“Moira said it was in his desk drawer. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary,” he said.
The three entered the small office with Father Philip standing in the doorway, looking down the hall. Anthony searched every drawer. “It’s not here. Moira swore she didn’t take it.” Pennington must have nabbed it before he left.
Moira had said that she’d left Matthew Walker, the real pastor of Good Shepherd, with Pennington. Either Walker was injured, or he wasn’t who he said he was.
“We need to leave,” Anthony said. He led the way down the hall, looking again in every opening.
As he reached the door, it slammed open, hitting him. He almost attacked the man who came in, gun drawn. It was Deputy Tom Young. Anthony breathed easier.
“Tom. Anthony Zaccardi, we were-”
“There was an alarm here.” Tom moved into the room, still holding the gun, aimed at Father Philip.
“The door was unlocked-” Anthony hesitated. Alarm? That wasn’t right. Moira had been in the building for more than an hour and hadn’t triggered an alarm.
Tom didn’t holster his gun. He called down the stairs, “Got them!”
Anthony’s blood chilled. Tom was a cop who worked for Skye, but he obviously had another agenda. Tom was the deputy who’d taken Moira to jail-he might have been the one who’d drugged the others and contacted Fiona.
Anthony reached for his dagger. A well-aimed knife could kill. But Tom’s gun could go off, and Father and Lily were both in the line of fire.
Tom swung his weapon toward Anthony. “Hold it, Zaccardi. Hands up.”
Slowly, Anthony complied.
Tom Young searched him, removed his dagger, then began to pull out all Anthony’s defenses-the vial of holy water, the vial of salt.
He karate-chopped Young’s arm and reached for the gun. Young swore, but he kept his hand around the gun. Anthony moved right, but Young pistol-whipped him, bringing Anthony to his knees. He tasted blood in his mouth and spit it on the floor, his eyes unfocused. Lily screamed.
A man walked into the room. “Lily. So good to see you again.”
“Pastor Matthew-”
“Come with me.”
“No, please-what are you doing?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said God’s work?” Walker said with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Bastard,” Anthony said as he got to his feet, staggering a bit as he shook his head to clear it.
Matthew Walker was a tall, good-looking man of average build. Though Tom had both the gun and the brawn, Walker was clearly in charge, and right now he looked bemused.
Tom Young grabbed Lily, his gun pointed at Father Philip. “You’re pathetic, Zaccardi. And Fiona said you were smart.” He laughed. “As soon as we figured out that Moira had passed Lily on to you, she was easy to track. Every sheriff’s vehicle has GPS that’s monitored at dispatch. I tracked you here, easy-peasy.”
Walker glanced at Tom, irritated. “Your incompetence is nothing to brag about. If you’d done what you were told, we’d also have Andra Moira, but I had to let her go because you didn’t have the
“You wanted me to be discreet, I was
Walker ignored him and said, “Zaccardi, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure-your reputation was well deserved, though a bit exaggerated, don’t you think? But honestly, you’ve been a pain in the ass since you came to Santa Louisa. Finally, I’ll get my town back.”
“Did you take the box after Moira left?” Anthony asked.
“That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? But I didn’t
Father Philip spoke up for the first time since the men entered the apartment. “Walker, it would serve you well to remember that Cain turned on his own. I would strongly advise you to destroy the box.”
Anthony didn’t know why Father was trying to reason with the magician.
Walker stared at Father Philip, his face hard. “Let’s go,
A voice came up the stairs. “Sixty seconds!”
Anthony hated being helpless as he watched Young push Lily at Walker, then grab Father Philip. He couldn’t see a way to stop Walker from taking them. He clenched his fists.
Walker smiled warmly at Lily and touched the side of her face with the back of his hand. “I’ve missed you, Lily. Your ignorance was so pleasurable for me.”
“You know what to do, Anthony,” Father said as he passed by.
“He can’t do anything if he’s dead.” Young aimed the gun at Anthony. The split second before Young pulled the trigger, Anthony dove to the side behind the couch, feeling the heat of the bullet against his bruised cheek.
“Forty seconds!” the voice downstairs said.
“Move it, old man!” Young ordered. “Walker? You coming or staying?”
Anthony heard them jog down the stairs.
Forty seconds ’til what? The anxiety in Young’s voice … Anthony had to get out of here.
He couldn’t follow them down the stairs. Young would be waiting-with the gun-for him to emerge from the building. He ran to the front of the building, mentally counting down how much time he had left.
The bedroom had two large double-paned windows. Anthony grabbed the heavy metal bedside lamp and used the base to hit the window with all his strength. It cracked. He hit it again. Again.
He smelled smoke in the rooms below, and the reflection of flames on the building across the street told him the fire was building rapidly.
The window splintered in a mass of fine cracks. Shielding his head, Anthony threw the lamp at the window. It finally shattered.
He kicked out the shards along the bottom frame as he judged the distance he’d need to jump to not only get clear of the glass but the explosion he knew was about to happen.
He couldn’t do it. He looked left-nothing. To the right there was a narrow balcony with metal railings. He judged the distance at about eight feet.
He stood on the frame and balanced. As he leapt on
The railing slipped from his fingers and he was falling …
Moira drove up to the mansion she’d found in Good Shepherd’s property records. Its lush grounds glowed with soft lighting. The house was majestic and sprawling, with high windows and numerous porches and porticos. There were even two turrets, which would satisfy Fiona’s pretensions of nobility.
Aside from the physical trappings, as soon as Moira stepped onto the property she felt the undercurrent of magic. Many spells were at work here, and Moira had to tread carefully. Chances were that Fiona had alarms on the place, but Moira couldn’t worry about that right now. She’d rather take her chances with the police than with Fiona any day.
Fear bubbled up, fear she’d suppressed at Good Shepherd. When she could act and focus on a plan, the fear stayed buried. But her adrenaline rush had disappeared during the drive out to the coast, and now all she could think about was how high the odds were stacked against them.
When you played by the rules, the odds were never in your favor.
Moira stayed in the shadows while she walked the perimeter, getting a sense of how the house was laid out and whether anyone was inside. No one was moving downstairs. There was no music, no television, no noise whatsoever, except the filter working in the pool and the waves crashing against cliffs three hundred yards behind the house.
