did everything right. Everything. I came to work. I was friendly. I talked to everyone. I sold. I sold well, but the fucking luck of the draw and Deric gets the cash cow. He did nothing for it, nothing! I’ve been here for seven years; he’s been here six months. It should be mine!”

By the changes in his tone, and that she no longer heard crying, Skye realized Nicholas was moving through the building. A door opened. Closed.

Skye didn’t like how Nichols was switching back and forth between outrages. If he were a bank robber, she could handle him. They wanted to get away, were willing to negotiate to buy time until they realized it was hopeless. If he were a drunk husband, she’d have a chance to talk him down while David’s team got into position. But Ned Nichols sounded totally crazy. To say it was hard to deal with the criminally insane was a huge understatement.

“What do want, Ned? What can I do for you so that you’ll let those people go?”

“I want everything to be fair. I want to be manager-I’m better than any of them. I want to be top salesman. I only want what’s right!”

David ran back to the command center and scrawled:

Grace Chin was promoted to manager nine months ago. Deric Costigan was hired six months ago, he’s a cousin to the Rittenhouse family and was training to take over the business.

“I think we can talk about all of that,” Skye said. “You’re right, everything should be fair. How about coming outside, and we’ll talk about how we can make everything fair?” She stared at David and shook her head.

“No.” Nichols hung up.

“We have to go in now,” David said. “He’s ready to pop.”

“I agree. Take the first good shot.”

He nodded solemnly and handed her the phone.

Skye put David’s phone to her ear. “Grace? This is Sheriff McPherson. Stay put. We’re on our way in-”

A door slammed open.

Grace screamed.

Gunshots blasted over the receiver, then the phone went dead.

“Where have you been?” Anthony answered Moira’s call on the first ring.

“Long story,” she said, not wanting to explain about losing so much time on the cliffs. “I found him. He’s okay. Tired, but okay.” Whether he was truly okay was a matter of internal debate for Moira. She was incredibly worried about Rafe.

“Where are you now?” Anthony asked.

“I just pulled into the hotel. Did you get us a room?”

“It’s under your name. Can you get checked in first? Rafe shouldn’t be in public. People are looking for him.”

“If Fiona finds him we’re in trouble.”

“The police have questions and he’s going to have to answer them eventually, but not yet. Not until we know exactly what’s going on.”

Moira glanced at Rafe, who appeared to be sleeping in the passenger seat, though she didn’t think he was actually asleep. “He thinks someone at the hospital wants to kill him.”

“Tell him,” Rafe murmured without opening his eyes, “to check into the doctors.”

“Rafe wants you to check out the doctors at the hospital.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Moira said to Rafe, “Anthony wants to talk to you.”

Rafe sighed, took the phone.

Moira could hear Anthony’s voice clearly. “Rafe?”

“It’s me.”

“Thank God. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t talk to anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t trust Moira. Once a witch, always a witch. You know that.”

Moira’s eyes stung. Dammit, she would not shed a tear. Why did it bother her so much that Anthony was tainting her reputation with Rafe? Rafe was one of them, one of St. Michael’s Order; most of them hated her anyway. Why shouldn’t Rafe hate her too? It wasn’t as though what Anthony said wasn’t true. She had been a practicing witch, and like an alcoholic she would always be a witch. She could fall off the wagon anytime, anywhere.

Still holding the phone to his ear, Rafe took Moira’s hand. She whipped her head around, eyes wide, unable to keep the shock from her face. He was staring at her, his eyes so dark blue they looked black. A minute ago he was weak and could barely speak; now he seemed almost radiant with strength, as if it were glowing within and under his pale skin.

“Anthony, where’s the arca?” Rafe asked.

“I can’t get to her right now. We have a problem. Her mother is a witch. There were many signs at their house, which is at a crossroads. I don’t know where she’s keeping Lily, but I can’t get inside. She knew who I was.”

“I can,” Rafe said.

“No.”

“I’ll explain when you get here.” He snapped the phone closed before Anthony said anything more. “Anthony is single-minded. Don’t let him hurt you.”

“He hasn’t.”

Rafe squeezed her hand so hard it hurt. He glared at her. “Don’t lie to me, Moira. Ever. I have to know that I can trust you always.”

She didn’t know what to say. “Are you empathic?” she whispered.

He shook his head, his eyes wet with tears of pain.

“I need to get you inside,” she said.

He nodded, his jaw clenched.

“You need to let go of my hand.” He did, reluctantly. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” she told him.

Rafe watched Moira run across the parking lot and into the hotel. Only when she was inside did he breathe easier.

Once a witch, always a witch.

Anthony believed in black and white, and Rafe loved him for it. They needed the moral compass that Anthony provided, the depth of knowledge and experience. His concrete faith. But something had happened to Rafe while he was in the hospital; that was the only explanation for what he was feeling, thinking, knowing. Never had he felt so lost or confused.

He feared he knew more than he should. When he stopped the Seven Deadly Sins from inhabiting the arca, he felt something … a power he couldn’t explain. He knew things he shouldn’t know, that he never remembered learning. He feared he was being used by someone … or something. What if it was witchcraft? What if he was a pawn between warring covens? He’d been out of his mind for more than two months, what if someone else had gotten in?

The things he remembered from the hospital …

Pain sliced through his head and all thought disappeared. He lay on the seat of the truck cab, praying to God to take the pain away.

The door opened. “You’re here.” Moira sounded both irritated and worried, but mostly relieved.

He instantly felt the pain subside enough that he could think. She was a lifeline. He held up his hand.

“I thought you’d done a stupid move and left,” she said, helping him from the truck.

“I need rest.”

“Glad you’re finally admitting it.” She put his arm around her shoulder, wrapped her right arm around his waist, supported him. She was seven or eight inches shorter than he was, skinny, but solid muscle. “We have a room. I wanted the first floor, but they were all booked. I don’t like it, but we’re on the second floor.”

“It’s okay for now.”

Why did he know that? He didn’t want to know the future. Seeking that knowledge was akin to buying a ticket to Hell. He didn’t want the future; he wanted to go back to before the murders, to before he’d fallen prey to seduction, to when he was safe at St. John’s.

Safe and hiding.

Hiding from his dreams. His nightmares. The nightmares that had come long before he arrived at Santa Louisa Mission.

Hiding from his fate.