Metcalf relaxed his scowl by a hairsbreadth. “Yes, that would seem to be the proper course of action to take at this juncture.”
Leroy stood up and gave a mock salute. “You got it, boss.” He retrieved his hat and turned toward the door.
“Before you go, Mr. Hunt, let us say a prayer together.”
A flicker of anger crossed Leroy’s face. “I ain’t one of yours.”
Metcalf was already on his knees behind his desk, hands folded. “Yes, I know. None of my flock is equal to the work that needs to be done. That’s why I’ve enlisted your aid in this great undertaking. An undertaking which requires divine assistance to complete. You will pray with me now.”
Wordlessly, Hunt returned to the opposite side of the desk. He knelt, folded his hands, and screwed his eyes shut as if in anticipation of a bad tasting medicine.
Metcalf addressed his remarks to the chandelier overhead. “Oh Lord, guide this man’s hand that it may do your bidding. Let him smite down those who oppose your will. Let the wicked be put to shame that the Blessed Nephilim may inherit the earth. Amen!”
Chapter 4 –Sisters and Other Strangers
Cassie was sitting cross-legged on the living room rug in her sister’s apartment. There were stacks of paper piled around her. Boxes of magazines and scattered articles of clothing littered the couch. Tears were running down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to brush them away. She had been crying for days now. Maybe it had been a week. She couldn’t remember. It started right after the phone call came. The police were at Sybil’s shop. They needed her to identify a body, but she already knew who it would be. Her nightmare had been a 3-D technicolor preview of the real thing.
She felt as if she was still sleepwalking when she arrived at the antique store. The green banker’s lamp was on. Her sister lay sprawled across the floor, face down exactly where Cassie had seen her fall. The only difference was that now there were photographers and police swarming like flies over her sister’s remains.
Rhonda, her sister’s business partner, was there too. White-faced and shaking, she came up to hug Cassie. The two clung to each other for several moments, too much in shock to speak.
The detective who questioned her sounded like he was standing in an echo chamber. His voice was distorted, coming at her from a distance. “What was Sybil doing in the shop alone at such a late hour? Was anything of value missing? Did she have any enemies?”
Cassie gave the same answer every time. “I don’t know.”
Even now she marveled at how little she knew about anything her sister was doing or why. “What were you involved in, Sybil?”
Cassie didn’t know much about antiques, but she did know that a lucrative black-market trade existed. Had Sybil been doing something shady? Smuggling artifacts into the country illegally? Again, she didn’t know.
The only things she did know for certain were that a man in a Stetson hat had killed her sister over a key, and she’d dreamed the whole thing while it was happening. She didn’t think that was the sort of information the detective was looking for. He probably wouldn’t believe her. Small wonder since she didn’t believe it herself. She wasn’t given to odd psychic experiences. In all her life, she’d never been accused of having so much as a hunch about anything. She was a rational person—more or less.
Her mind skipped forward to the task at hand. She was sorting through a box of old bills and papers. The easy stuff. She couldn’t bring herself to sort through the clothes yet. She had tried earlier that day, but it had been a mistake. She’d realized that the minute she pulled open a drawer of sweaters. There was lavender sachet inside. Her sister had always smelled like lavender. It was a comforting, familiar scent. Someone once told her that people remember the way things smell long after they’ve forgotten how they look or taste or sound. The sense of smell is primal. Like blood, like family, like death. She shoved the drawer closed and left the bedroom in tears. She doubted she would ever smell lavender again without crying. It was safer to sort through the papers. They didn’t smell like lavender. They didn’t smell like much of anything at all.
She wiped her eyes and tossed the used tissue onto the pile that was accumulating on the floor. How many boxes had she gone through? Like the number of days she’d spent crying, she’d lost count of that too. It had all become a blur. Even the funeral. That mother of all ordeals. The service had been small and quiet because they hadn’t been living in Chicago long. There was no other family. Aside from Rhonda, there was nobody who could be called a friend either. Sybil had been Cassie’s only anchor to this place, and now the girl felt like a boat drifting with the current. When other people lost a sister, there was always somebody else to fill the void. Cassie doubted if anybody could understand what her particular brand of loneliness felt like. The word “orphan” didn’t begin to cover it. She broke down and started to sob.
“Enough!” she commanded herself sternly. She looked up at the ceiling to blink back the tears. For a few minutes, she focused on nothing but breathing. Just breathe and don’t think. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Finally, she calmed down enough to regain focus. She reached for another box of papers. It appeared to be
